Blood Horn: Chapter 25
The Wrath of Man Made Monstrous
Welcome Back to Bloodthirsty Thursday!
PART IV: CARRION
CHAPTER 25
At the end, the Horn returned to the start.
Not the caves of his birth, but the land of his curse.
Hills. Valleys. Rivers. Cliffs. Fog.
A timeless, ageless beast.
Life a curse, death his denied relief.
He needed distance from might-have-beens, would-have-beens, and if only, if only, if only.
Glencoe’s mother wasn’t doing well.
As the sun fell, thousands of men waited on soft, grassy ground. It was a flashback to another time, another horror, and the Horn swallowed the sour memory. Two small bodies. Blood-soaked snow. But it wasn’t snowing now. It was mild. And damp. Fog hung in the air, waiting.
Nothing good would come of this night, but the Horn was thirsty. Hungry. Starving. Violence had sustained him, yet it hadn’t fulfilled him, and he needed more, more, more.
So he was here.
On another battlefield.
Among bodies with blood aching to spill.
Love you, Horsey.
The Horn gritted his razor teeth. He needed to disappear. He couldn’t do this anymore. Death lured him, a pipe, a drug, and he craved it more than he ever had before. Maybe the worst soul was here. Maybe tonight would set him free.
Or maybe he would continue living, killing, hurting till the earth dried up and the stars fell down.
Fuck.
Someone was telling the Highlanders to attack. To use blades, not firearms. To surprise the British army and slay them in the night. A man, still squeaky with youth, declared it was the Duke of Cumberland’s twenty-fifth birthday. As such, the government’s force would be drunk on brandy and celebration, a vulnerability they could exploit. The other Highlanders murmured in agreement, buzzing with thrill in the mid-April night.
The Horn wished he could tell them to wait. To rest and eat and ready themselves for morning. To lose today’s ambush and win tomorrow’s battle. But he could barely speak, and if he revealed himself, he would draw all violence like a magnet, a lure. Though he couldn’t die, the Highlanders could, and his bestial appearance would unleash hysteria.
No, best be invisible.
Lieutenant-General Lord George Murray—these men’s titles had gotten out of hand—ordered a march. A detachment of Jacobites lined up, a force under Murray and a force under the Duke of Perth, to attack the government from two sides. They cut through the night, ducking from the Royal Navy’s eyes.
And the Horn followed.
They were disorganized. Confused. Their rows were sloppy. Their posture drooped. Some men blinked, bleary with fatigue. Others fidgeted, famished, nervous. They marched till just before dawn, the Horn hidden behind them, when Murray called, “Halt.”
“We should cross,” one of his officers said, pointing at the River Nairn some miles in the distance. “They don’t know we’re here. This is our only chance.”
Murray shook his head. “It’s too risky. We should return to camp.”
The men groaned, complaining about the march. Murray grimaced as their protests escalated, voices rising and fists clenching and legs stomping in the twilit field.
“We abort,” Murray said, commanding and firm. “It’s too late. We took too long. If we attack, we won’t return in time for battle, and the others need us. Turn around, and march back.”
There were more objections, yet after several minutes, the Jacobites listened.
But they forgot to warn the second force.
Ooohhh, sounds like there’s violence on its way. Get ‘em!! 🔥🔥🔥 Phenomenal as always, amazing Halo!!!