Scriber by Ben S. Dobson Read Free Book Online

alert—those figures in the darkness would fall upon Waymark without warning.
    “They’re coming,” I tried to say, but it came out as a croak, unheard amid the commotion in the village, and the figures in the shadows were getting closer.
    “They’re coming .” Not loud enough, but better; a real voice issued from my mouth. The shadowy forms were nearly at the line of homes now; they would be upon the village in moments.
    “ They’re coming! ” I screamed. And that was loud enough. I wrenched my arm up, pointing into the dark. The ringing of some twenty weapons being drawn at once echoed in my ears.
    “I see them!” a woman yelled; one of Bryndine’s, a voice I did not recognize.
    “With me! Protect the villagers!” I heard Bryndine command. “For the Promise!”
    One of the dark forms lurched forward into a sprint, charging directly at me; the others followed closely behind, swarming into Waymark. As the first man entered the light, I almost thought I knew him—he looked like Josia’s husband Hareld, and for a moment I hoped that these were not the rebels at all. But the man brandished a heavy axe in his hand, and he was closing on me swiftly.
    I could not move. My mind screamed for my body to stand and run, but all I could do was stare in horror at the man who was moments from ending my life. I squeezed my eyes closed, waiting for the blow to land.
    Metal crashed on metal, and my eyes snapped open again. Bryndine Errynson towered before me, the Burner’s axe recoiling from her heavy round shield. She did not flinch, though her shield arm was badly wounded, and I could hardly believe she was not crying out in pain. She had said she might need to use the arm, though I had told her it would be foolish—I thanked the Mother and the Father that she had not listened.
    She swung her sword in a vicious riposte that tore almost entirely through the man’s neck. I flinched, expecting to be spattered with hot blood, but none came. Though his neck yawned open grotesquely, the man barely bled at all as he slumped to the ground.
    “Find cover, Scriber!” Bryndine barked over her shoulder, sprinting towards the oncoming attackers. They poured through the gaps between homes now, outnumbering Bryndine’s women three to one or worse. Yet they made almost no sound; no battle cries, no grunts of pain or effort. I could still hear the whispers in my head, but their mouths did not move.
    I did not seek cover. My body still refused all commands as I stared at the near-headless man at my feet. The lack of blood from his wound somehow made it worse; it was unnatural, against everything I had ever learned. I remembered where the whispers had come from in my dream: hundreds of men and women, naked and bearing awful wounds that did not bleed. Finally a slow, thick flow of dark red blood—nearly black—oozed from the gaping hole at the end of the man’s neck. A warm, sticky pool began to spread, seeping under my hands and beneath the seat of my pants, and I almost cried with relief.
    The man’s head had fallen at an awkward angle, pulling against the thin flap of skin and muscle that held it to the body, and with a sudden motion, it flopped onto its side. Dead, empty eyes seemed to stare directly at me. There was no doubt now—it was the face of Hareld Kellen. A single thought raced through my mind: that explains why he was late coming home. With a hysterical giggle, I vomited the contents of my stomach onto the blood-soaked ground.
    I sank into a terrified trance then, watching the fight unfold as though it were a performance acted out with marionettes. None of it felt real. The noises of battle were muffled, indistinct; I could see weapons clanging together and people screaming, but in my ears there was only a dull muddle of sound. All I could hear clearly were the whispers from my dream: “ All will burn… We will have vengeance… ”
    The villagers fled into the homes on the other side of the road while Bryndine and