Heretic Blood

It was late afternoon when a boy named Arin woke up in his hideout. For a moment he didn't know where he was but he soon remembered, recognizing his surroundings. The few warm sun rays that had shone onto his face earlier had made him close his eyes and then he had been dozing off, just like that. Yawning in satisfaction he rubbed his eyes and stretched his sleepy limbs. The young boy had slept on an old and very holey blanket on the ground but this was still better than sharing the bed with his older sisters. They would always make him sleep on the side that was facing the window; the cold side, no, the freezing side.

The weather in Diobaith was pretty steady though. The winters were hard and cold, with tons of snow and ice but the summers were perfect – not too hot and not too humid. It was early autumn now and the nights were getting cold. So sleeping close to the window with your sisters occupying almost the whole blanket guaranteed a short night’s sleep and very early mornings for the eight year-old boy. That’s why Arin despised his sisters even more; a healthy disdain only siblings shared.

Seeing that it was getting late he stood and brushed out his clothes that his mother had sewed for him. In fact, his mother sewed all their clothing, as well as cloaks and blankets. Only their shoes were made by Torril, the old saddler down in the village. They had to be very careful when they had to wear them. These shoes had cost Arin’s parents a fortune. Everything they owned was either handmade or expensively bartered. That’s why every possession was a little treasure.

As much as Arin loved their small house, his family and friends, he also enjoyed being by himself in this secret place. It was like a little shack; only made of the branches of the surrounding bushes and young trees. Arin had found this hidden place when he had again ran from the town bullies Finley, Niall and Loughlin. They always messed with the younger and weaker ones, including young Arin. It hurt him and his ego a lot, especially when his father told him to man up and stand up to them. The boy’s little heart broke every time he was too scared and rather ran and hid from the three culprits than fighting them. Arin wanted his father to be proud of him but to the boy he was failing over and over again.

All of this was forgotten though when he spent time at this hidden place that he called his castle. Arin had tied the ends of the branches together and had planted additional seeds that had grown into young trees to cover and stabilize the sides. The bundled leaves on the young branches as well as the broad treetops above it kept the place dry but let it enough light and sun rays to make it cozy and comfortable. The while creation was merging into its surrounding so only the knowing eye could find it.

Arin had found an old hollow root at one end of the hideout. That’s where the boy now placed the neatly folded blanket to keep it from getting wet. Arin was very proud of this little castle that he had built with his own small hands. With one last proud look at his creation he turned around and left to run home, smiling brightly. He jumped over rocks and carefully shuffled over the moss-grown trunk of the fallen tree that was now acting as a bridge over an ice cold stream before Arin climbed the hill that adjoined the woods.

Standing on that hill, feeling the fresh breeze hitting his face and messing with his medium brown hair, Arin felt like the king of Diobaith. With his eyes closed he spread his arms wide open and soaked in the last bit of warmth coming from the setting sun. Chuckling he opened his eyes again but what he saw as he turned towards Chandywllyn, the village he called his home, drained him of all happiness and fear crept up his spine instead.

Black billows of smoke rose to the heavens, chasing the innocent white clouds away from their spot in the sky. The fresh breeze was blown away and replaced by a bitter, burning scented wind that also brought horrified screams to Arin’s ears. His green eyes widened in horror as he saw more smoke rising to the sky. What was going on?

Quickly he made his way over the next two hills and hurried along the fenced pastures for the horses of Carro, the miller. He climbed over a small bridge that led over the mill creek to the house. That’s when the screams got louder. Women screamed from the top of their lungs as they ran for their lives, their children up in their arms. The winged livestock was flying around, making them trip. War cries and evil laughter were filling the blackened air while the sound of clashing metal was indicating heavy fighting.

Arin took a quick turn and scurried around the wooden mill to the spot between the wooden walls of the mill and the wheel but what he saw made his blood run cold:
The church was blazing fiercely. The flames ate away the dry wood and straw, filling the air with its burning ash. But the image that burned itself into the boy’s mind was the limp body that was nailed to the cross on top of the flaming inferno. Arin couldn’t take his eyes off that horrifying picture. He could see three thick feathered quarrels sticking outfits naked chest; the ends already burning, just like the human flesh. Anything else had been burned by an instant.

An ear-piercing scream snapped Arin’s attention to a group of brutal looking men that pulled a girl by its hair into their mid. The boy knew her but feeling the grip of ice cold fear around his heart he couldn’t recall her name. More screams of fear and murder snapped his attention back and forth, showing him the total vast of merciless and enjoyed brutality. More houses caught on fire, men on horses and on foot destroyed and killed everything in their way. The smoky air was filled with the scent of burning flesh, boiling blood and death.

“Gather around, you chicken-livered piece of shits!” A loud and harsh voice barked over the turmoil of destruction. Arin found that it belonged to a tall man with very muscly arms. He had black hair and his sword as well as most of his leather armor was drenched in the blood of the people Arin had grown up with. Next to his fear, anger and hatred rose in the small heart of the eight-years old boy. That man had killed people he respected and held dear but too strong was the fear, too tight the grip onto his limps. Almost instantly a group of around ten scary-looking and blood thirsty men gathered around their leader.

“We've been nice enough! Now bring me the women and girls. RIGHT NOW!” The guy hollered in his rage. Nearly choking on his fear Arin watched women and girls, no matter their age, being dragged to the well in the center of the village by the brutal hands of those animals. Fearful, their faces and clothes smudged with dirt, blood and soot, they held onto each other.

Suddenly, one of the woman being dragged to the group by her long copper colored hair managed to dig her fingernails deep into the soldier’s arm. He cried out in pain and turned to kick her in the gut but she grabbed his leg, making him trip. She wiggled free and started to run for her dear life. To his horror Arin saw the offender grabbing his crossbow. He put the thick quarrel in and draw a bead on the running woman. Arin nearly screamed out loud when he saw the bolt shooting off but luckily he missed her. Just in time, her copper flames disappeared into the dark shadows of the approaching night.

“Fuck!” He cursed and threw the crossbow onto the ground.
Arin’s heart was hammering in his chest and he was sure that the warriors could hear him in his hiding place. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to keep himself from making any unwanted noise. He had to make sure that his mother and sisters weren't among the prisoners and so far it was looking good.

Instead he watched the man that was obviously in charge of this terrible and horrifying action walked up to the still fuming soldier. He seemed calm and not mad at all that one of the prisoners had slipped through their grip. Arin was expecting words of understanding when he saw something sharp flash in the leader’s hands.

The blood-scream pierced through marrow and bone. Although the burning houses and barns were lightening the night Arin had difficulties to see what the leader threw into the flames. But realization hit him hard in the face when he saw the soldier clutching his bleeding crotch as he first dropped to his knees and then his side.

“Useless son of a bitch.” He spat onto the man’s face and turned away. He didn't seem to be bothered by the sustaining screams.

“The order is clear! Bring me every bitch of this shitty piece of rotten ground! No more runaways or I personally make you suck your own fucking dicks!” He hollered once more and the men hurried away, splitting up into small groups to search the grounds.

That’s when Arin found his courage. He had to find his family, to make sure they were safe and hidden. He crawled out of his hideout and ran as fast as he could back onto the hill to take a short cut. But being the ignorant fearful boy he was he hadn't noticed that someone had been watching him from the beginning.

His piercing blue eyes had been spotting the boy the moment he had hurried down the hill towards the mill. Nothing could ever escape his watchful eyes. He was the watcher, the one that saw things before they even noticed that they were spied on, the one that kept a watchful eye on his comrades.

A subtle nod into the kid’s direction and the hooves of five huge studs blew up the dust as they galloped after the little boy. The ground beneath Arin’s feet was shaking. He could hear the clattering of metal armor and swords being pulled out of their sheaths. He wasn't really sure but it seemed like he could feel the hot breath of the black horses; huge beasts carrying the living nightmares of Diobaith.

“Father! Father, they are here! The Dark Knights are coming!”Arin screamed from the top of his lungs when he saw the grey outlines of the small house his family lived in. But there was no fire lightening the rooms. It was dark, the whole place was dark.

“Father! Help!” The boy could feel his legs giving up on him. He was more stumbling than running now. Tears were blurring his vision and made it even harder to see in the deepening darkness of the night. They mixed with the snot that was running down Arin’s nose.

He didn’t want to die. Not now, not ever and especially not like this. He had dreams. He had plans. Arin was praying to God to help him, to give him a little bit more strength to push forward but the only push he received was coming from a huge hammer. The hilt of the massive weapon hit the back of the boy’s head, knocking him off his feet.

Arin face planted onto the dirty road right in front of his house. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t scream. He saw many horse legs coming to halt a few feet away from him. A warm liquid was running down the back of his neck. With his eyes wide open in fear and pain Arin saw heavy black boots with iron fittings hitting the ground.

The sound of their bloody spurs rang in his ears but before he could say or do anything a glowed fist knocked him out.

Notes