Crimson Sky: Eternal Sunset: Chapter 2

Lark ran until the sky darkened. It never quite became true night, but the stars in the sky became brighter. He spent the night in an abandoned barn. Not the kind that are rickety and falling apart. No, it was a great barn. The loft was full of hay which made a nice warm bed for him when he couldn’t keep going. He could see a two story house a few lengths away, but no lights were burning in the windows. The scent of horse was strong in the barn, but there was no horse to be found. The only thing Lark could surmise was that the owners had heard of the attack on the city and fled in fear. 

 

He thought back on the city in chaos. After he had crossed the wall and entered the city itself, he’d had to dodge rioters and people panicked and crying in the streets. He was guilty of looting himself. He cast a glance at the backpack with blanket, canteen, and basic supplies. He had come across a general store on one of the back streets that was abandoned, but as yet unlooted. He had cried even as he broke the window to unlock the door to let him in. Inwardly, he promised he’d repay the owner if he ever had the opportunity. But he knew, logically, that it would probably never happen. 

 

He slept that night with the hay piled all around until only his nose was free, just in case someone else decided the barn would be a great place to spend the night. His sleep was fretful, but he woke rested. 

 

When he glanced out of the window in the loft, he couldn’t tell what time it was. A dark shape still covered the sun, leaving the world in a perpetual twilight. He could tell that it was ‘day’ because the twilight was lighter than it had been when he’d gone to sleep. But there was no way to tell how far into the day it was. 

 

He extricated his backpack from under the hay where he’d hidden it and descended into the lower part of the barn.  The side door to the barn opened easily, a sign of the care the family had put into it. Lark sent a prayer to Asta Zura that they were okay. 

 

He scanned the fields, but there didn’t seem to be any activity. He waited another few minutes to be sure, then darted across the distance between the barn and the house. 

 

When he reached the house, he circled it, looking for the best way in. All of the windows on the lower floor were busted. When he looked closely, there were dried drops of blood on the frame. He whipped around and crouched low, looking all around him for the source of the blood, but there wasn’t anything in the surrounding area that he could see. 

 

Keeping low, he slunk to the back foot and cracked it open. When he didn’t hear anything or see anything through the crack in the door, he stepped inside. 

 

He was far from home and very unsupplied. The guilt wracked him again, but he headed towards the kitchen. The family who called this farm their home must have evacuated, so his hopes weren’t high. 

 

The kitchen was lovely. It was rosewood and oak throughout, all gleaming clean. This was a kitchen that was obviously the center of the home. 

 

He expected the cupboards to be empty in preparation for the family fleeing to safety and was pleasantly surprised at the amount of food left in the pantry. He refilled his supplies, the bread and cheese from Mama Alma a distant memory. Soon his backpack was as well stocked as anyone on the run could hope for. 

 

He walked up the stairs where he found the master bedroom. Again the guilt twinged, but necessity required that he open the drawers and closets. Thankfully, it seems like the master of the house was roughly his size, so he was able to exchange his blood stained silk doublette for farming leathers and clothes that would stand up to a journey. 

 

He didn’t have a destination in mind, but Lark got the feeling that it would be quite some time before he ever saw home again. 

 

Once he was cleaned up as best as he could be, he sat on the bed for a minute and thought about his plan. As far as he knew he was several hours from the city. He was pretty sure he’d traveled southeast, meaning he was probably close to Thackerville. He marveled that his much despised geography lessons actually helped him. 

 

 

The thought of home and all he had lost combined with his current sense of safety and he couldn’t stay strong any longer. With a wracking cry, he dropped his face into his hands and cried in a way he hadn’t cried ever in his rather pampered life. His sobs caught in his chest and his nose stopped up. When it started getting hard to breathe through the sobs, he took deep breaths to slowly calm it down. A few minutes later, he sniffled a few times and was done. With heavy limbs he walked across the room and grabbed a handkerchief out of the chest of drawers and blew his nose. Tucking the handkerchief in his pocket, he wiped his face and shook his muscles out. He picked up his backpack and shrugged it over his shoulders. 

 

 

He stepped back out into the upper hallway, making his way towards the stairs when a sound from the ground floor had him freezing in his steps. Once he was still, he could distinctly hear the sound of footsteps on the first floor. His heart hammered as he thought about his backpack full of stolen goods. What if it he was wrong and the family hadn’t fled? What if it was someone else on the running raiding the cupboards for supplies? He checked his belt and reassured himself that the scimitar and two daggers he’d found in the house were securely fastened. He put his back to the wall and peaked down the stairs.

 

 

 

At first all he saw was the foyer, as quiet and uninhabited as it had been when he went upstairs. He waited patiently, sure he’d heard footsteps. Several minutes passed while sweat trickled down his back, his nerves strung taught. About the time he started to wonder if he had misheard earlier, the sound of slow footsteps echoed up the stairs. It sounded as if someone was ambling around the lower level. It didn’t seem to fit with either of the theories that Lark had about who was down there. Even so, he still couldn’t see a thing. 

 

He decided to take a risk and carefully stepped down the first few stairs as quietly as he could. When he could see the rest of the foyer and into a portion of the family room, he stopped and waited again, keeping his eyes peeled for movement. 

 

The steps sounded again and he turned his head to look back into the living room. He saw a humanoid shape walk slowly across the room and look out of the window. In sillhouette, it looked like it was possibly a man. Lark decided it was time to leave. He slunk down the rest of the stairs, keeping his eye on the sillhouette in the family room. The foyer had two other exits, one into the well-loved kitchen and one into a hallway where he’d found some bedrooms for children earlier. He glanced down the hallway, but didn’t see anything. 

 

 

Keeping his back to the wall, he inched his way towards the door. The door to the kitchen was his last ostacle. He checked the family room again with a glance, but he couldn’t see the figure anymore. He took a deep breath and looked quickly into the kitchen. He expected it to be empty. He was wrong. 

 

His quick glance found him face to face with an older woman. She stared awkwardly at Lark, her eyes glassy and her face pale. A shiver of warning tremored up Lark’s spine. He took a few slow steps backwards. With the distance, more details about her appearance became apparent. The most obvious of which was her lack of a right arm. He stared at the broken bone where is protruded through the meaty flesh. Her arm ended half way down her bicep, where apparently the rest had been ripped away violently. Yet, she stood there in her apron with a pot of tea in her other hand. 

 

Horror crept over him as Lark realized the older woman wasn’t breathing anymore either. 

 

He could feel his face pale and break out in a cold sweat. The zombie must have been fairly recent since it stared at him, head cocked to the side, as if trying to decide if she should offer him a cup of tea or if she should try to eat him. He decided to make the decision for her and sidestepped the door, moving quickly towards the front door. Her head turned slowly as she tracked his movement. 

 

His chest burned and he realized he was holding his breath out of fear. He let it out slowly and quietly. The zombie seemed to be staying where she was. For a brief moment, everything was still. 

 

Then the zombie woman screamed. 

 

Lark startled, turned, and wrenched open the front door. Only to come face to face with a zombie who was probably the woman’s oldest son. He stood even in height with Lark and except for the fact that half of his face was missing, he probably would have been the same age. Lark took a step back and behind him he heard another scream, this one deeper in tone. A quick glance behind him showed the sillhouette from the family was the father and master of the house. 

 

Surrounded, Lark made a desperate leap through the window beside the door, the wood crunching with the impact. Most of the glass was already broken, probably during the attack that turned this lovely farming family into zombies. He hit the front porch with a roll, bounced to his feet, and took off running down the road. He reflected as he ran that he’d done more running in these 24 hours than he had since Master Gangrenge started taking all of his time. 

 

When he could no longer see the house when he glanced over his shoulder, and there was no sign of pursuit, he changed his headlong rush into a trot and eventually a walk as he cooled down. He pressed his hand to the stitch in his ribs, the sound of his panting breath all that could be heard. 

 

The red light of sunset surrounded him ominously, making what could have been a pleasant walk down a country lane seem agonizing. Now that he knew there were zombies out, he couldn’t allow himself to relax. He kept his eyes and ears open and scanned the countryside. 

 

When he came to a road sign saying he was just a few miles from Thackerville, he didn’t know if he should feel relieved that he was almost to a town that should be able to offer him shelter for the night, or if he should worry about a village full of zombies. There was no way to know until he arrived, so he walked on toward the village. 

 

He was relieved to see smoke rising from chimneys when the village finally came into view. There were also people walking about the streets on their daily business. The road slowly filled with people headed toward the village. Mostly carts baring people and belongings as the remote families moved into the town for the protection of more people. He heard gossip about fires in the capital city, and the attack from cultists draped in red with black spirals on their faces. No one seemed to know where they came from or who they worshipped. 

 

He was walking by one small family who were walking along the side of the road. The father of the family was hobbling with a crutch and the oldest son was pushing a handcart. Eveyone except the father had backpacks full of belongings. Their voices wafted over to him. 

 

The son, in his late teens, was talking quickly, “Do you think it’s true dad? What that messenger said? Is it true the whole family has been killed?” 

 

The father shook his grizzled head and cast his eyes skyward, “With Asta Zura gone, boy, anything is possible. What is the world coming to?”

 

The younger daughter looked up at her mother, “What’s going to happen now that the royal family is dead mom?”

 

Lark stumbled across the rutted street as his mind reeled in surprise. The royal family was dead? All of them? 

 

He quick stepped to catch up to the family. 

 

The father was admonishing his family, “We don’t know that for sure. We have to keep the faith. We have to believe that someone got out. We have to keep believing in Asta Zura, may her light shine upon us again some day.” He patted his oldest son on the shoulder, “i’m certain that even in her time of distress,” he pointed upward at the sky with a tilt of his chin, “She will not forget her people here in this realm. I’m certain She has found a way to protect a leader for our people.” He sighed gustily, “it is true we may see the end of our current ruling family, but our beloved Asta Zura, bringer of life, will provide us with some leader. I’m sure of it.”

 

Lark slowed his steps and let the family move ahead of him. He turned his gaze skyward and looked directly at the black face of the sun. The rim of fire that surrounded the sphere of darkness was all that remained of the beloved symbol of his goddess Asta Zura. The red light that covered the world was the best she could offer her children. He hoped the old man was right. He hoped that even as she fought whatever covered her face from them, that she was able to protect a leader for their kingdom. Even an insignificant younger son could become a leader if need be. 

 

He looked around at the people he walked with. The young and the old intermingled with the rich and the poor. All walks of life were represented on that road as everyone sought safety. If even one member of the royal family lived, then the people deserved a leader. Hopefully he would survive the hardships that were ahead of everyone now that the sun was dark. 

 

Lark could only hope. 

 

Finally, he approached the walls of the town. It was a good safe haven for the people in the region. A trading village, it was surrounded by solid wooden walls. Four strong young men of the village, an odd mix of soldiers and farmer’s sons, guarded the gates. Their gaze overlooked the newcomers, focusing primarily on the woods to the sides of the road. Deep scratches and cuts in the wood wall showed where something had tried to get inside. Lark though of the family of zombies and shivered. He was glad when passed through the open gate. 

 

Once inside, he was momentarily lost for where to go next. He though about trying to talk to the city council, but they were probably already well informed of the dangers that now lurked outside of their walls. Everywhere he looked, people cowered. Married couples shared worried glances while they reassured their children. The streets were bursting with people. 

 

He finally decided to visit a tavern. He’d heard his father say once that everything was discussed in a tavern. Often town criers carrying the news of the kingdom would go to taverns before the city hall. 

 

He wandered for about half an hour before he found his first tavern. A sign over the door proclaimed it was the Moon Lilly tavern. When he walked inside, almost every chair was full and the tavern keeper was doing quick business refilling ale mugs. Even though it looked to be a busy tavern, there was an eerie and tense silence that permeated the room. Some whispers of conversation could be heard, but most stared forlornly into their mugs. 

 

When he looked closer, it appeared that most of the men and women were local soldiers or police. A certain commonality in uniform along with a sense of familiarity told him so. He sidled around the room, looking for a place to sit and rest his tired feet. Some of the more alert patrons followed him with their eyes, giving Lark a distinct feeling of unwelcome. 

 

The tavern keeper and his waiters didn’t seem to feel the same though since he was approached with a mug and a plate of stew before he could even sit down. Before he could protest his inability to pay, he was forcefully guided to an empty spot at one of the smaller tables and the waiter was gone. Lark was left with a plate of delicious stew, two rolls of wheat bread, and a good sized mug of pale ale. 

 

Lark blinked in astonishment, then fell on his food. It was the first hot meal he’d eaten since the bread in Mama Alma’s kitchen. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes as he took a bite of the bread, he hoped she got out. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if he lost Master Gangrenge and Mama Alma too. He sniffled, wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, and looked around the table. 

 

To his left sat a young man, probably a few years younger than himself. Fresh faced, he probably shaved every day out of hope that it would cause his beard to grow. The young man stared into the distance with blank eyes. A look Armsmaster Tyrendel had called shocked. He ate his food mechanically, as if he knew he needed the nourishment, but wasn’t experiencing hunger. 

 

To his right sat an older man, he was balding in patches. His hair was cut short to minimize the damage, but it was still noticeable. His arms bulged with muscle and he ate with the quick efficiency of someone who often didn’t get much time to eat. He watched Lark closely, assessing his strengths and weaknesses, evaluating him as a threat. Lark leaned a little away from him. 

 

Across the table sat two women. The one with dark skin ate quickly like the man to Lark’s right, but her eyes roamed the room, watching the other soldiers. Lark was certain they were soldiers now. The posture and unity proved it. 

 

The other woman noticed him looking around, leaned forward and spoke in a surprisingly lilting voice, “Greetings stranger. So, what’s your story?”

 

Lark looked back at her, then down at his plate. He didn’t want everyone to know who he was. Not after everything that had happened. He just wanted to be ‘normal’. So the question became ‘How to tell his story as truthfully as possible while also concealing the truth?’ 

 

He cleared his throat and took a sip of his ale, “I came from the city.” Every eye at their small table turned to look at him, even the man to his left. 

 

He cleared his throat again, all of those eyes on him made him nervous. “I was there when... when it happened.” 

 

The woman leaned even closer, “where boy! Be more specific when you report.” She frowned at him. 

 

Did they think he was a soldier? He looked around quickly, comparing his clothes to theirs. Based on armor and weapons alone, he guessed he did look like he was a soldier. He didn’t want to lie to them, but perhaps it was best to play the part. “Yes, ma’am.” 

 

He relfexively looked down at his plate, then back at her. “I was in the castle.” 

 

The sharp inhale of their breath was unnerving, he fiddled with the food he hadn’t eaten. “I was running messages,” as a lie, it wasn’t too far from the truth, “I was taking my noon meal when the sun went dark.” They all nodded along as he spoke. 

 

“When everyone started to panic, I tried to find my... commander” the memory of Master Gangrenge flashed unbidden before his eyes and he had to blink hard a few times to clear his vision. “But when I got there he’d been slain,” his voice cracked, so he took another sip of ale. “I managed to kill the damned cultist who’d killed him though.” 

 

Lark couldn’t see it, but his face hardened and his gaze sharpened when he said that. The others at the table recognized it as the look of someone who was still processing his first kill. Not one of them said anything, but they pitied him. 

 

Lark continued, clueless to their sympathy. “With him gone... I... didn’t know what to do.” He glanced guiltily down, thinking that if he had truly been part of the soldiers defending the castle, he would have stayed to protect the royal family. If he had, maybe they wouldn’t be dead. 

 

He cleared his throat again, “When the attackers breached the throne room... I... I carry messages. I thought I’d carry word to one of the garrisons in town.” The lie flowed well, carrying just enough truth to be believable. “But they were all gone.” He glanced around the table, “I didn’t know what to do so I just... left.” He stared sightlessly at the table, absently following the wood grain with his eyes. “I... everyone I know is dead.” When he said it, he realized it was true. If the royal family really was dead, then he was truly alone. Mama Alma and Master Gangrenge didn’t have the same level of protection as the royals, and if the royals were gone... He put his head in his hands and fought hard not to cry in front of these tough soldiers. 

 

No one said anything for several long minutes, giving him time to compose himself. Lark felt a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, he looked up in surprise at 

 

he looked up in surprise at the older man to his right. The man gave him a nod and squeezed his shoulder before releasing his grip.

 

 

 

The woman spoke up again, her voice sympathetic but hard, “How did you get here?”

 

 

 

This one was easier, Lark took a shaky breath. “I ran until I fell down. Then I just followed the crowds.” he half shrugged.

 

 

 

She nodded, “I'm Major Halloway of the 54th infantry.” she pointed to the woman next to her, “This is Staff Sergeant Jones,” the finger moved to the man on Lark’s right, “Sergeant McDuff,” it moved again, “Private private first class Harrison.” She pointed at him with a jut of her chin, “What's yours?”

 

 

 

He thought about it for a moment and decided to keep it as close to the truth as he could, “I'm Lark, Lark Hayward, I'm a messenger.” He didn't know what rank a messenger would have, so he left it out and just hoped they would assume it.

 

 

 

She rapped the table with her knuckles. “We’re all from different battalions. Why don't you stay with us until we get orders?”

 

 

 

She phrased it as a question, but Lark knew it wasn't.

 

 

 

“yes,ma'am I think that would be for the best. ” it wasn't like he had any other plans.

 

 

 

Staff Sergeant Jones sighed gustily. “I'm not liking the feel of them Major.” She never took her eyes off of the other people in the tavern. “no one is even talking.”

 

 

 

The officers shared a glance. Sergeant McDuff leaned back in his chair, “my old battalion used to have this one joker, Stefan his name was. The Captain kept him around for times like these. That man was a pain in my arse but he could tell a story that would have every man in here rolling.”

 

 

 

The officers all nodded. Private Harrison blinked and spoke for the first time, his voice still a little too high. “I wish we had someone like that. I could use a distraction.”

 

 

 

Lark looked at the people at the table and thought back to the times he had told stories around the fireplace. He looked around at all of the anxious and depressed men and women. He didn't know if they would react to his storytelling the way his friends back home did, but… “I can try.”

 

The weight of their combined eyes settled on him.

 

 

 

“You think you could?” Major Halloway’s eyebrows frowned at him.

 

 

 

“they'll only love you if its great. The way they're feeling right now, they might turn on you. Still up for it?”

 

 

 

He glanced around again, wasn't it his duty now? To help everyone he could? Even if they hated it, it would get their minds off of the current state of his country. Besides, he shrugged and smirked, he was good at telling stories. Always had been.

 

 

 

He quirked that smile at the Major, “Yes ma’am, I am.” He rapped his knuckles on the table and stood up, the sudden motion caught the attention of everyone in the otherwise still room. He flashed a players grin at the crowd, before sauntering over to the standard open space by the fireplace meant for musicians.

 

 

He hooked a stool meant for a musician and planted himself on it. The crowd watched him expectantly. He held up his hands and shrugged “Now don’t let me take you from your conversations, I can tell they are gripping.” Most of the crowd blinked at him, but he could hear a few snorts. 

 

“My name is Lark Hayward, I’m new around here, and I wanna tell you about something that happened to me just before I got here.” He leaned back on the stool, “I had this one commanding officer, Captain Sycamore, and he was quite probably the most unpleasant man I’ve ever met in my life. He was the kind of Officer who would kick dust on your shoes, then make you do push-ups until your arms fell off because you happened to look at him funny.” He waved around the room, “you know the kind.”

 

He held up one finger, “now, I need you to remember Captain Sycamore.”

 

He leaned forward, “I had to take a message over to one of those petty lords, the ones who care more about their clothes than actually running their estates.” He stood up and mimed the peacock walk of one of the lords back home. It got some chuckles out of the crowd. 

 

“Well this lord was getting fitted for some new clothes,” he did a pirouette, fanning out the hem of his tunic like a dress, “and there was this absolutely gorgeous young woman there pinning his clothes. When I say she was gorgeous, I mean…” he pantomimed a well endowed chest, causing more chuckles. 

 

“When I relayed my message, the lord ran off to his office clad only in his skivvies,” his hands splayed across his chest and privates, “Which left me with…” he pantomimed the chest again, “Well, being a young man with… passions, I of course decided to make a move.” He tugged on his sleeves and collar and strutted across the stage area, bowing opulently to an imaginary woman, “‘Hello mistress, what’s a beautiful thing like you doing here?’” He waggled his eyebrows at the crowd. “She said,” he kicked his voice into a high falsetto “...‘why, getting into a lordlings pants of course!’” The crowd laughed. They were getting into his story now. 

 

“I said ‘well, you must be skilled indeed! What should I call a pretty young thing like yourself?’” 

 

He turned to the crowd, “Do you know what she said?” In his girl’s voice, “I’m Sylvia Sycamore, pleased to meet you!” He widened his eyes and stared into the crowd. 

“What am I supposed to say to that?” He turned to the imaginary woman, his voice cracking “Any relation to Captain Sycamore?” He turned back to the crowd, his voice loud, “She said YES. Apparently Captain Sycamore was her cousin!” 

 

He mimed a nervous shiver, “I admit, I was rather at a loss for words. This gorgeous piece of woman flesh was related to Captain Sycamore! Well, apparently it took me too long to come up with anything to say, because she said,” his voice kicked high again, “I can’t stand him either.” 

 

The crowd laughed. Their shoulders relaxed, a few leaned back in their chairs. He had them now. They had finally bought into his story, the believed in his ability to make them laugh. Now that they were expecting it, he could keep them rolling all night. He settled in for a long night of storytelling. 

 

An hour or so later, Staff Sergeant Jones ordered everyone to retire. Lark got pats on the shoulder by the men and words of thanks and welcome. When they were all gone, he retrieved his bag from the officer’s table. It was fully dark now and the stress of the past few days was beginning to catch up to him. He swayed on his feet. At the direction of one of the waitresses, he tottered his way back over to fireplace and collapsed onto a pallet they had prepared for him. All around him, other soldiers were settling into their pallets until the floor was covered. For the first time since the sun was eaten and he lost everyone he’d ever known, he slept soundly.