Way of the Wraith

He had seen death though, even been responsible for it in his life... the arm of tragedy here. He had heard the explosions and seen the Russian machine gun fire from tribal insurgents beat at his weary feet. He had seen a suicide once and the tattered remains of a headless corpse who had prematurely detonated his own instrument of destruction for reasons unknown. No, this was a new kind of war and not the Hollywood version of an insurgency that in reality took place in shadows and under the cover of darkness where dawn left no corpses. The battle before him did not seem like it could exist at all. Yet it did. He and his companions had been completely taken by surprise by the volume and velocity of an attack that was assumed would have been impossible for the rag tag groups of religious fanatics to orchestrate. He wore only his tan undershirt and combat pants. On his feet were black boots instead of his usual desert issue he had been wearing earlier. Contrarily, his pants were of the desert pattern and not the green worn back in garrison. His K-Bar knife hung at his belt. He seemed to have no other possessions. He looked then at his hands. They seemed different somehow. All of these realizations and ponderings took place in the span of a micro moment. The screaming wailing sound returned and echoed around him. It sent a shiver through his frozen reality that was not born from some frigid unforgiving physical element. He looked at the battle through new eyes that searched for the source of the sound and felt them widen in awe as shapes and shadows he had seen, but ignored for a moment, began to reveal themselves. He had not seen, truly seen, moments before. Shadowy, whispering creatures in flight tearing at one another. Dark shapes clashing desperately all around him. There were Roman dressed shadow soldiers in a Phalanx surrounding his fighting countrymen, especially the dismounts that had exited the carriers after the initial IED strikes. They, the living, were pinned down and they were dying. These Roman shades, protectors, were locked in position and being forced back by hordes of the most menacing beings imaginable. Towering red eyed creatures neither man nor beast seemed to roll out of inky black clouds of darkness. The Romans displayed no fear but were being torn apart nonetheless. There seemed to be other allies of his living brothers present as well but these were few and far between. Women on flying horses flung arrows from the sky. Giant arcs of fire attempted to dismount and destroy them one by one. Huge armoured warriors of gleaming gold appeared from the mouth of a young soldier who was lying behind his weapon praying. These beings were torn apart by rat headed shadow creatures that leapt upon them. There seemed to be other allies present that he could sense but not see, as they were buried behind so much chaos as to almost make them invisible. A C9 gunner, his section mate, kneeled irrationally out in the semi open firing fearlessly with a Hollywood reckless roar issuing forth from his lips. In front of him, barely perceptible, were two tattooed titans with horned helmets and braided beards. One wielded a monstrous axe and the other a colossal stone hammer. Together they carved such a path into the advancing hordes of darkness in a berserker rage that he wondered if the machine gunner could be harmed at all. Here and there were beings of all sorts and descriptions on the side his countrymen; dragons and creatures as dark and intimidating looking as the enemies own... but they were far too few. The screaming wailing sound ripped through him again. He knew that scream sounded for him. Something was coming. Something more menacing than anything that he had witnessed on what he discerned was some madman puppeteer’s playground. Something omnipotent wanted him. For some reason he knew this. He scanned the dark writhing masses for the source of this newest terror. It pushed through the hordes throwing aside anything that blocked its path. The being stood a full half body above the swarming chaos and held aloft a tangled handled scythe with an impossibly long blade. The weapon was held overhead a black cloaked skeleton like face. The spectre did not appear to touch the ground but to hover through the battle. Weapons that passed through the dark garment seemed to displace the fabric which would scatter outwards in shards and return to take the form of a cloak once more. To his horror he realized that this exploding and reforming coat was composed entire of what looked to be flying insects all dark in color. He tried to focus his eyes and see the terror as more than a distant shadow and was rewarded somewhat as the being came slightly more into focus. As the shade threw back its head and shrieked once more he saw the white of the skull was not what he had supposed, composed of bone, but a writhing mass of maggots feasting upon the face itself... and one another. The eyes, perhaps the most frightening aspect of all, were surprisingly human and bulbous. These whites were blood dripping red and the pupil was black as hate. A grin, that to him was both frightening and homicidally self amused, completed the face. He threw his hands over his ears and screamed in terror. The foreign shrieking sound had paralyzed him and had frozen his legs to the ground. Never in his wildest nightmares could he have imagined such horror. And yet, what frightened him more than the evil appearance and the unholy wail was an innate knowing that the creature before him was somehow commonplace in this foreign yet familiar landscape. Skeletal hands pulled back the scythe and started to swing at an impossible speed. He leaned away, raising his arms in a gesture of self preservation. A ringing sound exploded around him. The clash made him start and look up quickly. A shadowy man in a green cloak held a sword before the scythe. He had long dark hair and a full beard. A gold heavy band, worn by the Celtic kings of old, was around his throat. He was struggling to hold back the enormous blade but was being pushed downward. “The Mosque!” It was a strangely familiar voice but not the one that had called to him before, now it was filled with urgency and dread. “Run.” The harvester of souls hooked around his jagged blade and flicked his wrist. The green cloaked man was flung far to the side and into the earth like a ragdoll. It was clear that he would not be any more help to him in the foreseeable future. He had known immediately though of the mosque that the man had spoken of. Another lifetime ago, or what had seemed so long ago but was perhaps only a half hour or less before, he had seen it. At the last village. He started to run. His legs barely seemed to move. He felt like he was in one of those childhood recurring dreams where he seemed to be running through water. He knew the creature would come for him. He knew the horror would overcome him. He knew that this would happen soon.