The Prince of Luster and Decay: Hearts and Daggers

An excerpt (chapter one) of the dark fantasy warfare novella, The Prince of Luster and Decay.

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1. hearts and daggers

Sergeant Knox knelt under the night sky, as if in prayer to the Powers.  The moon was only half-full but shined brightly, lighting the field around him and lending shadows to the woods before him.  He raked at the dry earth with his fingers, scooped it up and let it crumble free.  He missed the feel of soil in his hands and had had enough of trampling it beneath his marching feet.  The crops would be due, he thought, looking up at the moon.  The same moon looked down on his family half a world away. 

Well, not so far as that, he told himself.  He could probably be home in a week at a steady march.  Knox mapped the route in his mind: due east until he hit the Serpentine, then follow the river banks all the way to Fellwater.  Redfield was just a few days south from there.  Not so far.  Tess might be kneeling at that very moment too, though she really would be praying.  Probably with Little Jacob bending his knee too, pinned there forcibly by his mother.  The boy had too much of his father in him.

Knox cracked a smile. 

Between his knees was a dry, trampled bean stalk, its pods smashed by the Stormwalkers when they moved in here.  He twirled it between his thick fingers.  What I wouldn’t give to be harvesting beans right now.  Instead they have me harvesting lives.  Before him was the forest of skeletal trees that bordered the field, sparse leaves shuddering in the breeze, the victims of an early fall.  Firelight from the soldiers’ camp behind him danced with the shadows between the trees, giving the illusion of specters and spies there.  He imagined Tess and Jacob again, looking up from their prayers to see similar shapes coming to life before them.  If I’m only a week from home, Knox thought, so is the war.  A Rogue Legion scout materialized in his mind, leading a band of savage zog raiders.  The mob descended on his family, Tess screaming, Jake trying to run but snagged by his collar by a clawed zog hand—

He pressed his palms against his eyes.  “Why do you torture yourself like that?”

Knox returned to the Stormwalkers’ tent city.  The company nearly filled the abandoned field, their camp fires lighting the sky and laughter filling the air.  Men traded insults and tested rumors as they slurped up watery stews; about a hundred and fifty soldiers, Knox figured, trying very hard to enjoy themselves and forget about home.  Remembering it was more painful than forgetting.  Why couldn’t he force himself the same way?

At the eastern edge of the camp were a pair of familiar tents, one white canvas stained with black mud, the other a patchwork of quilts and blankets.  Standing tall between them was a leafless tree with an oil lantern tangled in its branches.  Beneath that feeble light were four men, huddled around a collapsible table and peering at the cards in their hands. 

Knox paused behind one tent.  Two days ago his squad had snuck behind an enemy position, set fire to the forest, captured supply wagons, and met the enemy in mortal combat.  These men better resembled animals that day, faces twisted with fear and bloodlust, eyes and mouths agape, battle cries gurgling from their throats, their swords doing the brutal work of war.  Their bodies shook afterward; they always do.  Hands trembled, legs wobbled, stomachs turned and spilled their contents.  Becoming human again was a painful process.  And now here were four of them, no longer killers but ordinary men: a tailor, a herdsman, a scribe, and... whatever the hell Dixon used to be.  A street tough or pickpocket, probably.  The war may very well have been the best thing to happen to him.

Knox went to the fire and stooped down to nestle in the squad’s tea kettle.

“Hey, Sarge.”  Harrison glanced up, then frowned back down at his cards.