The Face of the Enemy

Lightning. Violent, brilliant lightning. That was the first thing he saw. But it wasn't the lightning that scared him the most.

Nor was it the burning village surrounding him, the thatched roofs alight with searing flames, the columns of smoke billowing into the air, the acrid fumes poisoning the wind, the raging fires leaping up into the night sky and staining it orange and grey. Nor was it the anguished cries of the dead and dying around him, the wretched moans of pain and despair, the pleas for mercy and screams of terror, all blending together in a horrible, wailing chorus drowning in the rivers of blood.

Nor was it the darkness that crept across the earth and sky despite the towering flames, the shadows that writhed in the very air before him, the blackness that moved with life of its own and smothered everything it touched, choking the spirit of any living thing within reach. But one thing still held him heart in a vise-like grip…something that was never fully there, but was visible just enough to make him blood run cold.

A cloaked figure, clad in the darkest black, rising before him. It appeared from the shadows on the ground, rising up like an onyx serpent from a murky pool. Slowly it would draw itself up, measuring far taller than he. Its back was always turned to him, its identity shrouded in the black hood covering its head. It would stand a few feet from him, motionlessly observing the chaos and destruction before it. Then, it would turn its head ever so slightly, as if to face him, but before he even saw the edge of the hood, he would awake, panting in cold sweat.

The figure rose from the liquid shadow. Again, it stood, back turned, gazing at the pyre and blood. Again, after a moment, it began to turn its head. He strained to see it with a twisted curiosity, wanting a glimpse of the thing that haunted him.

The hooded face stared at him fully and without remorse.

At first, he thought the face itself was a shadow, an empty, black chasm. Its skin, if it was skin at all, was blacker than the hood, so dark even the glow from the fires could not light it. He could see no features upon its face, save for its eyes…oh, its eyes! Like great rings of endless flames, its eyes burned with horrible malice. Centered about serpentine pupils, its fiery iris extended to the edges, leaving no distinguishable white. Yet, though they glowed with the same fury as the burning village, they were not searing or scorching…they were cold. Colder than the ice of the northern mountains, those flaming eyes glared at him with cruelty, pitilessness, and power. He was transfixed to the spot, unable to move under their terrible gaze.

Slowly, the black figure shifted, raising its arm. He wanted to run, begged him legs to flee, but they did not answer. A hand appeared from the cloaked arm, extending long, onyx fingers towards him. Black nails pointed at him throat like claws. He could not move, could not escape him invisible prison. The glowing eyes narrowed, unmerciful, and suddenly, he could not breathe. He felt four simultaneous stabs into him throat, unleashing streams of blood, yet the hand was still not touching him. The pressure on him neck lessened, and he screamed, long and loud, as the writhing shadows on the ground rose up to swallow him…

Erik's eyes flew open as he woke with a start, the scream dying on him lips. He sat up, supporting himself on his strong arms. His forehead had broken out into a cold sweat already, and his breath came out in short pants. He clutched at his burning throat, groping to feel the four wounds. He let out a sigh of wary relief: they were not there. It was just a nightmare.

Why? his mind whispered desperately...