Dark Reckoning by James Axler

The sec man rallied his strength and tried to walk. He had to warn the ville that invaders were coming! His vision was blurry, the brass bell shifting between a mile away and directly in front of him. He reached out to slap the clapper dangling underneath and touched only air. But it was so close! Or was it? Black dust, he couldn’t tell how far away it was, his vision was so bad.

Now two ghostly bells slid up and down before the dying man, and cold sweat trickled down his body. Forcing himself forward, the guard lunged for the bell and fell flat on his face, the granite feeling oddly warm and comforting against his cheek.

“Can’tdie” he said aloud, forcing himself to crawl on hands and knees. He couldn’t see the bell any longer. The world was tinged with red as if the daylight were fading. He had only moments to live. He knew that, but he’d die as he lived, protecting the ville and his baron. Raw fury fueled his strength, adrenaline pumping through his slowing heart. In ragged stages, the sec man stood and tried to draw his blaster, but the weapon clattered to the parapet, making no noise as it hit the stonework and bounced into the courtyard below. How could it not make noise? Black dust, he was already dead. The guard felt sick and lightheaded at the same time. A fog masked his sight, and he could sense his heart beating slower, and slower, inside his cold chest.

Grimly, the walking corpse lurched toward the edge of the wall when another arrow slammed into his chest, piercing his heart. Total silence engulfed the sec man, and he died never knowing if he reached the edge of the parapet or not.

THE COBBLESTONE STREETS of Front Royal were quiet. The market was closed, the children at home having dinner, the bars serving their first rounds, the gaudy house just opening its door for business. An old man was washing his hands in a horse trough, a sec man walking patrol whistled a tuneless song and a blacksmith banked the fires of her forge as a preparation for going home.

The blacksmith closed the doors of her shop and turned toward the tavern, already thinking of beer and bread when the body fell from the sky and slammed against the cobblestones with a sickening crunch, blood spewing from the mouth of the dead man from the impact. A cat screeched at the sight and dashed away.

“Shitfire!” a farmer shouted, dropping a sack of turnips and backing away in shock.

But the blacksmith glanced skyward, then rushed forward. Gingerly, she turned the dead man over and saw a familiar face. It was “Admiral” Peters, the sec man who couldn’t swim, but loved boats. The Admiral had arrows through the kidney and the heart, and his blaster was gone.

“Coldhearts!” the blacksmith bellowed at the top of her powerful lungs. “The ville is under attack! Sound the alarm! Coldhearts!”

People began to race for cover, a bell was beaten and soon the drawbridge was lumbering upward, a team of six strong men struggling to close the vulnerable door.

“FIRE!” Baron Henderson commanded.

The line of sec men launched another whistling flight of arrows at Front Royal. In the distance, another guard fell off the parapet of the ville, tumbling into the moat where he disappeared with a watery splash.

Picking his nose, Henderson smiled in delight. The baron had chosen this location with extreme care. It was a low ground swell with the setting sun behind their backs, making it difficult for the others to see them. And a few steps backward put them out of line-of-sight, making blasters useless. There were trees on either side to hide his men, and even a creek to water the horses. Henderson had no idea why Baron Cawdor would leave a spot like this open for invaders. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as Henderson had heard.

A picket line of sec men were spread out in a wide arc before him, the archers sending waves of arrows over the high stone wall of the ville. He wanted as many sec men dead as possible before the alarm was sounded, but then he wanted the alarm sounded as loudly as possible.