“Psst, Malcome, wake up. It’s time.”
Stirred from my slumber, my heavy, tired eyes opened to the dim and dark world around me. They had little to note, the room we were in was roughly a rectangular prism, the walls of smooth steel with a slightly curved roof above us, from which isolated light bulbs provided the only illumination. Not that there was much else to give light to, our only furniture were a few sacks of grain that had been propped up against the boxes lining the walls, upon which were seated myself and two others, the fourth of us standing. Wearily I forced myself to stand erect again.
As my legs stretched, relieved from the same position for well over three hours, the memory strains about why we were here was slowly returning. July 4th, the day of reckoning as most of them called it. The Huntsmen, Myself, Gerome, Daniel, and Mikhail, had all gathered for the first time since, who remembers how long ago, to hunt the great beasts that would roam the city this night. As we had been away, train was the only easy option to gain entry into the city during the Month Festive, and even then we were stowed away on the train’s cargo load. Unglamorous, but necessary.
Closer we drew to the stop, and I gave my life long friends a once over. Gerome was rising to his feet, a skinny, pale man almost dead-like in appearance. His deep set eyes were a dull brown, sickening to look at despite the elegant tapestry that was his preferred suit. His hair was long since gone, only silvery wisps under his dark black top hat showing he had any at all. And his face, it pained one to look at him and see the bones in such great detail. He looked, starved.
Mikhail, too, was standing up for the first time in a while. His back was hunched forward, creating a curvature that made him seem older than he was. Unlike Gerome, his eyes were a deep green color, and his hair was full and beautifully black as a man could expect. Underneath his well trimmed (if worn) suit was the obvious build of a man who was strong, capable. There was no doubt when you were around him that he was meant to lead, yet despite this there was an obvious problem with his health. He was perpetually sick, just one look at him and his multiple handkerchiefs stuffed into his pockets made it obvious enough. He was almost sickly green skinned as he walked by, standing near the door with a cough. The few living things I could see out on the tracks via the window coughed as well, sickened by Mikhail even from as far a distance.
And then there was Daniel. Daniel, who stood strongest of all, broad shoulders and muscles held tight by his clothing. His dark red eyes scanned over me, and his bright blond hair waving somewhat as his body moved. His clothing was spotless, a military pea coat, on the sleeves the symbol of the Empire and of the rank Colonel. His very presence, even to the resilient senses of myself, caused me an unmistakable feeling of anger and rage, a desire to harm and kill. His being screamed for bloodshed, and the on red spot on his sleeves by his hands showed that he was no stranger to death. Daniel had been the one to awaken him, and was now moving to the door of their boxcar. He ripped it from the hinges, opening their dark car to the light of the moon completely, instead of the small window they had.
While standing up myself, I was able to catch my reflection from a mirror that was laying open amongst the boxes. The unmistakable face staring back at me was far from beautiful. My hair, short and messy, was a silvery white save for a few streaks of brown against the bright old hair. The eyes, a bright violet, unnatural, and against my pale skin they alone struck me as what truly set me apart. My frame, torso down, was thin, almost skin and bones, save I had lean type of muscles to keep me human like. Of us all my clothing was the plainest, I wore a black cloak on top of my black sleeved shirt and black trousers. I wore black gloves, too, but beneath the one on my right a pale purple glow emanated. Proof of what I was.
“Must be getting close eh?” Mikhail gestured to my hand. A smile crossed his face before he coughed again, resisting it more difficult than one could imagine. “Must be some major dark energy running through here.”
“Of course there is you bloody buffoon.” Daniel barked, harshly, yet with a kind smile as he glanced back. “Isn’t yours glowing?” He held up his left, the dark crimson glow emanating beneath as my pale purple was.
“You must forgive Mikhail,” Gerome chimed in. “His doesn’t glow until he’s standing right at the gates to Hell after all. Can’t expect him to be as aware of it eh?”
Despite the words against him, Mikhail laughed happily at the friendly banter amongst them. “Hey now, I might not be purple, crimson, or harvest brown, but one must respect the color emerald!”
At last I smiled, laughing with the rest of them. The train rattled more, and at last through the door our destination was spotted. It was hard to miss, the massive tower-like rip into the sky was probably drawing lots of attention. And sure enough it drew ours. Without a word we leaped through the train door and out into the air, falling to the city below. We hadn’t realized how far the stop would be from the actual tear, and we were not about to let this chance get away from us.
Upon contact with the ground, we were already rolling and breaking into a run for the target. Daniel was already drawn with his weapon, a clockwork-lock rifle of unique design, with what appeared to be a sword beneath the barrel for close quarters combat. His face was alight with a demonic joy to be nearing combat, and we weren’t about to waste his enthusiasm.
In fact we were unprepared for what happened next. From around the corner four lumbering beasts, like hounds in appearance save their flame filled eyes, size larger than any man, and black fur aflame at the ends, stumbled into our line of sight. Immediately they broke off in four directions, and the each of us raced after one. I did not see Mikhail nor Gerome, who had broken off to my right, nor even Daniel on my left. I only saw now the Hound before me, racing through the streets. I drew my weapon, a clockwork pistol of similar design to the rest of the world’s, intricate in design and similar in function to any flintlock weapon save the fact it used a clip of ammunition. I raised and fired twice, bullets ripping into the thing’s side. It spun around angrily and now faced me head on.
This was when I chose to activate my arm, the pale glow spreading into the weapon and changing it. It grew in size, covered in light (of the same color), and when the light cleared it was no longer the pistol of before. Now it was grown into the size one would make a blunderbuss shotgun, except somewhat shortened and easily carried in one hand. It was intricate, bone like in appearance with purple glow expanding from small lights within it. On the bottom was a blade, but rather than a knife or sword, it was the curved blade of a scythe. Raising the weapon with one hand, I changed direction and slowly backed up, firing blast after blast of the shotgun into it. It was cocking itself, freeing me to make a plan of action. The hound was unfazed by my constant stream of damaging firepower, and was heading full throttle. I had little time left.
Amid my thoughts I could not have seen what happened next coming. Certain the beast would reach me I prepared to engage in close quarters, when suddenly from above an armoire fell on top of it, crushing its head and instantly killing it. Looking up I saw a small child, no more than, perhaps, two or three years old. How could a child like this have killed the Hound, or even pushed the armoire over? In one leap I ascended up to the top balcony, landing beside the boy. He looked up, faint purple irises smiling at me, waving slightly with his tiny hand. His palm glowed faintly.
I picked the boy up and leaped from the room’s balcony and to the next, moving along my way. The boy only laughed with glee, as my friends hunted, and eventually regrouped. He only smiled as we waged war against the tear, watching as things of a million different shapes were slaughtered, pushed back by the four of us and into the tear. And he only applauded when we closed the rift, ending the threat.
He was Arturus Mordo. He was the Heir of Death.
