A PACT OF ECHOES
Fantasy Micro-fiction
The ashen-faced scout slipped from his mount, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The trail stopped here. He dared not take his horse further. A bronze amulet, a superstitious heirloom passed through ten generations, hummed against his chest. Above the crest, he heard the buzzing of tiny wings too numerous to count. He held the reins tight and ran a calming hand down the steed’s neck. Chestnut ears pointed to the hill. His horse reared up. Eyes bulged and tongue flailed. The leather reins tore from his grip as his mount bolted. He cursed under his breath.
Crouching low he dipped under crooked branches and moved forward. The terrible, endless sound crashed against his soul with each step, reaching a crescendo as he reached the apex. He freed his blade from its sheath, parted leaves then looked down.
Thousands of flies covered the clearing, spilling over into defensive ditches. Beneath the undulating sea of glistening black, the ground was stained crimson. Scattered amongst the glade rose lumps of what he assumed were the enemy troops he was tracking. Horses and men formed a shattered ring of defiance against an enemy that left not a trace. Crows watched from a distance, unwilling to feast on this bounty. The amulet hummed.
His legs moved on their own and soon tiny exoskeletons collapsed under his leather sandals. The scout's throat tightened briefly as he reached the centre. Like the going out of the tide, the sea of black receded to reveal twenty men, with weapons drawn, who died fighting an enemy that left no track. He stood on a dais of stone, carved in the image of the amulet around his neck. He clutched it. Childhood nightmares came flooding back. Sweat dripped from his temples.
The buzzing changed pitch. He spun to see a mass of flies in the figure of a man. It shambled forward. He raised his sword. The rattle of wings reached a fever pitch and started to form words. “Summoned...finally...”
“No,” his voice was barely a croak.
“Demicus...son...of...Orcus...” a glistening black arm reached out to Demicus.
The sword shook in his hand as this, thing, rattled off the names of his forefathers. He lunged forward and sliced the arm off. It crashed to the ground and exploded into a mindless frenzy. The arm reformed as more names were proclaimed.
“Son...of...Morcus...” A twisted smile formed on the blank face. The buzzing changed pitch. “Speaker...of the...pact.”
“No,” Demicus shook his head. “They were just nightmares. No.”
“The...tenth son...promised.”
The amulet around Demicus' neck tore from its chain and slammed flat on the dais. A black hand gripped his face. He gagged as millions of tiny feet probed his throat. His body writhed as he drowned in the ocean of flies. Darkness enveloped.
On his hands and knees, Demicus raised his head to find himself still in that cursed grove. His body rose and looked at flexing hands. That twisted smile.
His mind screamed as he walked away.
‘A Pact of Echoes’ was a submission for Queensland Writers Centre's “Right Left Write’s” Monthly writing competition with the Theme ‘Fantasy’ with a word limit of 500.