November 2024 Contest 1st Place: "The Keres"

Genre: horror, mythology

The copper-haired soldier handed two small coins to the servant.

"Blessings of Dionysus," said the servant as he poured dark fragrant wine from his large pitcher into their wide cups before moving to another table.

The second soldier, smiling, raised his kylix by both handles. "May this wine warm your gut, if not your heart."

His companion lifted his kylix and they both tilted the vessel to their mouths and drank.

"Ah, it is strong, just as I said it would be," said the second soldier contentedly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His copper-haired friend, more interested in drinking his wine than talking, simply nodded.

In fact, most of the men in the kapeleion drank their wine quietly before heading back outside. There was an air of solemnity across much of eastern Corinthia these days as the Greeks mustered their strength and courage in preparation for their next battle.

Still, the talkative young hoplite attempted to engage his friend in conversation.

"At least we travel toward home. The sooner we rid our homeland of filthy Persians the sooner I can get back to chasing my beloved Crisa," he grinned before tilting his cup again.

His friend set his kylix on the table. "I'm certain that once we pass through Megaris our journey will take us north, toward Thebes. Home will have to wait," he said soberly.

A squad leader sitting nearby placed his empty kylix on the table. "We will follow the trail of dead bodies, wherever that may lead," he said grimly before standing up and leaving.

"Pleasant fellow," quipped the talkative soldier before sipping from his cup.

Another man, thick of limb, spoke up. "We shall march toard the darkened sky," he began, his voice deep, "for it is said that aegypii circle in great numbers above the battlefield waiting to scavenge the bodies of the dead once the living have moved on."

The two young soldiers lowered their bowls to listen as the man spoke.

An older man sat by the window. He responded ominously, his voice raspy:

"There are worse things than vultures that circle above the battlefield," he said. A horrible scar disfigured the left side of the man's face. There was a bald spot above his left temple where no grey hair grew from the site of the scar.

All eyes turned to the scarred man, who had remained unnoticed until he spoke.

"What do you speak of?" asked the copper-haired hoplite when no one else posed the obvious question.

The scarred man eyed the young soldiers before turning back to his wine.

The silence at the table stretched out until the talkative soldier became impatient.

"What could be more foreboding than vultures, old man?" What is it you have witnessed with your own eyes? Harpies? Griffins perhaps?" He scoffed and lifted his bowl.

The old man drank deeply from his cup then set it down. He peered into the red wine at the bottom of his bowl as if contemplating his own reflection there. He flexed his fingers around the handles on either side of his kylix.

"The Keres," he said, not lifting his gaze.

The talkative soldier chuckled, but did so weakly and nervously. Everyone else listening at the table remained silent.

The copper-haired soldier looked at the others before turning to the scarred man. If no one else would aske, he would. "Who -- or what -- are the Keres?"

The larger man who had first mentioned the vultures stood up suddenly and left, even though there was still some wine left in the bottom of his kylix.

Another man who had not spoken gulped down the rest of his wine, eyes bulging, then left hurriedly.

The scarred man, still contemplating his wine, nodded and pursed his lips before turning to the others remaining at the table. He caught the eye of the copper-haired soldier.

"The Keres are dark spirits, attracted to those who die violent deaths. They come to collect anguished souls. I know not why."

The talkative man shook his head and sneered in disbelief. "Nonsense. You speak of folklore as if it were true, old man."

"It is true, young hoplite," replied the scarred man assertively. "I have, in fact, seen them for myself."

The young soldier was undeterred. "Have you now? Did you see them before or after you received the wound that marks you?" He gestured toward the older man's face and grinned.

The scarred man smiled back. He was missing many of his teeth on the left side. He leaned toward the talkative soldier, his gaze piercing.

"Shortly after, as I lay dying," he confessed, daring the young soldier to suggest that he must have been hallucinating then.

But the talkative hoplite held his tongue as the scarred man glared at him.

"Would you be so kind as to tell us what you saw?" asked the copper-haired soldier. He waved his hand to catch the attention of a nearby servant. "Let me fill your cup."

"Blessings of Dionysus," said the servant, bowing and leaving the table after accepting payment and refilling the scarred man's kylix.

The older man unconsciously raised a hand and rubbed the broad scar that ran from the top of his head to his left jawbone. He nodded to the young soldier in thanks before taking a sip of wine from his cup.

"I was at Eretria a decade ago, after the Persians had taken the southern Islands. We arrived from Chalcis as the enemy sailed north from Karystos."

"You are Euboean, then?" interrupted the talkative soldier.

The scarred man took no offence, shaking his head. "No, I am Athenian, the same as you. We were stationed at Chalcis, so we marched to support Eretia: our rebel brethren." He smiled when he said the last, although it was a bitter smile that faltered on his face. Every man at the table knew that Eretia had fallen to the Persians and was subsequently sacked.

The scarred man paused, running his rough hands over the worn handles of his kylix before raising it to his mouth. He set his cup back on the table before continuing.

"Little did we know that the Persians had formed a cavalry using horses taken from Karystos. It was the death of us."

The faces around the table grew solemn.

"Flanked and surrounded, we fought bravely until sunset. Many Persians fell to our spears and swords, but in the end the Persians marched on the city while half a battalion of good Greek Soldiers lay dead and dying in the field."

"Left for dead and unable to stand or lift a spear, I watched the darkening of the sky. At first, I thought that a storm was gathering. There were dark shapes in the sky, but they were insubstantial, like clouds of dust or large swarms of tiny insects. But it was not clouds I was seeing. These shapes did not move with the wind, but instead turned against it in defiance of the natural flow of air. I saw dozens of these shapes, and at first they circled high above the battlefield. But as the natural light bled from the sky, these masses few nearer the ground, appearing more and more like enormous vultures made of fine sand -- but dark, the colour of rich soil."

"Then, one landed less than a spear's throw away from where I lay, its body assembling out of the dust as it neared the earth. It had the appearance of a tall warrior with long hair, except there were large, dark wings on its back. I could not see its face, for it strode away from me."

"Another dark mass approached the ground, this one much closer to me than the last. Again, its body coalesced from a cloud of fine particles, and when it landed in front of me, the putrid fog rising from the corpses of the dead billowed and flowed away from the feet of the winged monster. It was taller than a tall man by a head and shoulders at the least. There was a terrifying aura about the creature and the air became colder as it approached."

"It stopped and crouched down not far from me, its huge black wings outspread. As it reached toward the body of a dead soldier, I could see its face...or rather its lack of a face. There was no flesh on the front of its skull, no lips to hide its teeth, no cheeks to hid its jaw, no nose or eyes, just black holes in its white skull."

"It held its hand just above the chest and face of the dead soldier, and I could see a rippling in the air that distorted my view of what lay beyond."

"Then the creature rose to its full height once more and approached me. I will never forget the chilling cold that emanated from the dark spirit. My ragged breath escaped my mouth as a white plume. Nore will I ever forget the stench of the thing. The wind carried the smell of blood and death across the battlefield, but those smells paled in comparison to the vile odour of the winged nether-spirit. If ancient evil could be described as a smell, then that is what she smelled like. For it was female, or at least had been if and when it had ever been alive. The breastplate it wore was fashioned for a woman."

"Whatever it was, it had come for me. At least that is what I believed in the moment. As it crouched down over me, the shocking coldness bit into my flesh and froze the blood that ran from my open wound. But it simply stared at me with empty eye sockets, its jaw opening and closing before it stood and stepped over my body."

"The coldness began to recede, and I continued to watch the darkening sky as more and more Keres descended onto the battlefield to collect the souls of the dead."

The storyteller rubbed at his scar, then lifted his kylix and drank deeply of the wine within.

A captain appeared suddenly at the doorway. "Drink quickly, soldiers of Athens," he said loudly. "We march to Boeotia and to victory." He banged his fist twice on the doorframe before disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

Commotion filled the room as many of the men stood to leave.

The copper-haired soldier drank the remainder of his wine while standing, then turned to the scarred man who remained seated.

"Thank you. I should hope to never see the likes of the Keres."

The scarred man smiled at the men who stood around him. "You have more to fear from the vultures, for if the Keres come for you, you will already be dead. May Ares be with you."

When he and his friend reached the door, the copper-haired hoplite looked back.

The morning sun shone in through the window, illuminating the table where they had been sitting.

The scarred man was nowhere to be seen.

From the Author

In my writing, regardless of genre, I explore the emotive.  Engaging readers with an interesting, well-written story is important, but my purpose goes beyond that.  When I write, I seek to captivate readers so they become immersed in the story and invest themselves emotionally in the characters and their circumstances.  Evoking human emotion through storytelling is what separates great writers from good writers, in my opinion.  That is where the magic resides.

-- John Grim

Discover more of John Grim's work on Booksie.