The arrow lands where it should. It’s the only thing that hasn’t failed him yet. It screamed through the damp air of a grey sky before burying itself in the foot soldier’s throat. A clean shot. The kind he’s made a thousand times.
Julian wills his exhausted body forward. His eyes drag across the dense Alder treeline that should be covered with the Rothelm Kingdom’s outer patrol line. Nothing moves.
The foot soldier staggers with the arrow lodged deep into the side of its throat. It wears purple crested armor bearing the sprawled-out raven that makes up the Rothelm crest. It crumbles to one knee but doesn't fall. Julian reaches back and draws another arrow. His fingers move without thought. Inhale. Set. Draw. Exhale.
Julian releases another arrow into the once-soldier’s chest, aiming where a heart used to matter. It screams as it falls flat against the sopping wet grass of the plain. As he closes the distance, a low, drowning sound slips out of it. Not a choke, not quite. Its hand rises to the arrow in its throat. It touches the arrow like it still knows it doesn't belong there. Julian’s brow tightens. He hasn’t gotten a chance to see one of these things in the daylight.
The blood is wrong. It doesn’t spill; it gathers. It pushes its way out around the wound in slow pulses. Too heavy to drip but too alive to stay still. Its mouth unhinges awkwardly.
“...cold.” The word barely makes it through as it attempts to sit up.
“Stop. Stop moving.” Julian commands in a controlled, quiet tone.
The soldier looks up at him. Its swollen face tugs at something familiar. He doesn’t place his name, but he’s seen the soldier before. At the last battle or the one before that. For a moment their eyes lock.
“It burns.” It reaches to try and pull the arrow free from its neck. Julian’s eyes form a distant look of sorrow before he unsheathes his dagger. Its metal is a shade of muted brown that reeks of copper and soil.
“I’m so sorry.” Julian whispers before burying his dagger into the fallen soldier. Its body goes completely still this time. Julian softly exhales through his nose.
The smell hits him then. Rot, but sharper. Like there’s something working underneath it. It’s a smell that’s all too familiar after last night. One by one, the infection spread viciously through blood and saliva. Through his soldiers. He covers his nose as he holds down the vomit burning the back of his throat.
Behind the fallen body, the treeline shifts. He looks up and sees them then. Silhouettes at first, then bodies. Not rushing. Just moving. Like a force is guiding them forward and they’re struggling to keep up.
“Damn it.” Julian steps back once, his scuffed boots sinking into the softened dirt. He’s only got eleven arrows left from last night's battle. There’s far too many of them. He draws an arrow from his brother’s quiver slung along his back as he continues to survey them.
Armor hangs loose on some of them. Knights’ armor. Others wear none at all. One drags a leg that bends the wrong way. Another holds its stomach together with both darkened hands, fingers sunk in too deep, like it's trying to keep itself from spilling out. They form an uneven blockade in front of the only entrance to the kingdom.
Julian adjusts the straps holding his armor as his hands shake. He tightly holds onto his longbow with bruised hands. He doesn’t know when he stopped being scared and started being angry, but he knows he can’t take much more of either.
Julian runs into the woods and towards the mob, shooting the closest one of them clean through the temple. Its body jerks and folds in on itself, driving the arrow further through its own skull.
“home. home. home.” Slurred speech writhes through one of them. A townswoman. She speaks with a mix of drool and splotches of the rotted liquid. Julian hesitates. He hates this part—the remembering. Julian draws and releases an arrow deep through her skull.
As he advances farther into the wooded area, he hears one groaning in pain right behind him. Julian attempts to draw his bow back but it’s knocked out of his hands as this thing collapses on top of him. Its ripped clothing is harshly complemented by the smell of decay. Black veins shoot up and down the thing’s throat as it reaches out for Julian’s face. Julian has one foot on its chest, stopping it from touching him. He can hear the others slowly closing in.
“Don’t… let him. Take me.” The more it speaks, the closer the liquid gets to spilling out of its mouth. Its eyes are glossed over, like it’s one word away from tears.
With a sharp inhale, Julian drives both feet into its chest and thrusts upward, sending it sprawling. When he gets up, Julian pulls the dagger from his side and slashes its stomach. Bubbling black rot spills outward onto fallen leaves and leftover timber. He then grabs it by the back armor plates and launches it at the nearest gathering of them. He picks up his longbow and unused arrow as he runs toward the front gate.
Forcing his way through them, his breathing is ragged. Not clean nor controlled. It’s just enough to keep him going. With each step he can hear an echo of memory from one of these pained creatures. Their cries follow him but he doesn’t turn back. If he does, he knows that he’ll never make it to the castle. To Morgan. To King Isner. The diseased knight’s warning from last night clawed at Julian’s mind. The infection hadn’t started in the field.
He still hears them closing in behind him as he jumps and pulls down the front gate. The rusty gate clicks as it gets closer to the floor before shutting. The sound of the gate closing echoes throughout the compact, narrowly built homes of Rothelm Kingdom. Julian takes a minute to catch his breath before pushing his messy brown hair, with only a few greys, back behind his shoulders. He then rushes to cover behind the closest home, which is composed of layers of brick. He scans the environment patiently, waiting for one of them to make a sound. He hears nothing.
Julian scales the building using the ledges in front of the windows until he hits the roof. He stands atop it and can see the gothic, greystone castle Rothspire. The truth is close. All he has to do is reach Rothspire.
Julian runs and jumps from building to building. Just like he and Gregory had when they were younger. Gregory would always be the first to jump. Laughing hysterically each time Julian would hesitate. But then Julian didn’t have to carry his armor or his bow. He could afford to hesitate when he actually had someone watching his back.
The castle stands awaiting his arrival. He drops down to the bottom ledge of the last home before the castle. He hears them as he hits the rain-soaked pavement.
He crouches down close to the sewer grate. Some are groaning softly. Others screech to the point of their voices breaking. Dozens, if not hundreds, of different voices.
“No. No, it can’t be. Not everyone.” His voice trembles as he whispers to himself.
A black rat scurries across the puddle in front of him and it makes him jolt up. He follows the rat up to the massive wooden doors of the castle before it runs away. He looks back at the open drain. The screams are now faint; he can barely hear them anymore. But he knows the screams are happening. He can’t get them out of his head.
Julian turns and opens the door as he has so many times before. He doesn’t hear a sound in the castle and there are only a few candles to light mere portions of the hallway. Julian walks up to the original painting of Lake Grindylow. He places his ear against the wall and knocks around it until he hears a hollow square of cement and pushes it forward.
Dust flies off the secret door as Julian closes it behind him. His father showed him the secret passages they would use during wars to protect the King and Queen if invaders ever dared to step foot into the kingdom. He never imagined he’d be using them like this.
He makes his way through the decrepit passageway on the path to the throne room. Some turns are too small for his shoulders, forcing him to turn his body and shuffle past. Once he makes it to the secret door, he hesitates when he hears a voice bellowing through the cement walls.
“NO! We will not leave this castle. I understand we are in a dire situation, but all will be resolved with time. I promise you that.” Julian feels the impatience behind the King’s words as he says them.
“My king, we must leave. Our own have fallen. The returning squadron patrolling Rile should’ve been back yesterday. We have no time to waste. If the Queen is too ill-”
The King cuts off Commander Weslei with a slam of his fist on the black oak of his throne.
“Queen Oriana is not ill.” The room goes silent immediately afterwards. Julian draws his bow and arrow before stepping back and kicking down the secret door with a thud.
What’s left of the royal guard, ten knights, along with the King, stare in horror at the condition of Julian Taylor. Sweat pours down his face and beard, with additional bloody armor that clearly did not belong to him.
Julian shoots an arrow between the plates of leg armor through Weslei’s knee. He screams in pain as the rest of the knights unsheathe their swords. Julian draws another arrow.
“Tell them to stand down.” He rears the arrow back and aims at Weslei’s head. He could shoot with the slightest movement of his hand.
“Now.” Julian knows Weslei. He also knows that the rest will fall back on his word.
They hold an intense glare, each knowing the other’s resolve.
“Stand down,” Weslei says shakily through a breath of pain. The knights hesitate.
“I SAID STAND DOWN.” The knights immediately put their weapons away and remain staring at their downed leader.
Julian turns his attention to the king.
“What happened? Did the bastard have something to do with this?” Julian's brow lowers as he speaks through his teeth.
“Taylorson? What—what are you doing? Stop this now.” He glances to the door of the master bedroom. Only for a second.
With an arrow still drawn, Julian makes his way over to the door and kicks it down.
“Get away from there!” The King stands abruptly. Julian aims the arrow at the King’s chest.
“Don’t do it. You know I’ll put you down before you can mutter another syllable."
The King’s tone lowered to meet Julian’s. “I know you would. Your brother would’ve. Your father taught you to. Your father also taught you to never disobey me. He was the best advisor I had ever gotten and you know why? Because he trusted his instincts. Now, I’m asking you to trust yours. To trust me. We can talk about all of it.” The King stands tall, yet his lip still quivers.
Julian almost considers it. He looks back into the room that is now lit with the bright light emanating from the throne room’s chandelier. The Queen lies uncomfortably twitching in the bed. Her wrists to her fingertips are firm with pitch-black swelling. She coughs and it cascades throughout the room. Her once pristine blonde hair is now a ragged grey. Julian looks back at the King solemnly.
Another door opens in the bedroom and Morgan Faye steps into the room. Julian aims the arrow at his temple.
“I should’ve known.” Julian looks at the Queen, then back at Morgan. He raises his voice to make sure the King can hear him.
“Why is he in this castle? This evil filth. You swore to me. You swore that he would be hanged. You know what he’s capable of and you allow him to breathe?” Julian stills. His grip tightens on the bow until the wood creaks. The King doesn’t answer him.
“You saw them out there. I’m sorry about that. All of them, gross failures of something I could fix. That was before I understood it.” Morgan raises his young arms above his head; the sleeves on his robe fall down his arms slightly. His skin is impeccable, barring a few blemishes on his cheeks. He’s been the same way since Julian was a kid.
“Understood what?” Julian focuses his gaze on Morgan. Looking for any signs of a lie.
“Death. How to overcome it. Isner came to me as he has before. He needs me and he knows it. Even under all of that armor, I know you know it too. I can save them all. I swear. I can save her.” Morgan’s light eyes meet Julian’s before looking over to the King. They lock eyes for a moment before the King quickly looks away.
“Get out! All of you, out now!” The King shouts as the knights grab Weslei by the shoulders and drag him outside of the throne room. Looks of shock and disgust fill their faces.
Julian grabs Morgan by his patchy grey robe and tosses him outside of the bedroom at the King’s feet. The King stands a few feet away from Julian. His unblinking eyes lock onto the King. He draws in a breath and holds it longer than he should.
“She can live Julian. You of all people should understand.” The King pleads. Julian can only hang his head.
“Have you no remorse? These are your people we’re speaking of. The very ones you swore to protect. The people that I’m supposed to protect.” Julian's voice breaks.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. Imagine if we could’ve saved Gregory.” Julian’s voice gets trapped in his own throat. The King leans forward and looks to the ground briefly before looking back up at Julian.
“I know you. Better than you’ve ever known yourself. Wouldn’t you sacrifice this entire kingdom if it meant he was to live again?” The King raised his voice enough to make the walls repeat his plea.
“You have to understand. Please Julian. Place down your bow.” The King outstretches his hand to Julian.
“I do understand.” Julian pauses for a long moment.
“That’s why I’m sorry.” Julian aims his bow at Queen Oriana.
Morgan screams. “No! I need her. Without her, all of this would be for nothing. Fucking kill him!” He says, grabbing onto the King.
“Stop! I will not lose her.” The King says, causing Julian’s eyes to water. The Queen meets Julian’s eyes. A lifetime of pain shared through a look of understanding.
“You already have,” Julian whispers as he allows the arrow to release into the Queen’s skull.
The arrow lands where it should. He wishes it hadn’t. The King jumps towards the arrow after it was already released. He lies on the floor looking at his wife. Silently thinking about what could’ve been. What should’ve been. Julian shared the same look during Gregory’s funeral. There wasn’t relief in the silence. Just less noise. Julian walks away, as there’s nothing left worth staying for.
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