Story #296 - Drums Of War

Drums Of War

Ka-thum.

Ka-thum.

Ka-thun. Ka-thum. Ka-thum.

The drums drove him forward, despite fear, despite terror that threatened to hold him back. He’d been trained, modified, adjusted to act in accordance with their rhythm, move according to their beat. It wasn’t involuntary, hardly forced – he had joined the Corps at a young age, hoping for glory and honor.

A dozen years passed quickly, in and out of engagements across the quadrant, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but never dead and never dying. Corporal Loe Soress was one of the lucky ones, one of the few who made it through unscathed, physically. His mind had fared more poorly, his eyes had seen more than any man should have been able to hold, but he soldiered on, marching sharply to the beat of a thousand drums.

It was the Dutharians who had sparked the ire of the Overlords, who had chosen to resist rather than fall under their sway. Once, the name of the Overlords had been spoken in jest, a mocking title fit for a group that believed they were greater than their sum, believed they could reach farther than their grasp. The drums had changed all that, sent enemies scurrying back into holes and given the Overlords undisputed control over the quadrant, but still they were not satisfied.

It took only dissention from those the Overlords approached for an attack to be launched. Refusal of any demand, any dictate meant the drums and the men they brought, submission forced upon those who were simply trying to act in their own best interests.

Loe understood his role, though could no longer pretend it pleased him. He was a tool, an instrument of the Overlords, designed to sing a song of war and death, and sing it well.

The first ranks crashed into waiting Dutharians, huge bug-eyed things with thick arms and plated chests. They screamed as power-lances cut their hides, and fired back with a volley of nu-bolts. All around Loe men died, the audible agony of their passing swept over by the rush of drums.

Ka-thum. Ka-thum. Ka-ka-thum.


He charged forward, dropping his lance and pulling a dagger from his belt. Commanders had told him to return it, superiors had demanded he relinquish it, but none had carried out veiled threats of court-martial or punishment for not complying – Loe was too valuable to lose. The dagger made him feel better about his choices, his actions, as though he were fighting man-to-beast instead of at the behest of roaring rhythm. All around him, Durthari died and he wore their blood, refused to wipe it from his arms or face as a symbol of his victory, his power over the enemy.

Men rallied to his side, fear melting from their movements as they saw him fight. Captains called orders but they were ignored as Loe pushed forward, opening a hole in the Durtharian lines and driving toward their commander, heads taller than his soldiers and screaming almost as loudly as the beat of the drums.

Fire and death rained down, to the left and the right flesh was seared, limbs were severed and under him the ground shook, heaved, and tried to buck those who would do violence upon it. Loe remained firm; he could not be thrown.

The commander glared down at him, a giant sizing up a tiny morsel, and Loe flourished his dagger, spinning it across his hand and then flipping it into the air. A howl drowned out the pulse of drumbeats and he felt confidence waver, felt his surety slip. Those around him stepped back as the commander strode forward, mouth open in a wail and blunt teeth dripping ichor.

A single swipe threw a dozen men across the field, and its return killed five more. Blood and death became Loe’s world, luck and skill keeping him alive in equal measure. The commander roared, friend and foe alike falling around him to the earth, hands over ears and eyes wide in fear. Even Loe was driven down, knees plunging into soft dirt, vision distorted at the sound. Distantly, a familiar beat called, fading as light bled out.

Ka-thum.

Ka-thum.

Silence.

Fear came quickly, rushing in where rhythm had been, where absolute certainty had taken root. The Overlords had been clever, quick to train those they owned in the arts of war, but foolish to rely so heavily on what they considered a perfect solution, an answer to the problem of failing courage in the ranks of the faithful, of the paid.

A scaled fist rose and the commander’s face split in a grin, for a moment stifling the battlefield in a choke of silence. Loe stared up, wide-eyed, at the fisted death coming for him, the swift end that would mark his passing.

The drums were silent; the fight had ended.

His heart beat.

Ka-thum.

It was quiet, a whisper as to a storm. It was loud, a detonation to single crack.

Ka-thum. Ka-thum. KA-THUM!

Loe moved, rolling from his knees, heavy blow swiping through the air above him. The dagger left his hand, a flash of twisting steel in the smoke and fire, and found the commander’s neck, slipping into a fleshy node just under the jutting chin. Down the beast went, crashing to the ground, as did those around him, driving their faces into the dirt.

Wholesale slaughter began as men found their courage, and used it to butcher those they did not understand. Corporal Loe Soress turned, sheathed his dagger, and moved toward the line.

It was the drums that had kept him coming back, the sense of pride and power that filled him each time their beat rang out. They fueled him, they defined him.

They were his.

The Overlords had nothing left to offer, nothing left to give. Perhaps they would let him leave peacefully – perhaps he would die in the attempt. It did not matter. They had provided, but he had created. His drums of war sang out, and could no longer be made quiet.


- D