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  The Uprising:

  Groundborn

  By: Scott Moore

  1

  Clunk! The sound of another head hitting the ground. The blood sprayed on the tops of Nov’s old, worn leather boots.

  “Crazy fuckers won't stop coming!”

  Foot beats silenced the yell. He pivoted, wielding the great sword above his head. The bastard of a sword, he had picked up from the littered ground. No telling who brought it into the battle, but he had every intention of leaving with it.

  The horse reared to its back legs in a single cry of panic, and then, it met its maker. The sword punctured up through its chest and pierced the poor creature’s heart. Its rider—a sore on the eyes—toppled onto the ground.

  A fall that should have crippled even a seasoned warrior, but these ugly creatures didn't even bother to act hurt.

  “You loathsome prick,” Nov yelled.

  Pulling the sword back from the lifeless corpse of the horse, he dashed forward. He used to bother with battle cries during these times, but his throat hurt from the strain. He had been fighting the never-ending horde for what seemed like days, but in all actuality, only hours droned past. When more blood than skin showed, it made it hard to judge.

  The creature raised its arm and took the brunt of the sword. The sword cleaved it from the body. The creature didn't even give him the satisfaction of a scream. Not a single show of pain. He ducked under the flying left cross. From experience, he knew a single stroke from that forearm could have been the end. The creatures didn't bring weapons into the fights. They used their never-ending numbers, their lack of pain, and the fear of men.

  He brought the sword up again. It grew heavier. Even his corded arms had trouble lifting the piece of pressed metal.

  “How many of you are there?”

  He ended another creature’s life. The beast fell to his feet and added another stain of blood upon his trousers. These pants were beyond a simple wash. A shame because they were his favorite and luckiest pants.

  “We need to retreat. It is just us left.”

  He turned. Earl, the captain of the guard, stood behind him. They started as a simple scouting, nothing more. They weren't supposed to meet resistance. They weren't supposed to be in a battle. He had even worn his walking boots. Now, the only boots he had were his war boots, and walking around town in them just wouldn't do.

  “They killed our horses,” he yelled back to Earl.

  They heard the stamp of more beasts coming across the plains. He looked up, seeing several stomping and brandishing their ugly yellow teeth.

  “Well, then we will walk,” Earl said and raised his sword.

  A dainty little number compared to Nov’s. But again, this one he had found. What weapon had he even brought with him?

  The creatures doubled in number as they watched. Then, tripled. Where did the bastards come from? He pulled the sword up to his shoulder, a struggle. It would be a miracle to kill a single of the gritty creatures. It would be an impossibility to kill them all.

  “We are going to die,” Nov yelled over to Earl.

  Earl shook his head. “You can die if you want, but I am going to live.” He let out a battle cry. The crazy bastard would run into the froth. He would bend his head and hope to keep it attached. Earl presented a better type of man.

  Earl had gained his spot as captain this way. It left one to wonder, just how the hell this man kept his head on his shoulders? No time to think on the answer. The creatures were upon them.

  Earl spun with his blade. He ducked and sliced, killing three of the drooling pests in quick succession. The little sword made things easier.

  Swinging this clunky piece was a chore, but it made up in weight, what it lacked in finesse. The creature’s heads parted from their bodies much cleaner, although it also left the shoulders burning and the lungs wanting for air.

  “Can't we just retreat?”

  A plea for mercy.

  Earl shook his head. “Not until you have all these fucker’s heads on that damn mammoth of a sword.”

  Not even a third of these creatures would fall before his arms gave out for good. Only pure fear that drove him onward. The line of sight left nothing to behold but more creatures charging.

  Earl still twirled. The man didn't even bother with real human attributes, like endurance. He kept moving and moving.

  The big sword reverberated in Nov’s hands. It hurt much more than a normal sword to block with, but if he didn't block, it would hurt much more than a simple stinger. The sword took another life, and more black blood coated his pants.

  How much longer until his own blood spilled? No time to think, just keep doing. Another swing, and another death. Keep pressing with the same results, only a hundred more times. Soon though, they would fight on an arena of dead corpses. Already his team was dead, left somewhere behind them; he and Earl, the only survivors.

  Someone had to survive. Someone had to warn the council. Would they even believe them? Unlikely they would believe him, so Earl had to stay alive. Anything else and the city would be swarmed. The creatures hadn't swollen this high in number in hundreds of years.

  The patrol party estimated that maybe they would kill three or four and then go home. A hunting expedition; something to keep the sword fresh. Few did battle drills anymore. Nothing to fight. Nothing to war with. Most swords were for show.

  Another parry and another kill. Out here, he was grateful that Earl never let him slack. Comforting as a nice bed would have been, only dirt stretched before him. Grooming. At least, Earl had called it grooming. Earl would outlast them all, so, grooming, for what?

  Earl let out a daring cry and stabbed another through the neck. One more down, only a blight left.

  The creatures were stupid. That, at least, benefitted them. If they were smart, this would be over. Then, his arms wouldn't hurt so damn bad. Thinking of it made it seem that a weight had been added to the sword. It seemed he held it much lower now. Not quite blocking the sharp claws, but more so, just stabbing at them before they could reach him.

  “Don't believe I can last much longer here.” He shouldn't have to beg. He should just drop the sword and run.

  “I will personally bury your corpse.” Earl offered a smile of encouragement.

  “I absolutely hate you.” Nov considered that a term of endearment, considering the images floating in his mind at the moment.

  Earl pushed through, into a crowd of more than a dozen foes. The things varied in size and shape. Usually only the small creatures came out. Ones that were about breast high and came with no regard, but sometimes, something different popped up. Sometimes they were double the size of men; giant bastards, with teeth bigger than a man’s forearms. Thankfully, today, it wasn't them.

  More creatures piled at Nov’s boots. He stepped over them, continuing to move forward. Wanting to run, and running were two different things. He envisioned running but stayed to fight. He would never convince Earl to run, but he would try.

  “We could tell the council. If we die, who warns them?” The constriction of his chest made it hard to speak. Why did a man's chest hurt so badly when he ran out of air?

  “Our corpses will tell them,” Earl replied.

  His sword moved like a dragonfly, it never stopped. Glancing off a pair of claws, Earl moved to the side and sliced again.

  “What if they eat us?”

  The creatures sometimes ate their victims, or at least Nov figured they did. Most of Nov’s knowledge came from pictures and books, long boring tomes. Most people didn't bother to read. Earl had insisted he did, p
art of the grooming.

  Grooming had come to an end, it seemed. Soon, one of these things’ claws would groom his head from his shoulders; one nice clean swipe. He didn't want to die by an accidental claw to the thigh. Slow and painful, not the way he envisioned his death. His death should be quick, no cry, no pain, just instant death.

  More body parts fell onto his pants. They were wet and sticky. He thanked the creator he didn’t have a soft stomach. While he killed, he didn't have time to think.

  He couldn't think about his clothes, or his dead comrades, or his own impending death. He had to think about the next move. They were coming much slower now, the moves, not the creatures. The creatures seemed unending.

  “Earl.”

  This time no reply. Not even a jest? Turning, he found saw no one else. Not quite alone, just a lack of other humans. There were plenty of things that wanted to kill him. He killed another one with a lucky stroke.

  Where did Earl go?

  “Captain?”

  He yelled it. No answer.

  “Earl, you fucking bastard!”

  Heart thumping, Nov’s sword skewered another creature. Earl couldn't be gone. He wouldn't run. He wouldn't hide. That meant he had to have pressed farther into the horde. Earl couldn't die out here. The city wouldn't survive without him. All that bullshit about grooming was just that, bullshit.

  The creatures were too much to handle. The sword dropped. He hadn't realized, but his arms were numb. His chest felt like it had caved in from lack of air. The end. Earl would get free, and everything would be okay. Nov’s time to die had come.

  The wind hit him in the back hard, he stumbled forward. White lines of light flew past him. They hit the creatures, and they fell like bricks from a wall. Everything around him froze. He fell to his knees. Waiting for death wore him out, so he sat down. Much easier to relax in preparation.

  It didn't come. Death evaded him. The horde thinned. They were leaving. Earl had done something, saved them. That crazy bastard. He scanned the battlefield. Hundreds of the creatures lay dead. Had they done that alone? Crazy to think.

  “Get up, your friend is injured.”

  Not Earl's voice. A woman’s voice. She had an unmistakable female body, even though a hood covered her features.

  “Who are you?”

  She didn't answer. She pointed. At the end of her finger, a hundred yards away lay Earl's body, limp.

  “Is he dead?”

  He couldn't be dead. He wasn't allowed to die.

  “Not yet, and not if you hurry.”

  One deep breath; then Nov shot back to his feet. Earl still breathed, but the gorge in his stomach would make that end soon. He felt like a boulder. His body was dead weight.

  “They took our horses.”

  They wouldn't make it back. Not in time, at least.

  The woman pulled him by the shirt and guided him toward a small mound. More bodies. Everything here was bodies.

  “Horses,” she said.

  It took a minute, but Nov’s vision cleared, and he saw them. Two horses behind the pile of death. They had one last shot. He hoisted Earl onto the horse. Not ideal, but nothing ever was in war.

  “Yah!” They put boots to the flesh of the horse and off they shot.

  Shrouded by darkness, light withered away

  Leaving nothing but evil creatures to play. [CF1]

  2

  Sweat soaked Miles’ skin under the armor. Fog loomed around him, heavy in the air. Hot and sticky; he pulled the hard leather from his neck. The small amount of air creeping down his chest mixed with the sweat beads; not much, but better than nothing. He began to run again. His footfalls mixing with the others around him. The clanging of metal against hip, as the swords bounced in their sheathes. They pulled up again. The hill bore the last remnants of the plains behind them. Ahead lay the dark city walls. They rose like the heavens. Dark gray and solid rock; much too high to climb. Much too high to be of any use at all to the rebel army beside him; he wiped his face again. The hard leather did not absorb the sweat dripping down his brow, but it at least diverted the path from his eyes.

  As they sat still, he noticed his breath labored. Even his better fitness didn’t save him from a little weariness. Coming from the king’s own army made him strong, and his youth made him spry, but the rolling plains behind him made him tired. The other men breathed heavy beside him. In moments, they would wield their swords; storming through the wooden gates of the city, but at the moment, they were all tired men.

  Whispers traveled back from the generals. They were watching the path of the scouts on the wall. Two minutes between passes. Barely enough time to sneak the front tip of the rebels inside the land before the wall. The rest of the army would be seen on the second pass. Nervous tension grew. He hoped the men didn’t become restless. None of the men wished to die, most were ordered here, only a quarter of the men even believed in the cause. He prayed under his breath that they did not flee. They stayed put, as the orders traveled back.

  Stay behind they said. The vanguard would breach the wooden doors. Then, with a sweeping vengeance, the city would be taken. He thought to himself again about why he stayed. Only a month before he sat behind these very walls. A cup of ale inside his freshly knighted hand. He had been promised the good life. A life of praise and wealth, and if all went to plan, he would have been a lord. Instead, it all went to hell, and here he stood sweating his weight off in droves outside the walls. In the shadows of the wealth and promise he had been given. Now he had a secondhand sword and stood with secondhand soldiers. Their only hope lay in the vanguard. If they could break those doors, then the rebels had a chance. If not, they were fresh pickings for the damn vultures come morning light.

  He spat on the ground. Riled with thoughts. If anything in his life went right, he hoped it happened tonight. He clenched his hands. Forgetting the sword at his hip. The only weapon worth having was a bloodied weapon, and even if he died, he planned to achieve at least that medium.

  The sound of marching echoed above him on the hill. That meant the vanguard moved. He started to count under his breath. They had two minutes to achieve purpose. Not a single man in the vanguard had a wit to spare. They would be lucky to find the door. He spat on the ground again. Then he stopped to think. They were headed by General Ryan Goosnel, and if anyone of them were fit to lead it was him. He had to place his faith, what little he had, in that man. If they were not all to be arrow fodder, then he was to be the savior. Ryan would die first. He had a great mind, but he was loud, and waved his sword around like a drunkard in a whore house. He would achieve his final goal; at least Miles hoped that would be the case.

  “One hundred seconds,” Miles whispered. He kicked the grass below his weather sodden boot. These boots had been worn by five or six others. Worthless rebels couldn’t even scrounge the gold for armor and boots. Why did he stay here outside these walls? He hoped again for the thousandth time in the past month that he hadn’t fucked everything up. One hundred and ten, still nothing. At least no one had cried in death. He finished at one hundred and twenty. Two minutes had passed. The guards would return any second. Now or never for the rebels. He realized he held his breath and let it out, slowly. Others beside him looked like they had seen their death in the crystal orbs of the future tellers. Shit, he thought, just the attitude for a regiment of fighting men. Maybe he should give up on it all. If he turned and ran now, maybe he could avoid an arrow to the skull.

  Then he heard it, the sweet sound of cracking wood. The bastards had done it; they achieved together what their pea sized brains would never have done alone. He drew in a deep breath. The ache of his muscles left him. This is what he had joined for. To kill those lying thieves inside the city walls; those men who had looked him in the eye and promised glory, but only paid in false promises.

  He grabbed for his sword. He would spill the red life of every man and woman who had thought him a fool. His arms shook with excitement. The time had come for retribution.
/>   The general paused for several moments. He could barely control his emotions. He felt this way before tournaments, the nerves running through his body, the lust for victory streaming through his veins. Even if he died now, he had shown those smug assholes. Hide behind the walls, but someday they will come tumbling down.

  The call came. The men beside him yelled gruff battle cries. He cared not a lick for a single man beside him. Only rebel in name, not a single friend amongst them. They had shunned him as a traitor; they were all traitors, but they deigned to push him into his own group. Without him they wouldn’t have the information they had now. They would all be smoking pipes and eating their rotten meat in their shitty camps, but he had given them the plans, not a single thank you. Did they even want to overthrow the king? They were only playing at a rebellion.

  He didn’t play though; his life had become nothing more than this. The smacking of boots echoed off the towering walls. He eyed them as they entered the doors. Peasants and merchants screamed, hiding their families under tarps and tents. The rebels lit them with torches.

  A man crossed his path burdened with the flames. No time to mourn the innocent. He pounded the pavement below his boots. These minor city dwellers were not his prey.

  Miles moved through the street. Darting around carts and people alike. He heard the nervous braying of the horses. He turned away from them. It would be no good to be trampled to death under hoof. He moved up the path. His feet felt the smooth pavement change under him. The cobble stone meant nobles, and the thoughts of running changed to thoughts of killing.

  Knights poured from their homes. He swung his sword taking the life of a young man without his mail. The sword pushed through his soft skin and halted at the thickness of his spine. He pulled the blade out. It glowed with the blood inside the moonlight; one down.

  He turned, meeting a sword in battle. Miles didn’t know the man, but he wore the colors of the house Jenson. Miles knew the lord of the house. The man had sat around the tables swilling ale, as the promise of his own manor was being made. A past dream. Miles needed to stay in the now.