The Hall of Wisdom

She would survive, however she could. It was her will.

The midnight storm poured rain down upon her that had blurred her vision, yet what lay ahead of her was unmistakable. Billowing flames reached high into the heavens, licking the storm clouds in defiance, resembling some sort of insolent child. Despite the scene, she felt relief; escape from this gauntlet of horrors lay just in reach. She staggered, tripped, and hobbled, nearly losing her footing in the soft mud beneath her.

Various buildings and charred rubble lay in a small meadow no more than a half mile away. What was once a small village was now engulfed in flames, the heavy downpour having little effect on the raging inferno. The scattered buildings had been nothing more than hovels and shanties, a collection of shacks that comprised one of the many humble farming communities of the Republic’s countryside. Now, it was naught but a graveyard; a place where the dying had bid there farewell to the cruel land of Eden, and went on to the worlds that lay ahead.

And yes, oh yes, Alana Morgan of Alpha Company, twelfth battalion of the twenty fourth Vesica brigade, had her hand in sending them there. The village had been part of the area dubbed the “black lands”, and thus, anyone found alive was to be considered infected, considered a threat…

The screams erupted behind her again. The familiar feeling of adrenaline flooding her body returned, and she ran, not knowing, not caring. Her legs burned with pain, her arm exploding with outrage, yet she continued on, the footfalls closing in behind her.

Terror filled her heart and soul, not caring to look back, daring not to look back. Her entire company had been decimated, and undoubtedly, they were now behind her amongst the undying…the unliving. The cold midnight air burned her lungs, pleading her to stop.

More voices joined the unholy screams as Alana pawed at her armor, attempting to loosen it from her person. She sobbed openly, and had begun to realize that her own terrified scream had joined the choir of voices that pursued her. Plates of tempered steel slid free from various portions of her body, tumbling into the soft mud below as she quickened her pace. As she manipulated the leather bindings that held her cuirass firmly to her chest, she allowed herself a quick glance behind…

Seven figures gave chase to her, sprinting at full speed. They were not more than a hundred yards behind her, and were gaining quickly. The moonlight did little more than illuminate their silhouettes due to the storm churning above, yet it was enough of a sight to strike fear into the deepest recesses of her very soul. With trembling hands, Alana loosened the cuirass from her chest, shedding it off like a discarded shirt. A hopeless scream erupted from deep inside her, and somewhere, she found the strength to run.

Nearing the village, she could feel the heat of the raging fires upon her blood-soaked face, and, distantly, a sound that graced her ears like nothing else could. Approximately fifteen horses had been tethered to a large Yew tree upon the northern outskirts of the former village, and now they stood no more than a hundred yards away, one neighing in protest of the storm above. Her company thought it to be wise to scout the rest of their assigned portion of the “black land” on foot, to avoid stirring up any afflicted that may be drawn to the sounds of more than a dozen mounted soldiers galloping across the countryside. How sorely wrong they had all been. It was a tactical mistake that lead to the ambush and subsequent deaths of nearly all her company.

She quickened her pace, the cries of her former brethren drowning her senses. She passed burning embers and the ruins of what were once homes. The scent of burning flesh pierced her nostrils, yet she paid little attention to it. Her voice was coarse, and her legs burned. Escape lay just in reach, and as she reached the Yew tree, her eyes locked upon a silhouette sitting with its back against the tree’s trunk. She recognized the figure as the young recruit they had picked up back in Taltha, a young boy with strawberry blonde hair and freckles lining his nose. He was assigned sentry duty, to keep an eye on the mounts while the others scouted the meadows. The figure stirred, awoken from a deep sleep. The young boy looked around panicked, the screams rousing him immediately.

Alana wasted no time. Her shaking hands grasped the nearest leather tether, straining to untie it. The young recruit was still awestruck, unsure as to what was going on. He rushed to the screaming Legionnaire’s side, only to be answered with incomprehensible babble and a sharp push, sending him to the ground. It was only when Alana’s pursuers wailed with their ungodly screams that the boy realized what was at hand. He scrambled madly for the nearest tethered mount, clawing at the hemp bindings.

A sheer sense of terror filled Alana as she manipulated the rope from the horse’s neck, scurrying to mount the steed. To her right, the young recruit fumbled with another mount, yet to no avail; his small hands had naught the strength to unfasten such knots in haste. The afflicted that had given her chase for more than a mile now were no more than fifteen yards away, parting the high grasses of the meadow in pursuit of the injured Legionnaire.

The child screamed, looking to Alana. He turned on his heel, making a sprint towards her, his arms outstretched in pleading terror. The grasses surrounding the Yew tree parted, and from within came spewing forth the afflicted ones; her former comrades, now mindless husks driven by one simple emotion;

Rage.

Without thinking, Alana whipped the steed to the left, striking off in a gallop. In one moment of sublime chaos, the world itself came to a climax. The weary mount below her neighed in both fright and surprise, the sky above cracked with earth-shattered thunder, and the screams of her fellow soldiers came together to form one blood-curdling rapture even hell itself would not dare claim its own. And the steady undertone to this symphonic horror was introduced by none other than the young boy with strawberry blonde hair and freckles lining his nose, the young boy who hadn’t an idea of what was about to happen, the young boy that never stood a chance, the young boy from Talthas that was abandoned by the last of the Alpha Company in her frantic struggle to escape.

His contribution was none other than a gurgling, wet cry that that Alana Morgan of Alpha Company, twelfth battalion of the twenty fourth Vesica brigade, would never forget for the rest of her tortured life. It was the sound of blood racing into the undeveloped lungs of a young man that would never see the age of fifteen; one that would never lay with a woman, or lay claim to his own land. It was the sound of surprise, terror, and agony.

It was the sound of death.