Beyond Night

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Welcome to Crystal Lake Publishing—Tales from the Darkest Depths.

Copyright 2018 Crystal Lake Publishing

All Rights Reserved

Property of Crystal Lake Publishing

Cover Art:

Ben Baldwin—www.benbaldwin.co.uk

Layout:

Lori Michelle—www.theauthorsalley.com

Edited by:

Monique Snyman

Proofread by:

Tere Fredericks

Jan Strydom

Sue Jackson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

OTHER NOVELS BY CRYSTAL LAKE PUBLISHING

The Third Twin: A Dark Psychological Thriller by Darren Speegle

Blackwater Val by William Gorman

Where the Dead Go to Die by Aaron Dries and Mark Allan Gunnells

Beatrice Beecham’s Cryptic Crypt by Dave Jeffery

Aletheia: A Supernatural Thriller by J.S. Breukelaar

Sarah Killian: Serial Killer (For Hire!) by Mark Sheldon

The Final Cut by Jasper Bark

Pretty Little Dead Girls: A Novel of Murder and Whimsy by Mercedes M. Yardley

Or check out other Crystal Lake Publishing books for more Tales from the Darkest Depths.

Other titles by Eric S. Brown

Monster Hunt

Mecha

Kaiju Wars

Kraken

Other titles by Steven L. Shrewsbury

Philistine

Born of Swords

King of the Bastards (with Brian Keene)

Last Man Screaming

"In their castle beyond night

Gather the Gods in Darkness,

With darkness to pattern man’s fate.

The colors of darkness are no monotonous hue-

For the blackness of Evil knows various shades,

Full many as Evil has names."

Karl Edward Wagner

PREFACE

Blood across the stone slab, blood flying in the air, August saw nothing righteous in this place of worship.

Dismemberment didn’t evoke nightmares in August Arminius, Decurion of the Ninth Roman Legion. As a youth, he’d seen tribal leaders in his Germanic homeland chopped to pieces, either in clan warfare or by the encroaching Roman forces from afar. Once, in Iberia, he witnessed an attempt to pull a man apart using four horses, but that operation came off hitched when one animal failed to run at an equal speed to his kindred. Never, though, had August watched an arm being ripped loose from a living man. Sliced off with a sword at the mid-bicep or chopped crudely free with an axe, yes. The sight of one of his auxiliaries shoved against a standing slab in the stone circle, pinned at the waist by the huge foot of a monstrous shape and then having his sword arm torn out of the socket would stick in August’s mind for all time.

August found that he couldn’t blink, couldn’t move, nor even shout and alert the others in the scouting party near the border of Caledonia. Though the soldier being mutilated raised his shield in defense, a swiping blow by the figure in the murky time before twilight downed this action. August’s mind struggled to reconcile what his eyes told him: That a shape taller than any man, even a warrior from his native lands, bearing a halo-like outline of white haze, dominated the scout before him. Froiz was that scout’s name—or Flores as they called him back in his Spanish homeland that the Romans absorbed him from.

Just a kid, August thought as the young fighter struggled on and bled badly. Barely twenty years old. How does a twenty-year-old bleed well?

The shape towering over young Froiz—a being from a nightmare, surely not a man—gave the auxiliary soldier a roundhouse shot to the face with the dismembered arm. That blow sent Froiz’s helmet flying and it bounced off a nearby stone pillar. August saw a host of birds, blacker than night, fly from this stone as the helm flew. As the cloud of birds separated, they revealed two human forms behind them in the woods. The dying cries of Froiz didn’t make these grim folk of the woods smile. August named them as Picts, having the skin and reddish black hair of a breed of savages that lurked by the thousands in Caledonia. One was a tall man, his hairline far receded, and a flowing white robe about his shoulders that seemed to mate up with his long ivory beard. Beside him stood a boy of just a shade over ten years of age, clad in a robe similar to the old man, but brown in color. They watched the further dying throes of Froiz as he staggered and fell over a vertically laid stone slab. The blood of the Iberian pooled for a moment just before Froiz fell off it. August thought he slipped, but soon noted the bearded man’s hand ran red in the moonlight, and that his touch had guided him to the earth. These two figures showed no fear at the sight of the hairy monster in the deep night.

Again, August couldn’t warn the two soldiers that rode up to the stone circle on horses. He wanted to scream that a monster skulked amongst the stones and that the robed boy from the woods had retrieved Froiz’s cover and flung it almost playfully their way. The two soldiers halted as the helm came to rest before them. August could only watch as the creature, certainly a hellish beast belonging in a fireside tale to scare children, charged howling at the two men from August’s cavalry group. Arms out like a bird ready for flight, the massive thing went after the horses and slammed its forearms into their necks, up under their heads. August heard the sickening pops as bones broke, but his eyes beheld in amazement as the horses reared back, toppled by the strength of the beast, and sent the two men out of their secured positions.

He wanted to fight, wanted to draw his gladius, wanted to call on the spearmen and archers to move in and aid their brothers in arms, but he couldn’t.

As the creature attacked the two prone men, August saw the foul form clearer in the diffuse morning light. The miasma that surrounded the thing wasn’t anything supernatural nor endowed by the gods with spirit. The white haze was fur.

One soldier’s helm had rolled off him. He’d probably undone his chin strap and been lazy as he rode in the night. It cost him dearly as a falling white furred paw sent him to see if there were any gods out there or not. The helm of the other soldier didn’t help him, though, as the beast used both hands to slap either side of his head and render the Legion short one more man. Once the clubbing blows of the ivory beast pulped each soldier’s head, the fright on two legs turned to look in August’s direction. August came to understand why he couldn’t act. When the blue eyes of the creature focused on him, pupils growing smaller, August tore his look from that scene back to where the two men from the forest stood by the stone slabs.

His heart ached as the two savages froze in place like the world ceased to let time go by. Their features flattened like they took on the attributes of a two dimensional sketch . . . and they dissipated like a thousand leaves shaking loose from a tree. In moments, the two figures were no more, but in their stead, further back in the woods, like true lingering shadows of these men stood two more shapes. However, these two were female in profile, but akin to the others of the woods in that they wore robes and one was an aged woman with a girl in tow who looked over ten years old.

The beast howled and August sat up at last.

Dreams, damn them.

He reclined on his bedmat in the morning trying to make sense of it all. Within his tent amongst the encamped Ninth Roman Legion, August sucked his breath in fast. Head throbbing, sweat soaking his face, the big man clutched the sides of his head as the images swam fast within. He breathed deep once, then several times shallow.

Just a dream, the words fell out, but louder than he planned when his mouth opened. Though a warm summer morning, chills tremored across his body. But Froiz rode out with the scouts, didn’t he? Damn. He thought of the men that went north the previous day to scout, and wondered why he’d dreamed such a wild thing. To fear those priests of the oaks—yes, that came naturally after what they’d all seen of the Celts in the south and heard yarns about for ages. Often, he and others spotted the ones they named Druids in the forests, watching and holding branches, staring . . . and seeming to disappear back into the green. August didn’t think it magick, just good placement, but he’d not have wanted to ride in after one of those wizards, either.

Decurion? a voice called out from outside his tent flaps. Sir?

It’s all right, Rufus, August croaked, measuring his breaths again, his body calming from the nightmare that felt so real he could smell the beast inside it. That dank odor curled inside his nose for some time afterwards, like a rude fecal scent mingled with heavy sweat.

Still, the head of the slave not yet fifteen years old poked through the flap. Sir? You were trying to cry out in your rest. What ails you?

August faced the young man, his servant, a boy enslaved by the Romans from southern Britain since he could toddle, and said, Was I loud?

Just once, Rufus grinned, and shook his head of curly red locks that were cut tight to his head. Do the gods confound you in your sleep?

Perhaps, August coughed and rubbed his eyes again.

I was taught as a child such things happen when you sleep on a land full of gods not used to your presence.

Conceivably, August answered, eyes scanning the interior of his tent as if the answer would be written there. Damn Celts, he mused about Rufus. They had a god in everything.

Rufus took a knee, but stayed out of the tent for the most part. There are bad, old gods the closer we get to the Pictland border, sir. They are different from the gods of my Celtic peoples and certainly of yours from Rome.

I’m not from Rome, August muttered and winked, getting to his knees, head still shaky from the nightmare.

Rufus smiled back. I know. It isn’t uncommon for the gods of a foreign land to haunt the dreams of a stranger.

Oh? August stepped out of his tent and stood, naked as the day he was born in far off Germania, and took in the new day. How rude of them to visit.

Then again, we have entered their free land of tribes with swords and shields, not flowers and compost, sir.

I knew we forgot the daisies and manure. August stretched and yawned. Rufus, fetch me some water.

The youth held up a basin and a pitcher from behind the tent, then set them on a tiny table he’d erected by the dwelling.

August nodded, glad for Rufus’ efficiency. Very good. He looked to the forest, far off from where their portion of the group bivouacked, and saw dozens of servants emerge from the forest at once. Though startled, August saw them all carrying sacks or animals foraged from the woods. Two fair haired youths, twins, not slaves but soldiers, waved to August. I see the brothers Crispinus and Decimus have bagged their share of rabbits.

Rufus only glanced over at the twins, who carried sets of arrows with four rabbits apiece strung through them. The archers are excellent at their trade, though their morning desire to slum with us servants is curious.

August frowned at him. Don’t be that way.

Rufus shrugged. There is game aplenty in our forests.

Our. The Celt boy chaffed a bit at his servitude even if August treated him well.

Have the scouts returned from yesterday?

Rufus turned abruptly. Amusing that you ask, sir. There is great distress among the ranks that they have not.

Amusing? Water cupped in his hands and sloshed over his face, August trembled. And you listen well to the ranks?

Of course. While the higher ranks stay silent, the centurions gossip like women at a party or Senators at a bathhouse.

Yeah?

Rufus’ eyes rolled to the sky. Or so I hear.

Again, he splashed his face and then gripped the sides of the tiny table and allowed the drops to fall into the basin. But the scouts are not back, no word from up that way?

No. sir.

He wanted to write it all off as a silly dream, and wanted to pray for answers, but all he could do was say the name of the one he secretly prayed to. Jesus Christ.

CHAPTER I

General Malitus didn’t care for how his day began. He had been roused from a drunken sleep due to the arrival of a frantic messenger. The rider, sliding down from the frothy horse like he’d been born to perform the act, announced himself from the scouting party, one dispatched ahead of Malitus’ Legion at Eboracum.

The General sat on a folding bench and frowned as he listened to the report. The messenger, a young man of barely eighteen by the look of him, wasn’t familiar to Malitus. His breaths came out hurried, and the youth spoke so quick Malitus reprimanded him twice with sharp words. Head still full of wine, the General tried to even out his thoughts. His mouth dry, Malitus reached for some morning wine. His head throbbed as a dire fear swam in the messenger’s eyes beyond the uneasiness of one so low ranked reporting to a General. That fright ran deeper and more primal, Malitus mused, as if the hounds of Tartartus themselves chewed at the puppy’s heels during the long journey back to Briton territory. The city of Eboracum, where Malitus’ quartered the Legion for the time being, sat near the border of the land of Caledonia where the wild Picts roamed.

Enough boy, Malitus ordered, weary of the broken attempts to speak and cursing his own swimming mind. Am I to understand the cause of all your spirited words this morning is that one of the scouting parties has met a rather untoward end?

The youth nodded vigorously, looking from the General to the two other military men emerging to flank him in the large tent. Yes, sir. Decurion Arminius requests you come see yourself at once.

Malitus bit down his anger and sipped the wine. His face contorted at the sour nature of it, but this beverage ran typical of what the soldiery drank.

August, he said aloud and rubbed his brow with his thumb and index fingers.

August Arminius, said the taller of the two officers, for all his faults, truly acts as the best cavalry commander and judge of advanced scouts we have at our disposal.

Malitus muttered, Thank you, Ralta, I know who he is. He turned to the shorter officer on his right and muttered, A bad end? Are there men dead up there, Quintus?

The officer shrugged and waved at the messenger.

The youth nodded again, fast.

Malitus sighed loud. I assigned Arminius to use his men in order to avoid these kinds of problems.

Quintus’ brow furrowed, but his look grew intense. Arminius is a veteran, even if he’s a mutt German. He’s the best horseman we have and his instincts are better than a hound’s.

Scouts sometimes die, sir, the taller man to his left offered and rolled his eyes at Quintus’ words.

Malitus turned, glaring at the taller man. Mind your attitude, Ralta. August has served under me for several years now, and very well. Though he didn’t extol the fact, the General understood August and he had never become high-quality friends, but he did hold the cavalry auxiliary leader in high regard when it came to the man’s abilities.

Ralta made a fake bow at Quintus. Forgive me greatly, Quintus Pilate.

Quintus’ look at Ralta soured. Arminius’ job was a simple one. He and his detachment were to travel ahead of the Legion proper, out of Eboracum, and serve as not only its advance eyes but also to attack as bait for any locals in the region who were brave enough to go up against Roman might. His auxiliary force in the forward position must be compromised.

Malitus sipped more wine and sighed. I hadn’t actually thought there would be any who were foolish enough to try to oppose them, but the Picts of Caledonia are an unpredictable lot.

Ralta seemed unable to stop smiling as he stated, The 9th Legion, a battle hardened one, strides to action, composed of veterans and men who know death well. I think a few of them have Death nicknamed.

The General declared, The 9th prepares to march out of our base here at Eboracum soon to head north again and I won’t have it delayed long. Certainly not by what was more likely the work of a lucky group of bandits than any real military threat. I shall hear what happened to our forces beyond August’s camp.

The messenger nodded and wanted to back out of the tent, but he stayed put.

Quintus said, The 9th had better get on the move or they would never reach their intended destination in the time allotted by the emperor.

Ralta pursed his lips. Do you think Hadrian will really visit this Isle in the next year? Such a trip for him seems based in words, not actuality.

Malitus spat a curse, and a mouthful of wine, before saying, It’s too early to talk wretched politics.

He quickly moved to the door and left his quarters in the Scamnum Legatorum. His eyes beheld what his ears had heard before, that a bulk of the 9th assembled in the heart of the city, preparing for review, to be told when to march. Quintus Pilate and Ralta flanked him again in the yard of the Praetentura. They were officers upon whom he knew he could depend. The messenger was still present, and Malitus chose to ignore him.

Malitus turned to Quintus. Ready my personal guard and a small group of your best cavalrymen.

Are you sure that is wise sir? Ralta challenged him, his humor faded. We haven’t heard what happened out there yet. If there is a large force of Picts afoot . . .

Malitus glared at Ralta. When I want your opinion, I will ask for it. I am neither so old nor feeble that I cannot ride or wield a sword.

The General heard Quintus snicker at the good natured, if edged, rebuke he gave Ralta. If they were not all familiar with each other, then one could almost describe the relationship between Ralta and Quintus as that of blood enemies. Such was often the relationship between leaders of infantry and cavalry. Ralta believed Quintus a pompous showman and Quintus thought Ralta to be a simpleton. Their affections for one another did nothing to interfere with the effectiveness of the 9th’s operations, however, so Malitus tolerated it. The two men were soldiers and had spilt blood together.

Beyond that, they were brothers, though one could not judge them so by their appearances. Ralta, a tall, hard man, his shoulders wide and his jaw sat firmly as if carved in stone. The skin of his arms stretched tight around the masses of muscles underneath it, while Quintus had the appearance of a pampered scribe. He was thin and much shorter than his brother. Anyone meeting his gaze could see the fierce intellect that dwelt within him. He relied on speed and guile whereas Ralta was nothing short of a powerhouse of brute strength and determination.

As Quintus departed, Malitus returned his attention to Ralta, shaking a finger at the giant. And no, you’re not coming with us either.

Ralta’s expression was a tightly drawn rictus of rage but Malitus knew the big man would challenge him no further. As you wish, sir.

I need you here to get the Legion moving. We are already behind and cannot afford more delays. The emperor is expecting progress with quelling the Pict threats into Briton since the last trip up north. I’ll not have our reputation tarnished. Channel that fury within you toward the men. It will surely motivate them to move all the more quickly.

Ralta’s scowl slid into a wicked smile. I imagine it will sir. I imagine it will.

Good, Malitus laughed, slapping Ralta’s shoulder. I will not be coming back to comfortable quarters soon. I expect you and the greater part of the Legion to catch up to us on the road to this place within a few days. Do I make myself clear?

As a sunny day, sir, Ralta acknowledged the command, looking across the sky at two dark birds lazily flying across the open sky. Severus? He called out to a centurion nearby, standing at the ready, lance in hand.

Yes, sir? Severus answered, still at attention.

Malitus followed in the direction Quintus had headed, but turned his head to hear Ralta ask, Is it ordinary for ravens to fly in pairs?

Severus said something about thinking the animals Ralta saw were crows, but the General ignored the rest.

***

By the time General Malitus and his detachment reached Arminius’ forward camp, the sun had already peaked in the sky and begun its descent. August awaited them by the assembled horses and rushed to meet them as they climbed down from their mounts at the camp’s edge.

General Malitus, August saluted him, standing straight. I had not expected you to come yourself, sir.

You send a messenger who babbles on out of crazed fear as if the whole of the region had risen in arms against us and you didn’t expect me to come personally? He put his right fist across his chest to salute and smiled. Perhaps, you’re slipping Arminius.

August’s face remained rigid, betraying no anger or embarrassment. That the General would only travel with the bulk of the Legion wasn’t a bad assumption.

All this fuss and bother, overtaken by a few barbarians in the night? Quintus chuckled as he walked along with the General. Just how many men did you lose August?

Nine, sir, veterans to a man. Valintien commanded them, August answered, head up, chest firm, hands at his sides. They weren’t all auxiliaries.

Quintus’ smug tone departed his voice. Valintien? You jest with me! That big animal is dead? He’s about as mean as that Porcius beast in your troop. He gestured with his right hand over at the thuggish cavalryman, Porcius, who checked the hooves of his mount, cleaning them out with a fine rod usually used for scouring teeth. Porcius’ black eyes, typical of a man from Greece, drilled into Quintus, but went back to his labor presently.

My, my, Malitus said, eyebrows raised as he glanced from Porcius to August. There were few men in the Legion that would give Quintus or his brother, for that matter, pause. Valintien was one of them.

That is a reason for concern, sir. He was one of my best, August replied.

You of Germanic blood are known for a berserker rage, no?

August blinked. Some of our kind are very much so inspired in battle, but we are all Romans now.

Malitus smiled at his self-correction. True. Very true.

Quintus looked to the forest off to their right and said, I had once seen Valintien carve a path through the ranks of a barbarian horde, leaving a trail of hairy bodies in his wake. A true loss to us all indeed.

August agreed. No one knew for sure, but Gaius our scribe of the dead, claimed Valintien had killed over three dozen of the enemy on his own, the last two with only his teeth and bare hands as he had lost his sword toward the end of the battle. August expected no less of his countryman, but didn’t say that in front of these hailing from Rome proper. Though all the world soon would be Roman, most were still considered adopted children by those from the Empire.

Quintus turned his gaze to August. All of your scouts died further up the road?

The entire squad of them, sir . . . but it’s how they were killed that’s the cause of my summoning you, for messaging you about it all. August admitted. I can’t give words on the matter, so I felt it best that someone of higher rank saw it for themselves.

Well, here we are August, Malitus addressed him, using his first name. Lead on then and let us see what horrors you’ve stumbled onto.

August figured the General knew his tone retained a mocking lilt but doubted he cared. It didn’t take August long to understand Malitus’ ire came when faced with the possibility of the incident causing a delay in the 9th’s long march that lay ahead.

August climbed on his horse and Porcius joined him. Malitus and Quintus accepted fresh mounts from the group and followed along the road. A dozen more men on horseback joined them, but stayed mostly meandering near the General.

As they rode along, Porcius shot August a sideways glance. So, we’re marching to the North Sea to plant a flag for Rome?

Eyes on the road, August replied, Looks like.

Porcius grunted and breathed a few times before he wondered, And all of those tribes of Picts are just going to kiss our asses as we pass?

Still emotionless, August replied, Oh, certainly.

Porcius burst into laughter and August even cracked a grin.

Quintus shouted up to them, Care to share the hilarity, gentlemen?

August called back, You’d have to comprehend Grecian temple practices to appreciate his jokes about the locals worshipping trees. It’s rude humor, sir.

Glad for their silence, and for that of Porcius, August studied the forests as they rode. He thought of those in his dreams who watched from there. He shivered and wished more of the Legions were about him, and not just for fear of those workers of magick in the woods.

After they’d gone over a mile, Porcius said, I wish Ralta had come up.

Shut up, will you? August admonished him, not wanting to hear punitive words from the commanders again.

Porcius yawned and shifted his great girth in the saddle. He’s a strong guy for a proper dandy, that one. I respect that no matter what his loves in life are.

August shot him a look that conveyed his desire to nail Porcius’ lips closed.

Grinning, Porcius drew his fist over his chest in a mock salute to August. I’ll just be over here dreaming of being a Spartan, sir.

The afternoon wore on as the cavalry detachment, guided by August, reached the site. Like many stone circles they’d all seen in Briton, this one held a particular pattern of jagged rocks and a few longer slabs not unlike what stood taller out on Salisbury plain, but to nowhere near that scale of breathtaking design.

Here’s where the massacre happened, August said, pointing from his mounted position. In the stone circle.

Malitus looked at the village up the road, a mere dot on the horizon, then turned his focus on the site.

Massacre? Quintus looked around, his face stunned at the term, but his way soon softened. He squinted and mumbled, No other word to describe this scene, is there?

The grass and earth, tainted red from the dried blood, were accented with the entrails of the squad’s men strewn about with insane abandon. Insects had formed on the men, but August had left the scene as it lay.

Malitus murmured, You didn’t alter it much, aye? Wonder the animals didn’t scavenge from the bodies. Look, there’s guts dangling from a lone tree that bends into the circle.

August said, I wanted someone to see this as it was left. The men have guarded it in shifts to keep animals out.

Quintus blinked many times. Thank you so much.

The four dismounted and moved about in the waning light to inspect the carnage. Behind them, the