The Dark Twisting Road to Port Havendish

Hi guys, I’ve been writing a ton of fantasy recently and this piece is inspired by a freind’s excellent setting. As always, I appreciate any feedback, so let me know what you think!
Cheers,

Jevan Thompson

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The cart jolted as they ran over another divot in the dirt road.

Birmillius sighed to himself as he steered the horses as best he could, but there were more potholes than actual road on the rough path through the woods. They had been travelling for near enough a week now and it was beginning to drain on him, sapping his energy and motivation to carry on. He was used to the lavish comforts of his manor, with servants and maids attending to every beck and call. He would want for nothing. He was always warm, always dry, always fed and always comfortable.

He was not any of those things now.

When his assistants had organised his business venture to Port Havendish, he had been overjoyed at the chance of discovering new things, exploring the road, experiencing the life of an honest traveller. After just a day, he had realised that he didn’t want any of those. He wanted to be back in his manor. The thing that really twisted his guts inside him was the fact that they were going to have to do the same damn journey again on the way back.

“You alright there boss? You’re looking a little pale?” Marks asked, only a passing sliver of care in his tone.

It was if it was a professional courtesy rather than a genuine question, the kind of question that is a polite beginning of a polite conversation between two perfectly reasonable people. Marks was a complete polar opposite of Birmillius, a working man, through and through. He’d spent his whole life working as a guard in the town of Bismark, but since his retirement a few years ago, he occasionally took protection jobs to keep himself busy.

“I’m fine.” Birmillus snapped. “Just can’t wait to be off this god-forsaken road.”

Marks let out a soft friendly chuckle and clapped Birmillus on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright lad, just keep on moving forward, that’s what I say!”

Birmillus gave him an icy stare with an equally icy frown. “I’m sorry Marks, did I just hear you call me lad?” He shook his arm off him viciously and suddenly, surprising even Marks with his harshness.

“I’m sorry me lord, it won’t happen again.” He looked around, weary from yet another failed effort to get to know the lothesome nobleman. “I’ll just nip in the back and check on the boys.” With that, he climbed up over into the back of the cart and began talking amongst a few of the other men.

Birmillius shook his head and focused on the lumpy road. He had hired Marks and a few of his ex-guardsmen along with one or two sell swords from the local tavern. There was one other…

A horse rode up next to him suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, making him flinch slightly in his seat. The rider was dressed in all black worn leathers, his long coat flapping dramatically behind him as he approached. He had long, greasy hair which nearly came down to his jaw and a rough patchwork beard that had fastened itself to his chin. A shortbow was strung over his back and a set of long daggers were just visible strapped to his front as the wind took his coat.

“I’ve seen tracks ahead Lord, I’d recommend stopping and setting up camp.” Without even waiting for a response, the man ushered his horse to the back of the small convoy with a “Yah”. Birmillius shook his head and scoffed to himself.

Revan. That was the last man he’d hired. He’d heard he was a great scout in the military and that he’d served with the Broken Nine’s when they took the throat. But he had one distinct ability that had marked him out from the rest. He was supposably a Siphon.

Birmillius scoffed again. A siphon. Foolish storybook tales.

The rest of the convoy had stayed well away from him, keeping their business firmly apart from his. He gave a scouting report, they put extra patrols on. He warned that the ground was rough ahead, they detoured around. The convoy had developed a strange working relationship with him, but as far as Birmillius was concerned, as long as they got there in one piece, he couldn’t care less.

The sky interrupted his thoughts rudely with a thunderous roar, water began to slowly start spitting down from the treetops. Birmillious could have curled up and started sobbing, but he was just too tired. Maybe setting up camp isn’t such a bad idea.

*****

Marks’ boots squelched through the mud as he trudged through the campsite. The rain had been unrelenting since the thunder began, they’d had to set their tents up in the downpour which had made Birmillius a very sour man indeed. He was bad enough in Marks eye’s, but now he become a nightmare.

He snapped at anyone who came near, even if they came to help or lend a hand. He ordered the men to set up his tent, then shouted and hissed at them for doing it wrong. One man had given him a mug of hot tea, but he had taken one sip and thrown it away cursing that it was too bitter. There was no pleasing this wretch of a man.

Mark’s strode his way over to his men, who had set their small tents up next to the main campfire, which lay crackling in the center of them all. They were all sullen and grumpy, but not because of the fact they were on the road. These men might not have been frontline infantry soldiers, but they had at least experienced travelling life before. No, there reason for being miserable was caused by their employer. At some point all of them had been on the wrong side of his furious, petty wrath and it had taken a lot of persuading from Marks to stop them from beating him to death.

He sat down on one of the logs that the group had pulled next to the fire, the men making space for him as he approached.

“Hey Marks, want a brew?” One of the younger lads asked, holding a mug up for him to take. He smiled fondly at him and took the mug graciously, taking a sip and savouring the warm liquid.

“Lovely stuff Lance, tastes perfect lad.”

“The boss still being a girl?”

“Aye. Soft fool’s never been out of his house before.” Marks said, spitting to his side. He’d gotten along with Birmillius well enough before, but now he didn’t trust himself to stay near him. They all ate in silence for a while, enjoying and savouring the stew.

“Hey boss,” One of the older men piped up. “What do you think of the new guy, you know, the siphon?” Revan had been a hot topic for the men, as they knew almost nothing about him, or what he could do. Marks glanced over to the very fringes of the camp, where Revan sat in the darkness. Alone. He’d been a strange one alright, not communicating with the men at all, just sat in the shadows prepping his equipment.

It was the same every night, the same practiced routine. He started with his shortbow, unstringing the weapon and oiling the wood, testing the curve for it’s spring. Then, he unsheathed his blades, four in total and laid them at his feet on a scrap of rag. He oiled them as well, so delicately, so gently, it was like watching a man caress his lover. There was always a faint high pitched ring from him drawing the knives across his whetstone, stopping only when they were sharp enough to cut the hairs on the back of his hand. Finally, he checked all of the straps and buckles on his pack and on his horse’s saddle. Making sure everything was tight and secure, with no loose parts that could get tangled or caught on the undergrowth.

He’s a strange one alright.

“As long as he keeps his distance, I’ve got no problem with him… Seems to have a bit of an obsession with his knives though.”

The men all ate and talked through the night, the way soldiers often do. He looked over his men with a sense of contentment. These are good, honest men.

He was broken out of his contemplation by the sudden sound of angry, manic cursing. It was coming from Birmillius’ tent. He came out from the canvas literally frothing at the mouth with rage, stumbling around caught in the tent flaps.

“By the bloody gates…” Marks said, rising to his feet to deal with the giant child.

“My bedding! My bedding is damp and has mud over it! It was one of your men wasn’t it? Think it’s funny to play a joke on me!” Birmillius bellowed, stomping over to their fire.

“My lord, I’m sure it’s just because it’s not been wrapped up enough, if you’ll-”

“You dare? You think I’m a simpleton who can’t wrap his own equipment?!” He roared again.

Before either of them could say anything else, Reavan appeared seemingly from nowhere, a concerned, irritated look on his eyes.

“You should both keep your voices down. There are other things than men in these woods.”

Both of them looked at him in disbelief, lost for words for a moment.

Then they both unleashed.

“You dare?! You dare order me? A lord?!” Birmillius bellowed.

“The bloody cheek of you! My men are perfectly capable-”

“You must be quiet now.” He attempted to talk over the top of them both. Bad idea.

“I’ll have you whipped for your disrespect for your betters! Whipped I say!”

“We ought to leave you in the bastard woods!”

A sound interrupted them again, this time, not from the mysterious ranger. It was a horrible piercing screech, that cut straight through the night into their hearts. It was like a dog’s lonely howl, crossed with a babies angry wail.

“Stay by the fires. Now!” Reavan ordered, moving quickly back to his deserted tent in a stealthy, crouched run.

“What did he say? Stay by the fire? Is he serious?” Birmilious asked, attempting to be harsh and vicious, but the worry in his quaking voice betrayed him.

“I assure you Lord, it’s probably nothing. There’s noises in these woods all the time. Still, stay close to the fire until he’s back.”

“Yes yes…very good. I’m going to have him flogged when he’s back, thinking he can order me about like a mere peasant!” He said, venom dripping from his words as he travelled to the fire by the men.

The shrieks continued, only increasing in volume. Sounding almost like whatever was making the noise was getting closer…The men were huddled round the crackling flames, standing as close as they could before the heat became too intense. Most of them were stood unarmed, there was only one young lad who had a spear readied.

The noises went louder still, reaching very worryingly loud levels, it was almost as if the elusive source was on the edges of the camp.

“Don’t worry lads, it’s just the noises of the woods. It’s loud I’ll give you that, but there’s nothing dangerous out there! Put that spear down lad, you won’t need that.” The young one looked around skittishly, before resting his spear on his shoulder, leaving the point in the air. The men all gave a good-natured chuckle, seeing a new boy so nervous.

It was about mid way through the laugh when there was a sudden hissing noise and something shot out of the darkness and tore open the side of the boy’s face, sending him tumbling to the ground screaming.

It took Marks a second or two to comprehend what exactly he had seen. It looked like a branch of a tree had stretched and thrust through the air. Only it looked too dark to be a tree branch and it was covered in barbs…

Vineskins.

He didn’t think the fairy tales were true, right up until he had seen the thorns of the black vine tear and rip the skin from the left side of the lad’s face.

“Weapons! To arms!” Marks shouted drawing his old longsword. They all began to unsheathe various blades and tools in a mad rush, axes, swords, knives and spears were all clumsily readied. But while they were attempting to move into action, another one of the thick black vines flew out of the shadows with a harsh hiss, whipping past another man’s throat with a sickening ripping noise. Scarlett blood sprayed from his neck furiously as he collapsed to the floor frantically clasping at his shredded neck.

“Stay low and near the fire!” Marks ordered loudly, trying to see desperately where the vines were coming from. It was like they were an extension of the darkness itself. They were all crouched shuffling around the fire, trying hopelessly to establish a better fighting position.

They were like that for a few more moments, with the deafening wails echoing through the night. The man with the torn throat was convulsing on the floor, continuing to paw weakly at his mammoth wound. Another member of the crew had rushed over and was hunched over him, trying in vain to treat the lacerated flesh.

The new boy who had been hit first had gone limp and lifeless, blood dribbling lazily down the gruesome ruin of the left side of his face. Marks couldn’t tell if he was dead or just unconscious.

Genuine fear gripped Marks at that time. It was already a steep test of courage fighting another human in the light, let alone a hidden enemy, swathed in darkness,  that seemed to be able to kill them at will. He felt helpless, watching these…things, butcher his fighters with ease, with him unable to do anything.

Gods above…if you’re listening…

All of a sudden, a blindingly bright, hissing, yellow light fell down from the treetops, like it had been dropped from the branches above. It illuminated the surrounding area with a woosh of air, revealing everything for at least ten meters, showing the horrific creatures clearly.

Long, contrasting shadows were instantly cast over the campsite. The monsters’ skin was all a very deep purple, so dark that it was nearly black. They were all covered in short, twisted thorns which protruded out of their tough, gnarled skin. They stood on two thick legs, their knees bent backwards like a chicken. Four small arms outstretched from their chests, much like the legs of a spider. The heads were the worst of all. No eyes. No nose. Just a huge gaping mouth full of twisting barbs.

Not many things had ever made Marks to scared to move before, but the sight of these monstrosities terrified him to his very bones. He was rooted to the spot, unable to command, unable to encourage, unable to think. He simply stood there with his mouth open like a fish out of water, waiting for his imminent death at the hands of these terrors. Then, he saw something else flit down from the treetops, landing on top of one of the horrific creatures, knocking it to the earth.

It was Revan.

Landing so heavily on the Vineskin had torn his clothes all over, cutting him in a dozen places and making red patches appear all over his clothing. While the other creatures were recoiling from the bright light he had thrown, he plunged one of his razor-like knives into the beings face. It slid in, with a strange squeaking noise and silenced the beasts cries at once. Without a moment’s hesitation, he placed his hand onto the rent face of the corpse and breathed in heavily.

Marks couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought he had seen some strange sights before, but nothing compared to watching the siphon at work. There was a sudden burst of green ethereal light, that seemed to flow into Revan through his eyes, as if he was absorbing it into his very being. It was like fire smoke being sucked through a chimney. After a mere moment, the light vanished and Revan began hissing with pain through gritted teeth.

He skin began to turn purple, barbs sprouting from the flesh in the blink of an eye. He still retained his human shape, but now he shared the tree-like skin of his enemies.

“By the gates…” Marks managed to mumble, sinking to his knees with a gasp.

Revan stood up defiantly, and cast his attention to the other Vineskins, blades twirling in his hands. One of them clumsily whipped around, extending one of the short arms into a long tendril of thorns, like a whip. Marks gasped again in fear, seeing the vine like arm arc towards the siphon, but before he could shout out, the tendril smashed into his body with a sharp crack.

But instead of cutting him to ribbons, it simply knocked him to the side, making him snarl with pain. As quick as a swooping bird, he pulled on the vine before it could retract back to it’s owners body. His spiky, bark like hands, handled it easily, jerking the creature stumbling towards him. It was caught completely off balance, barely keeping itself upright, wobbling like a newborn babe.

Once it was near, he stabbed it with a flurry of lightning quick strikes, each one plunging in deep, throwing black blood across the forest floor in thick strands. It seemed like Marks had only taken in a single breath before the disgusting creature lay convulsing on the ground.

Then, the light went out.

They still had their fire, which they clung to as if it was their mother’s skirts, standing as close as humanly possible to the crackling wood. The men whirled around, twisting and yelling in panic every time a new sound emerged from the forest. With the sight of the monsters gone, Marks could suddenly think again. Just like that, the thick cobwebs of numbness were swept away from his mind.

“Easy lads! Stay near the flame, keep them spears out!” He commanded, confidence returning to his voice.

They all rallied round his words, as hollow as they were, standing more alert, reading themselves for the arrival of the creatures again. It was a tense few minutes, with them all jumping at the littlest of noises, of the flickering of the fire’s shadows.

They could all hear sounds of fighting, cries of pain from both man and beast in the darkness, but none of them would leave the safety of the fire to help Revan.

A blade slashing through the air.

A alien scream.

The groans and hissing of combat.

After what seemed like an eternity, the noises stopped.

Marks looked around at his men, who were all looking straight back at him, searching for a sign or a signal on what to do. They waited silently for a few more moments, with only the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind breaking the quiet.

“Revan?” Marks shouted cautiously into the trees.

Nothing.

“Revan? Are you there?”

Nothing.

Marks was about to open his mouth, telling the boys anything he could think of that might set them at ease, when the corpse of one of the Vineskins was thrown on the floor next to him. He jumped back, cursing and waving his blade in fright, but there were no more monsters.

Revan stood at the edge of the firelight, breathing heavily. His clothes were all but tatters now, rags that were held together by the smallest of threads. His skin had returned to normal, making the many cuts covering him all the more obvious. Crimson bed flowed from a dozen areas from his body in a gentle, lazy stream.

Marks rushed over to the Siphon, reaching his arms out to support the shell of a man.

“By the gates! We thought you was dead you mad bastard!” Marks exclaimed, unable to comprehend what he had seen.

Revan weakly pushed his helping hands away with a small shake of his head.

“Just…Just a moment…I have to… I can…” It seemed like every word he uttered was a laborious task, even staying standing looked as if it was taking most of his strength.

Marks backed away in confusion, watching with morbid curiosity as Revan placed his hand on the corpse’s head slowly. There was another flash of bright green light, which was once again drank in by Revan’s hungry eyes. Then, as quick as the light had appeared, it vanished again.

“Revan, you need a serious looking at, you look as if you’ve no blood left in you.” Marks spoke carefully, a note of sympathy seeping into his voice.

Revan closed his eyes in answer and breathed out, like a man letting go his final breath. But instead of falling over, dead to the world, small dancing green lights appeared on his many cuts, crackling and sparking around, illuminating him like a swarm of fireflies. After a few seconds, when the strands of light fizzled out, Marks saw that his cuts were beginning to heal. The blood that had ran down his arm now reversed its flow, moving impossibly back into his body through the wounds, which then closed themselves neatly, not even leaving a scar behind.

“By the gates…” Marks gasped.