Fable - Chapter 0: Spark

Fable

"Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night.

When you move, fall like a thunderbolt." - Sun Tzu.

Footsteps. Pacing evenly with unwavering iron will. Each impact standing out on top of the cobblestone road like they are the only things he can feel. His breathing systematic and under control. The brushing of shoulders against his as he marches against a crowd fleeing in panic and fear. Splitting them like water flowing around a rock. Their screams and cries drowned out, sounding akin to a low hum. The stampede surrounding him as quiet as the graves of the dead. Above all the heads and faces swarming towards him, fire blazing wildly creating thick plumes of black smoke that darken the clear sky above the small town. The gates and nearby buildings in front of him no longer in clear vision. Before them, in the middle of the now empty road close to the flames and black cloud that obscured the gate are two people huddling one another, a mother and her child. Frozen in place under the mix of battle and horrendous unimaginable shrieking and hissing coming from the origin of this shocking dismay.


A hairless red-pink beast bolts through the smoke. A creature of Dire, a Dire Wolf, created in a sickly twisted, malevolent and horrifically abominable image of one of the regular animals of nature. Charging full power towards the helpless civilians stranded in the street. It's six legs rapidly carrying it forward in a bloodthirsty sprint. Its quarterly split snout open bearing endless rows of savage and deformed canine teeth, it's slasher like tongue flailing wildly in hunger below dark black eyes poised with malice and evil. Faded white on its chest and lower neck where rock-hard exterior but expendable bone acts as some by-product form armor. Boils, sores and furuncles bristling with white thick pus entirely cover its body from head to toe. A single example of one of many of the vile mutations of the Dire, one that usually travels in packs like the wolves they are conceived after. He knows he will get no more than one shot, one chance to eliminate or disable his target preventing it from reaching its prey, and saving the people between them. Swiftly and acutely he slings off the long brown threaded back with hung over his shoulder with length of thin rope, reaching his left gloved hand just in the top where it is open and holding the object inside. Using his right, he quickly pulls the bag from under, letting it fall to be trampled underfoot, revealing a long wooden stock which is wide at one end, mechanical metallic components crafted expertly into it with a ball-ended handle sticking out its right side. A weapon only heard about in folklore and children's tales. Coming to a halt and thrusting the butt of the rifle into his shoulder, lowering his head down, closing one eye, peering down it's ironsights along the very top until the end of the barrel. Precisely correcting his aim so that it is on target. He waits, for a break, an ample gap from which he can get a clear shot through the masses. Ever closer the hound of hell gets, tasting its prey more with every inch of ground covered. He draws a new breath, keeping his sporadic aim on the targets hideous head, hoping to kill it by destroying its brain. Exhaling slowly through his mouth until, nearing two emptied lungs, he unhesitatingly snaps his finger back, pulling the trigger. The rifle kicks heartily against him, cracking loudly with a large fireball blast, large enough to break his line of sight with his target for an instant. After it fades, through the smoke and embers dancing in the wind at the end of the barrel, he watches his targets head jerk back viciously, black blood, rotten bone and innards fly out wickedly in an arc behind following the exit. The Dire Wolf falls, sliding along the ground to a lifeless stop no more than a few steps from the two. Sub-conscious muscular reflexes already at play, as he grips the bolt in his leather mitten, curling it upwards, pulling it towards him, the sound of metal scraping against metal opening the receiver. An empty bullet casing jumping out with lit embers escaping behind it. The smell of warm gunpowder residue fills his nose. The casing lands on the stone ground beneath them with a hollow ting that rings out like a blessed melody to his ears. The reassuring sound of a successful ejection.


Closing the bolt ready to fire, lowering his aim as the onpour around him finally begins to stop. He runs forward to the stragglers who are too scared to open their eyes. Hurriedly hoisting the mother up by the back of the collar of her tunic and the then the child by the arm, throwing them both behind him and pushing them back in the direction of safety. They don't dither, leaving as fast as they possibly can. Noticing then that a contingent of the towns guard arriving as they leave, no more than twenty men, armed with an assortment of melee range weapons, swords, spears and shields along with their minimal protection of cloth and leather armour with kettle helms that only covered the top half of their heads. He also became aware of the eerie silence on the other side of the flames and smoke, where the front gates guards were previously engaged. There is no sounds of battle or the horrific screeches of Dire, only the burning crackle of the wooden houses and walls nearby. The day appearing as night under the smog above them. Everyone's attention towards the gate, waiting for something to stir. Every second of silence feeling like a year passing by. The guards around him look as if they have never seen combat, some white with fear, some with shakey swords and sweat dripping down their face. He wonders if they even stand a chance against Dire Wolves. A good soldier can take several one after the other. A decent can survive a one-on-one but very few live against multiple threats at once.


A single ferocious and unnatural thundering roar came from the gate, a bigger and graver one than that of a Dire Wolf, gaining everyone's attention. A large pack of Dire Wolves dart through the smoke, whose number tripled in the blink of an eye. The guards charge forward towards them in an orderly and non-uniform fashion, letting out a great battle-cry together. With they way they are going in such lack of command, they are simply throwing their lives away. Mouth half open under his lower face cover, failing to say something at the last moment.He ends the first three front runners of the group but each one is seemingly replaced by two more emerging from the smoke. The guards and Dire clash in a meaty tackle of bodies. The Wolves pounce on the guards in sudden movements, making them fall and ripping the soft tissue from their bare necks, tearing arms and hands from bodies with savage strength from their mouths. Ravaging those that either stand or fall, hunters from all angles at once preying with a morale breaking shock. The cries of the guards horrify him, in their unbearable and insurmountable pain as they are torn apart like soft inside of bread. Those that are nearest the back begin to drop arms and flee in fear of losing their lives in such a nightmarish way. Firing off two more shots in an attempt to save a guard only to be taken by a third hound from another angle. Their numbers, speed and hellish nature make his spine chill and shiver. He refuses to give in, he must stand his ground against such a demonic force. Even if only to give those that have fled a little more time. He kills another which had him prioritised, re-chambering the next and final bullet within a heartbeat. The next bullet is delivered to its target, striking it again in his head with keen accuracy. Opening the receiver once more and leaving it so, he glances up to see only the grim horrid creatures still standing, the guards have become void of all the life they once held. Reaching into his pocket, staring back at the several Dire that lurk slowly towards him with their bloodstained snouts, he pulls out a strip with five more bullets in a vertical line on it. He places it above the open hatch and pushes them in with his thumb, loading his rifle with a hidden solemn smile on his face. For in his heart, he is aware this may be the very last time he does so.
"Let us hope we are fortunate then."


Both sides did not wait around for the others move. Instantaneously, he locks the rifle against his shoulder again, downing four the frontrunners. The fifth pounces when it gets close enough, to which he reacted justly, turning out to face side on and placing a bullet in its skull as it aimlessly passes him. Reloading once again this time thrusting the empty strip of metal in ones eye as a counter to another pounce. With every hound eliminated, every close call, every empty bullet casing ringing out, he could feel himself turning inwards to himself in bloodlust. Every move, every avoidance, every counter, every attack, every hit faster and stronger than the last. Every move being chosen as the situation presents itself with each split second after the next. The cloak of his clothing following his every move with elegance. The faint feeling of his armour becoming heavy and soaked in blood. The weightlessness of his body and the rifle. His bloodlust and adrenaline is consuming his mind. The feisty kick, The flash of fire, the once living body becoming lifeless, the delicate embers and the warm comfort of gunpowder. Repeating over and over again. The bullet casings, the feeling of metal scraping metal with the bolt-action, the surreal sharpness and quickness it all appears in. When he comes to, he stands among a cascade of dead husks literally the floor all around him, some resting on other bodies. No cobblestone road for him to step on anywhere but where he stands. Looking around there is nothing else standing or alive, bodies of both Dire and Man cover the street. He opens the receiver, looking in and double checking on his current ammo count before his next reload. Two bullets remain of his current clip. The rush of his bloodlust subsiding bringing about his fatigue, bringing him back down to earth. Looking at the mutilated bodies of the guards, he can't help but think of how he could have saved them. Mourning them in the middle of the battlefield. Lives needlessly thrown away because the strong did not act, because the strong did not protect. He clenches his rifle and bites his tongue in anger and frustration. He knows he could have saved them but failed to. His sorrow is dauntingly interrupted by the sound of a great pounding approaching hastily in the smoke. Staring onward towards them, awaiting for the continuation of battle, resting the butt once more against his sore and aching shoulder.


Through the smoke comes a huge beast. With a thick skull baring head and eyes as black as death. Its single row of teeth featuring massive sabre like teeth. Its morbid paws protected with armor and armed with gruesome claws as big as a human hand that could kill with ease. Its back made up of putrid boils of pus and thick tentacles of abhorrent muscle tipped with more sharp bone. Skin like thick tough leather. A Dire Bear, big enough to topple the houses and barely big enough to pass under the gate, lets out the same distorted deep roar as before, rushing towards him. Dire Bears have been known to taken on a hundred men and slay every one of them, able to withstand humongous amounts of damage. Standing tall, taking aim for the apparent weak spots or gaps within his armor. He shoots once at his front left leg, seeking to disable its movement and make it an easier opponent, it deflects off the armour with a whirr. The second, deflects too. With his third bullet, he squeezes it in between the bone plates. It strikes a critical point, ripping some muscles fibres in it's upper leg before being stopped causing the behemoth to recoil in pain onto its hind legs as the pressure its weight creates immense pain on his weakened leg. The bear on its hind legs reveals its unprotected underbelly, exactly what he is hoping for. Quickly reloading and emptying the entire clip into his underbelly in specific points before loading another, hoping to hit its heart of lungs. The bear lets out a mighty freakish roar in pain, still on its hind legs stunned in pain. The next and final bullets were to be placed under his head and up through it. Waiting again, for the right moment to present itself. The target is a hard one, the beasts head moving and twitching wildly. Another long drawn out exhale, giving him focus on his target. His finger itches against the trigger, his hands sweaty under the wooden stock. One eye closed, the other down the iron sights. The humongous Dire still writhing in pain, bleeding from is penetrated underbelly. And like a light, there it shone. Squeezing the trigger and letting fly one more bullet.


The Morning after, the town attempts to recollect itself from the events that passed. Much damage was done by the fire which spread as a result of the devastation. Smoke still rises from the scorched remains. The people mourn the losses of those who died, as the dead are lined at the side of the street covered with blankets and sheets of cloth. Men, women, children, old, young. As they mourn, a sorrowful wind gently disturbs the dark blotched sheets, each body being adorned with a thin white delicate flower that is akin to a miniature tree with frail structure and tiny branches at its head, topped with the tiny white blossoms of the flower. A token of seeing of those that are longer with us, of happy reunions with loved ones who have already gone on before them and of the pureness of life, remembering who they once were. The tale told about that day is that the flowers were left by the phantom who stood against all odds. The Tale of a man who whispered to flowers.


When help soon arrived from the nearest town they say the ground was littered with them, not the Dire nor man, but the empty hollow brass casings someone left behind.