Army of the many faces
It was the sign that only the eldest of the city remembered and knew. Mist came floating down from that old castle that sat on top of the hill just outside of the town, watching over them like a volcano, ready to erupt. Long ago had the inhabitants of the town forgotten about the old stories and the dangers of what lurked below the old, abandoned castle.
Not Marcus, eighty years old he was the oldest in the town and considered to be among the eldest in the entire kingdom. Wisdom and old age was not common in the kingdom and since most people lived a hard life the average life expectancy was forty which made his old age even more spectacular. Marcus had spent his entire life trying to prevent what the mist signified for the town, approaching corruption. As his acolyte came into the house that Marcus still occupied, told him of the phenomenon that was playing out on top of the hill the old man went white as a ghost. Demanding to be dressed, the acolyte helping him to do so, they departed from the home.
In the town, there were a few people out already for their morning chores but as they saw Marcus coming walking down the road with a determination to his old, waddling stride they paused. Asking what got the old man out of his bed so early was met by a snarl from the old man and an aggressive comment about staying away.
“Now is not the time, bugger off.”
The two of them continued on their way, leaving confused townspeople behind in their wake. Eighty years of studies, eighty years of experience and eighty years of trying to prevent all of this. Marcus knew that this was what he had studied for, prepared himself for, for all his life. It was a slow walk that saw them winding their way through the town, a few of the confused people deciding to follow along on the journey. By the time that the entourage stopped at the gates of the town, the mist was thick and had enveloped much of the old castle, the old church and about half the graveyard. The buildings lay within the old part of town, the banished part of town that nobody except Marcus remembered why they weren’t supposed to go to.
“This isn’t good.” The old man said to the acolyte by his side and then, placing a hand onto the young boy’s shoulder, he continued. “I need you to run to the church, ring out the bell and tell everyone to hide in the mines underneath the town.”
Protests of leaving Marcus alone were met with a stern stare from the old man and the urgent repeat of the word “Run”. Disappearing into the small crowd and beyond, the young boy ran back into town and so Marcus turned to address the gathering now.
“We do not get a lot of time, head into the old mines, hide there. There is no time to answer questions, go.”
The tone was a solemn one at that, strong enough coming from Marcus that many of those near him sobered up from their morning drowsiness and headed back into town again. A few of the townspeople stayed around and started to ask curious questions, Marcus denied answers as he started the slow walk towards the growing mist. Nobody followed as Marcus disappeared into the ever-approaching mist. It didn’t take more than a few moments and it seemed that the mist had wrapped the man up in a blanket. Carrying Marcus into the unknown and into the unseen.
Perhaps it wasn’t the view of the approaching mist that was the worst part but rather the dead silence that it carried with it. Chickens had stopped clucking, cows stopped mooing and the sheep stopped bleating. Waves that usually came crashing into the sandy shores were nowhere to be heard any longer either, all that was left was silence. Whispers of death and whispers of eternal sleep was what the mist was promising.
Marcus felt how the rush of fresh air was flowing around his ancient bones and they were chilling him to the core but he was prepared. The old grandmaster of the order had clearly written down the rites that one needed to follow to secure the town from the approaching abomination. They were over five hundred years old, it had to work. The further inside of the mist that Marcus got the more he felt the stare of those that weren’t there, whispers of those that could not speak and the touch of those who had no touch. It seemed empty and desolate, almost like the mist of a rainstorm that pulls in from the sea in an early summers morning but in the distance the dark figure arose from the whiteness.
“Hello?”
Marcus called out. Echoes came bouncing back at the old man, whispers from every direction. “Hello?” “hello?” “Hello?” the whispers continued for a while before they started to die out and the silence settled around Marcus again. The figure hadn’t moved. Marcus decided to push on, heading for the dark figure that he had now spotted and although his stride was slow and his body old, he was making good progress on the figure. Calling out again. “Hellooo?” Marcus was hoping to get an answer from the one he was seeking but instead he was only enveloped in the whispers of echoes again, the mist seemingly reacting to his voice.
Suddenly, the mist that he was pulsating through became a glue, thick as something that he had never experience before in his life. Marcus came to a sudden stop. A low rumble went through the mist, like lightning had passed through it like a living organism and it seemed to reverberate with the sound of the past and those that had been. Whispers of inaudible conversations swirling around Marcus where he stood. In a field of white it was Marcus and the figure, like two odd flowers in an early spring meadow. Conversations died down with the movement of the figure in front of Marcus and the mist parted between them, revealing the ground for their conversation to fill.
Floating off the ground the ghostly figure raised its cowl slightly as the faces of several individuals were clearly visible to Marcus. Faces made visible to Marcus all carried different expressions of anguish and sadness or anger. With a uniformed voices of the ghosts that occupied this one being asked.
“What business does the living have here?”
The whispers started up, repeating the words all around Marcus as he stood before the figure, there was only one way to answer these questions, one proven way. Marcus knew.
“We come to sacrifice.”
A low howl went through the mist at these words, the figure, unmoved.
“What sacrifice do you offer?”
“What you seek the most, peace.”
Once again, the howl went through the mist but this time the figure slowly started over towards Marcus. Pausing a short distance from the old man the faces of the figure were closely inspecting the elder before them. Behind the figure the army of the many faces were slowly rising out of the solid mist, materialising before the very eyes of Marcus. Never before had he thought that he would live to see and save his town from the horror that the army could wreak on it.
“Peace is an illusion of the living.”
The words came from the combined figure and left Marcus not knowing what to say, it was never written down in the books. This was supposed to lead to the closing argument that he would put forwards, caring for the graves and their memories but this time they had stepped outside of the lines of the ancient teachings. Marcus had always assumed that what the book taught him would be what he needed but the ghosts before him was not playing it by the book.
“Peace is something we give, every season, to the graves of the lost.”
Marcus tried to explain to the ghosts. An army now stood behind the figure, the size of it incalculable as it stretched from either side of the white field to the other. Marcus stared at the ghosts in the figure before him as he made the plea.
“Spare our town, there are plenty more besides us, plenty more with more like us.” Marcus made a show out of this by running his hand down either side of his garments. “In return I promise you to care for each and every grave, like we have always done, like we shall always do.” That ought to work, it was the final sentence that one needed to utter to the ghosts to save the town from their horrors.
“Peace is futile. Living is weak.”
With those short words the scythe of the figure was raised and in the same instant it seemed to come from underneath Marcus to rip open his stomach. Shock and horror mixed together with the astonishment of what was going on as the scythe hit him, tearing him almost in two. A gasp for air and the figure moved a stride closer to Marcus, Marcus falling to his knees as he was counting his last breaths. No blood, no sound, no air, all of it was gone and as Marcus was taking his last precious sips of air the ghosts spoke one final time to him.
“We take, we feed, we destroy. Time of your race has ended.”
The last thing that Marcus knew was the spirits of the ghosts surrounding him, the mist suffocating him and the scythe tearing his entire soul from its foundation.
Old tales spoke of the army of the many faces, an army said to roam the world and cull the population in intervals. The tales spoke of a town near the old castle, across the sea that had at one time held the marauding army at bay, only to rely on their ways and have it destroyed completely. The Island on which the town had been located was considered dead territory for all the kings in the known world as both they as well as merchants steered clear of the island.
SPACER