Soul Fire

Soul Fire - Chapter 8

No one spoke. Everyone was lost in private thoughts. Dathion had never experienced anything like this. Now he was exhausted, both physically and mentally. In a single day, he had run the emotional gamut from the horror of death - which had robbed a village of its people - to the exhilaration of battle, the terror of mortality, and finally, the thrill of victory.

Their chase of the remaining demons had been brutal. Dathion had been unprepared for the overwhelming power of an Asillian battle mount. The might of Asheron now terrified him as much as the demons who had sought his death.

Dathion had not whispered to Asheron nor had he tried to command the mighty warhorse. For unlike the young boys thrust into their first battle, Asheron knew his role and what his training demanded of him.

Dathion remembered the first demon they had run down. Its scream had curdled his blood, the shrill cry slicing over the pounding of hooves. The noise was mercifully brief, ended by the sensation and sounds of crushing and snapping, then the shattering of bones.

What haunted Dathion most was the fate of another demon that had turned to defy them. Dathion had clung to Asheron's neck when his horse broke stride, then rose on hind legs to strike with his front hooves. A resounding crack had preceded an eruption of blood and innards from the monster's chest. When flung to the earth by Asheron's immeasurable power, the torso crumpled and its head caved in. The body then flipped end over end before finally coming to rest, its mangled insides barely held together by blood-drenched skin and fur. Still Asheron had trampled the inanimate form as he gave chase to the others, kicking the mutilated corpse into the air once more with the force of his gallop.

Dathion had only needed that one demonstration to understand why an Asillian charge struck such fear into their enemies.

Night had settled on the plains, with the wind gathering its strength and a chill tinging the air. Most of the day had drifted past Dathion, with no events distinct enough to form memories. Through the recent horror, something intangible had been lost to Dathion and the other boys. Malithas and Salidon seemed to sense this, providing hollow words of comfort whenever able. The evening campfire crackled, popping wood, and shooting stars of embers skyward in red showers. Pushing back from the heat, Dathion brushed a tear from his cheek.

The rising smoke must have been irritating his eyes.

The patrolmen distributed their rations between the survivors as best they could. Discussions took place and decisions were made. Ragilen and his men surrendered most of their remaining food and water to Malithas. They would take the women and children back to Asillia City, then return to recover the bodies and horses of the lost soldiers, and bury the dead villagers. Despite the plentiful supplies on offer, none of the Asillians showed much of an appetite. Soft sobbing drew words of comfort from the bravest assembled. Ragilen said weeping was a good sign. It showed that some of the women and children had shaken off the shock of their experience. The three boys huddled together in a small group, finding themselves unwilling to mingle with the people they had helped to save. Any small reminder of the day's events threatened the frail emotional guard the boys had raised in the aftermath of the battle.

After some time, Dathion retreated from the fire to a quieter place on the perimeter, turning away from the group to face into the stony silence of night. He looked east, the direction from whence the demons had come. He didn't know whether to curse their lands, or long for more to appear so that he could exact further revenge. Strangely, even here where the air was clean and cool, his eyes still tingled.

"Never lose it, Dathion."

He startled at the voice of Malithas and the weight of a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Dathion drew several slow, settling breaths before he replied, determined that his voice not quaver when he responded.