The IrregularsMature

Amidst a war torn world, a group of hired swords risk their lives for the allure of riches and the glory of battles won. Among them are two of the fabled witch men; hunted by governments as abominations; sought after by tyrants as living weapons.

The bastion was alight. Arrow slits glowed a warm yellow from within the fortress which penetrated into the darkness of the starless night. A lone call from the south echoed through the ward as the night watchman demanded the gate be opened. A clatter of chains ensued and the portcullis groaned in lament, dust and splinters rained as it slowly rose. Men cursed in their cots at being woken by the racket. The riders entered and the portcullis was lowered.

Although the gate became silent, the residence of the ward were to endure further restlessness; for the riders had in their possession an unruly prisoner.

With his hands tied behind his back he was pulled by one of the horses. He thrashed and fought aimlessly against the steed, stumbling to the ground to be dragged for some distance before recovering and resisting once more.

A noble in a nightshirt burst through the dungeon doorway,  “Have you gone mad?”

“Sir, no. We have a prisoner.” The knight said in disdain.

The noble leaned and looked beyond the knight's shoulder to see the thrashing captive, still fighting against his bonds; his head bagged in a burlap sack. The other men had dismounted and were trying to quiet the individual by thrusting the hilts of their swords into his sides. It only seemed to make his disobedience increase.

"Oh really? I hadn’t noticed." Facetiousness dripped from his words. "What the hell are you doing bringing some rabble into my court? Must I do everything myself?” He said, grasping a dagger from the knights hip and trudging toward the prisoner who was now being held by three men. He brought his arm up to thrust the dagger into the man's chest, but at the apex of his swing, his arm was caught.

The noble spun about to stare the knight in the face, fury burning within his gaze. “What do you think you’re doing? Unhand me!”

“Sir, I cannot allow you to kill this man; for the sake of all herein. Killing him would only curse this land for centuries to come.”

“What?” He looked back at the man, still attempting to fight off his captors. He was tiring now, and the men had less difficulty holding him still. “You mean … he's-”

“Maleficarum.”

The few in earshot grew visibly more tense; their eyes widened and darted toward the captive. Fear bellowed in their minds, for they now knew that before them stood an abomination.

The End

112 comments about this story Feed