Free Rise of the Red Harbinger by Khalid Uddin

one of the quotes in Imanol, the ancient tongue of the original Harbingers, that had been tattooed into his skin. It had been his favorite, the motto of Taurean, Cerys, and Magnus, “My life is an instrument for the good of mankind.”
    It was a custom of his people to cover themselves in tattoos of quotes, symbols, and markings; it was a sign of bravery. The more one was covered, the more one was respected. Marshall’s body was covered head to toe by markings and words in Imanol. He had only lived for eighteen years, but aspired to dedicate his life to the benefit of his people.
    The norm was to start at the face. Nearly every Taurani wore two stripes down their faces, starting from the hairline and ending just below the chin. Taurani normally received these black tattoos when they were five or six years old. Marshall was often called ‘The Painted One’ by friends and family. He was one of the most completely painted Taurani in the village and was revered for his bravery. He would need it now.
    Marshall could hear the soldiers advancing, killing every Taurani they came upon. Sleeping villagers would have had little time to arm themselves. Even if any had managed to kill their attackers, this army swarmed their houses like flies to a corpse. Marshall’s people were outstanding fighters, skilled with sword, spear, and in hand-to-hand combat, but the numbers were greatly against them. It was not their way to surrender.
    There had to have been a traitor, someone in our village to help this happen. There is no way Taurani could have been overrun this easily, even in our sleep .
    He needed to find answers. And find others. He listened to the commotion that buzzed beyond the broken down houses. Footsteps trod the dirt road and the unfamiliar language identified them as the attackers. Marshall would have to wait them out. But minutes meant more casualties to his people. He peeked out from beneath the planks that were once the floor of a house and saw the tail end of a battalion of soldiers with swords and spears passing. They paid no attention to the destruction surrounding them; sure that no one had survived their onslaught. As he readied himself for the opportunity to leave his hiding spot, he realized he was still only clad in his undergarments, a result of having left his bed in the middle of the night. He would have to find breeches somewhere. There were no clothes visible in the remains of this house.
    Marshall crawled from his refuge toward the road. As he advanced, he crawled over more and more bodies. Of neighbors. Of friends.
    At least my family died in the house. I could not bear to look on them.
    Some of the invaders lay dead on the ground as well, but not many. The sun had risen higher and he could see plainly the vastness of the destruction. Even if enough of his people had survived, there would be no way to rebuild this place.
    He would have to move slowly and stay on the ground. He was well enough to walk, and had bandaged his shoulder securely enough that the blood was no longer flowing, but he could not risk standing. He crawled through heaps of splintered wood, beds, bodies, and other rubbish. He spied tatters that resembled clothes. He slithered to them and examined the pile. A pair of tan breeches slightly too big for him. They would have to do.
    Crawling behind the small pile of clothes and wooden furniture shards, Marshall wrestled on the breeches with his one good arm. He wriggled back out and the dirt road became visible ahead. Every road in the village had once been lined with various types of trees, and the one that should have been standing before him now lay lifeless on the ground like so many of his people.
    Footsteps. Coming fast.
    Marshall flopped on the road, paying no attention to what might be in the vicinity. The footsteps grew louder. Voices. Marshall realized his left arm rested over the exposed innards of a dead body. More discomforting was that he had to keep his eyes open and unmoving as