Tails - Heads

“This is what we’ve resorted to? Necromancy?” 

Corinth stood just inside the threshold of an inner chamber of the underground bunker. Sconces were lit along the stone walls. The air was stale, musty. 

In front of him, on his knees in front of a stone slab, was Colo. The slab was sideways over a buried stash of tools and rolled parchment. Laid out on the ground was a dagger, leather-bound book, and several candles. 

It was hardly midnight. The bunker was closed for the night hours ago, with guards posted at each entrance and exit. A strategy meeting had lasted longer than anticipated and the discussion caused Corinth to have another sleepless night. 

Colo looked at his comrade sideways. “Shut the door.” 

Not that Corinth was one to take orders, but he didn’t want to raise alarm through the bunker. He pushed the iron door closed and latched it. 

“I came to speak to Orcus,” Corinth gestured to the looming stone-carved statue taking the majority of the space in the room. Its wings were half unfurled and a mace was gripped in its left hand. “But it seems you have other plans. Ones you didn’t share with me.” 

“We have run out of time.” 

“We are running out of time,” Corinth hissed and stepped forward. “We still have options we have yet to exhaust.” 

“Do you not see the world around you? We were stronger at the beginning, when we had the upper hand. All of our spies have been exposed and have either returned to us or been killed.”

“And those that we have lost were a large hit. Are you forgetting they did not die without a cause? Callus successfully silenced one of the generals and twenty four soldiers before dying at their gate.” 

“I forget nothing.” Colo growled, his fingernails turning to dig into his palm. 

“This is not the way, Colo. We can eradicate them without this.”

“Tell me, then, of the brillant plan you have.” 

Corinth stood silent. The toe of his shoe scraped along the trodden ground. Shadows advanced and retreated along the edges of the room. Colo nodded once and resumed his search of the contents under the slab. 

“What do you wish to do?” Corinth asked as he knelt down to inspect the writing of the parchment. 

“We have tried several strategies. Abushes, betrayal, silent murders. Direct approaches, hells, we rushed to meet them on the sea when we outnumbered their ships. We still lost that battle. We need someone versed in war. I want their heads on spikes, each one of them.” 

“Who do you propose?” 

Colo met his companion’s eyes. “Micriel.” 

Besides Corinth’s sharp intake of breath, there was silence in the room. Dirt fell from a tree root protruding through a crack in the wall. 

Colo gathered the tools on the ground and packed them into the satchel. His hands shook as he slid the stone slab back into place. Corinth watched him stand. There was dried blood on his tunic. He wasn’t sure where it came from. 

The pair exited the room, bolting it back into place. Only officers had access to its contents. The alchemy room down the hall had various herbs and ingredients often used to make potions and explosives. Colo pocketed dried leaves, a bat wing, and a few frog legs. In the kitchen he grabbed a bottle of wine.

The guards didn’t question them when they exited the main gate. They reported no movement in the night and asked if they could escort them. Colo said no, and kept walking. 

Corinth knew their next destination before it came into view. The stables. A goat was born early yesterday morning, a male. He watched the dagger split the skin around his neck apart and blood drip through Colo’s fingers. 

After the goat’s head was severed, Colo brought it to a field on the outskirts of their camp. The majority of their organization was underground and scattered throughout the country. Their actual grounds were not known despite being an organization for centuries. It was just recently they became more active. 

The wind and trees were silent as Colo stuck his finger in the flowing blood from the goat’s head. He drew a circle on the ground the diameter of a boulder, then nine spikes throughout it. 

In the peak of each spike he placed an object. The dried leaves, a set of three candles, the bottle of wine, the goat’s head, a priest's severed finger, one of the rolled parchments, the dagger, a prayer book, and a strip of women’s hair. 

He stood in the center of the circle with the leather-bound book in hand. 

“You have chosen for us all,” Corinth said. 

“I have.” 

Colo read the pages in depth. The moon crawled across the sky. 

“Why this route?” Corinth asked. 

“They must die. We must prevail. That is how it has always been, that is how it shall be. We have slept in crypts and catacombs for too long. They call us the Shadows of the Night, but we will bring light to the night they are so afraid of.” 

Colo breathed in. 

His chant started, soft at first. Then it became louder, more urgent. His words blended together in an ancient tongue known only to one family. Colo was the last of that family, and he had no children of his own. 

The wind picked up, chilling Corinth to the bone. The book in Colo’s hands pulsed. He collapsed to his knees in the center of the circle. His voice still rang out clear. 

A scream protruded from his throat, a sound that mixed with yet was separate from his own chanting. 

His head hung low. Voice silent. A hum grew into a laugh. He stood, prouder than he had moments ago. He swiveled to meet Corinth’s gaze. 

“Welcome, Micriel,” Corinth dipped his head. 

“Ah, so I did fall to those lowly scum.” He said in Colo’s voice. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” 

He surveyed his new body, “So, tell me. Why have I been brought back here?” 

“The Revolutionary Army is in dire straits. We thought we were stronger but are failing when it comes to strategy. Slavery has consumed the country.” 

“Damn,” Micriel spat. “Who leads?” 

“His name is Acala. He was a freed slave adored by many. He liberated an entire island, but he has become overwhelmed.” 

Micriel smiled. “Wake him. We have work to do.”

HEADS

“They’ve raised Micriel.” 

Luci and Mastema sat eating a breakfast of bread, cheese, and fresh chicken eggs at the table on the balcony. The three empty chairs facing them cast long shadows across the stonework. The rising sun at Luci’s back shrouded her face in shadow as she responded. 

“I’m surprised they had someone amongst their ranks skilled enough to complete the ritual.” 

A servant scurried onto the balcony with a bowl of yogurt to scoop into the waiting bowls on the table. Silence ensued until she had retrieved the soiled utensils and returned inside. They knew better than to let any secrets out with attendants around. 

Mastema lazily sucked on a spoon and looked at the field that expanded from the mansion. “It was their last effort in this war. We are getting close to putting an end to this bloodshed.” 

“Yes, but not close enough.” 

Luci sighed and pushed her plate away. She extended her fingers, letting the sun’s rays hit the jeweled rings on them. “My family has long suffered at their hands.” 

“No King or Queen has ruled a peaceful country while they’ve occupied it.” 

“No civilian has known a just rule. They feel they must choose a side to fight alongside, though not choosing can be worse for them still. Is it so wrong to ache for my people to not need to choose?” 

“It is what we all want.” 

Luci stood, signaling for the awaiting servants to stand clear. She led Mastema from the balcony down a carpeted corridor. On either side were pictures in heavy frames. Depictions of families, stills from previous battles in this war, heroes that stood high above all. 

“If they resorted to raising Micriel they must be on their last legs. I have decided it’s time for us to match their rashness.” 

Mastema nodded her understanding, “The one who defeated him was Hetes, at the battle of Red River.” 

“You know your history well.” 

Luci paused next to a frame near the end of the hallway. It showed a man in torn clothing holding two short swords. At his feet was a crumpled corpse. 

“Micriel launched an attack in the dark of night. Cowardly. A trait that has passed through their ranks to this day. Hetes took his life, ending their desperate onslaught. It was a fierce battle between the two and Hetes took heavy injuries.” 

She continued walking, descending the stairs at the end of the hall. The air grew cooler as they went down many floors to the basement. Torches lit the walls as the pair stopped in front of two guards and a closed iron door. They bowed at the waist, unlocked the door, and held it open. One followed them over the threshold. 

“The child,” Luci looked at the guard. 

He grunted his understanding and led them further into the room. Locked cell doors lined one side. The captives inside lunged, swore, and spit as they walked by. The guard stopped at the third cell from the end and peered through the bars. 

A mother sat with her child, a teenage girl, playing cards. She saw Luci and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she whispered to her daughter, hugged her, and placed her hands in her lap. 

The guard unlocked the door and ushered the daughter out. 

“What have I done?” The girl cried as he grabbed her arm. 

“You are paying for the crimes your mother committed.” Mastema locked the cell door. 

“I’m innocent!” 

“I know,” Luci turned away, toward the door at the far end of the cells. 

It led to the guard room, and past that the courtyard. Soldiers were drilling on the packed earth. They ended their training sessions when the three emerged. 

More took notice, or were told, of the event. They come out to line the upper walls, watch from atop barrels, kneel in the grass and dirt. 

Mastema detached herself from the group and exited the courtyard. While she was gone, Luci took the ring off the second finger of her left hand. The top popped open to reveal a needle underneath. Luci ran it down her forearm until a red line oozed with blood. She stuck her finger in, knelt down to the dirt, and drew in the dirt. 

When Mastema returned with a burlap sack a perfect circle and nine points were drawn in the courtyard. A soldier was wrapping cloth around Luci’s bleeding arm. Mastema laid out the contents of the sack while the girl whimpered from where she watched from the side. 

An item was placed in each point. Dried leaves, a set of three candles, a bottle of wine, a priest’s severed finger, a rolled parchment, a dagger, a prayer book, and a strip of men’s hair. 

Luci turned to the girl. The guard released her arm and shoved her forward. Her feet stumbled, but she caught herself from falling on the perimeter of the circle. Luci’s eyes bore into her until both her feet were inside the ninth point. 

Then the chanting began. 

Mastema circled the courtyard, her voice coming out in harsh rasps. A man stepped forward from the rows of onlookers. He was tall, taller than most, with muscles hardening his chest and arms. He showed no hesitation as he walked across the dirt and stepped over the blood-drawn circle to the center. Luci drew a dagger from her sleeve and held it out to him. 

The girl quivered from her point on the circle. Luci left the man and picked the dagger up off the ground from a neighboring point. The girl let out a cry as Luci grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back, holding the knife to sit against the curve of her throat. 

The man in the center of the circle knelt to one knee. Mastema’s chant continued. 

Luci dragged the dagger across the girl’s throat. She dropped dead in the bloody point. At the same time, the man sunk his own blade into his belly. Luci placed the dagger in its original point and stepped away. 

Mastema’s chant quieted as the man’s body slumped to lay still in the dirt. After a moment of pure silence, where some of the onlooking soldiers didn’t ever breathe, the man in the center of the circle twitched. 

Luci smiled, “Welcome, Hetes.” 

He stirred and sat upright. Looking around he saw the circle, objects in the points, and the dead girl. Only then is when he looked down at his own body. 

“How clever of you. Sacrificing an innocent and a body to bring me back.” 

“Micriel has been resurrected as well,” Luci stood in front of her people. 

Hetes hissed, “That rat refuses to burn.” He dragged his gaze across the courtyard. “How long have I been dead?”

“A few centuries.” Mastema said, somewhat quietly. 

He drew himself to his full height, pulling the dagger out of his belly as he did. It oozed blood down his new body. He tossed it aside and thrusted his hand forward to grasp Mastema around her neck.

“Yet those cockroaches still live under our shoes like the dung they are?” He growled. 

She gasped and pawed at his fingers. 

“Revolutions are meant to be killed, snuffed out before they can reach all corners of the realm. We govern by birth right. They get picked by a few people with voices and consider themselves leaders.” 

Mastema faded, growing limp, until he dropped her to slump on the outskirts of the circle. 

“If you could come with me, Hetes. We could use your expertise in exterminating these people for good. It is time my people followed me without question.” 

Luci turned away from the circle, and Mastema. Hetes tutted and looked after her. The soldiers parted to allow her through, making a path to one of the outpost towers. After a moment, Hetes followed her into the tower.