Chapter 12
The shack smelled of salted fish, the atmosphere was heavy, it was as if the air itself knew of the importance of what was happening in the small building. The whispers reverberating through the shack, though never to be heard outside of its confines, dug deep ruts in the destiny of Vealand.
“It’s not too late to leave. Nobody will fault you if you do. We may not survive the night,” Dren said. His voice, even hushed, demanded attention. “But we’re doing righteous work here. We’ll free ourselves from the monster that has taken our very identities from us! Taken our minds from us! We may be reviled for what we are about to do, but know this. A false freedom is no freedom at all, and comfort is never a substitute for liberty!”
Dren knew the insidious evil they faced. He knew that though their actions were necessary, it didn’t make them any less dangerous or distasteful. Murder, even of monsters who’d thrown away their humanity, needed to weigh heavily on the soul. If it didn’t you were a monster yourself.
They would kill tonight. Not out of spite, but out of a duty to the truth. Not taking action against evil —even if the whole world said it was good— and doing nothing was the gravest of sins.
So they would fight. They would fight for truth.
They would fight for freedom.
They would do so in a cowardly manner, but a loss of honor was a small price to pay to rid their nation of the man who had raped it and had enslaved the minds of their countrymen.
This night, they would fight and give their lives if necessary.
To a man, they were willing to sacrifice everything for freedom.
Dren prayed no-one would have to pay the ultimate price, but inaction was worse than death. They had no choice but to march forwards, even if it lead to their ends, so march forward they would.
*****
“Something’s wrong,” Dren said as he reluctantly decided to push onwards.
Everything was too orderly, the kitchens were always chaotic, not the hushed uniformity that they were currently seeing. Something felt wrong. This was nothing like how their inside man had described the keep.
Still they pressed forward. It was now or never. They may never have another chance like this. They may never have another chance to kill the source of the evil that had infected the minds of their nation. Dren had heard the talk on the streets. Too much unwanted attention had been brought on them recently. The very air in Vealand tingled with with the promise of…Something.
Something revolutionary.
Something violent.
If they didn’t act tonight, they would end up in cells or dead in months. Dren was sure of it. He felt it in his bones.
“Let’s proceed… But keep your eyes open,” Dren whispered to the company, who’s weapons were hit in their small-clothes, underneath their servants garb.
Dren’s warnings dug into their minds and tensions were high as they made their way through the kitchens and into the servants corridors.
The corridors were silent.
The normal bustle had hushed to but a whisper.
Something was wrong.
*****
“That’s them! Slaughter them!” Edrian shouted upon laying on the small band of the Rebellion.
Aris cursed in a rage as he watched the hawkish Minister of Defense step forward to command the company of twenty palace guards.
“Stop it!” He shouted.
Nobody listened.
The fool was going to murder them all!
They needed to be kept alive! They needed to root out the rest of the resistance. They could never do so if they were all dead!
What was that idiot thinking?
Aris sprinted after the group.
“I said leave them alive! I need them for interrogations!” Aris shouted.
He was too late.
By the time he had caught up, the slaughter had already begun. The keep’s guards Kukri swords were already biting into the flesh of the would be assassins.
*****
“Run Dren! Survive and kill the monster!” Wilford shouted to their leader as he raised his metalvine stick to intercept an oncoming blow from the palace guard’s Kukri.
Wilford didn’t look to see if Dren had listened as he ducked under the next blow and followed with a twisting step, he used the momentum to bury his metalvine at the guard’s chest.
Ribs snapped.
Wilford followed with a devastating blow to the man’s carotid artery.
The guard collapsed in a heap. Dead.
As he stepped over the downed guard, Wilford caught a glimpse of an oncoming strike from another guard. He lunged in and caught the man’s wrist. It slowed the momentum of the blow but didn’t completely stop it. He received a deep slash to his shoulder from the inward curve of the Kukri. His shoulder burned as if on fire.
“It didn’t sever any tendons. I can still fight.” Wilford thought.
“On me men!” he commanded the group. “They’re trying to separate us to makes us easier to kill! We won’t let that happen! We’ll live to see that monster off the throne! I swear it!”
Wilford didn’t believe his own words, but the band responded. Fire lit their eyes.
“We fight for the soul of our nation! He may have stolen our minds and hearts, but he shall not have our souls!” Wilford yelled as he led a rush into the heart of the guardsmen’s battle formation. His company behind him.
“I’ll die here. But I’ll die knowing I fought.” Wilford thought as he charged at the largest guard who aimed a devastating slash at his neck.
He ducked and slid under the blow and simultaneously rained a backhanded metalvine blow on the guard’s ankle.
It shattered.
Wilford immediately regained his footing and brought his metalvine around for a blow to the temple of the next guard. It fractured the man’s skull. He fell to the ground twitching. He’d be dead in minutes.
Wilford felt a slight pang of regret at taking the guard’s lives but he snuffed it. Compassion gets you killed in battle.
Wilford saw another sword swinging at a downward angle towards where his neck and shoulders met and sidestepped avoiding the killing blow, but still taking damage. Blood sprayed in a red arc from his forearm where the blade had dug into it.
As he dodged a follow up swipe, Wilford saw one of his brothers try to sidestep an oncoming blow but he miscalculated and the guard’s Kukri caught him in the neck. His head nearly fell off.
“No!” Wilford screamed in rage as he saw another comrade, Lanz, cut down by the guards’ efficient swordplay. “You’re killing for a monster! Look in your hearts! You know the truth!”
With his rage at the Emperor fueling him, Wilford attacked with a frenzy of energized blows, crushing any who were unfortunate enough to get within his range.
As he viciously shattered arms, legs, and ribs, Wilford absorbed many blows and though his short burst of felled four more, he was beginning to feel woozy.
He had lost too much blood.
Far too much.
Wilford would die soon.
He’d take as many of the guards with him as he could before his life bled out of him though.
“Dren! Get behind me!” he shouted to their leader who'd ignored his previous warning to run. “If you die, the revolution’ll die with you, and this’ll all be in vain! By God, get behind me and when the time comes, run!”
Wilford summoned his strength and barreled forward towards another small group of guards who’d just killed another of their companions and were blocking their escape route.
“For Vealand!” Wilford screamed as he dove into their midst, using a lunging motion to stab his metalvine into an eye of one of the guards, blinding him and fracturing his orbital bone. With a swift front kick, he drove the blinded guard into another, temporarily knocking him off balance and giving Dren the chance to dive through the small opening and make a break for the emperor’s quarters, allowing him to assassinate the false Emperor.
They didn’t chase Dren.
They still had hope.
They would win!
Wilford would die, but the world would be awakened.
There would be hope once again.
Stepping over the bodies of his fallen brothers and seeing only one left aside from Dren, he shouted to his companion. “We will fall, but our nation will stand! Let’s give them the fight of their lives!”
Wilford stood his ground smiling through his fury, knowing that Dren had escaped while the guards were distracted.
He met the rushing group with the intensity of a cornered mountain panther. His flowing attacks were a sight to behold, and those that survived his perfectly placed blows would speak of his prowess for years to come.
“Kelrian, we will die gloriously! they will tell tales of us for generations!” Wilford shouted to his companion as he shattered the knee of an oncoming guard.
He didn’t respond.
Where was Kelrian? Where had he gone?
“I’m afraid they won’t old friend,” Kelrian whispered into Wilford’s ear as he stepped behind his companion and drew a small dagger across his friend’s throat.
