Berserk: Thralls of the Deep Fiend

A fanmade novella

By Jeremy Whittaker

Based on Berserk by Kentaro Miura

Prologue

It was a bitter, cold night. A bad night for travelling. Winter had only just fallen on Midland and already the chill was creeping like a pack of wild dogs stalking a rabbit and surrounding it before it even knew it was being hunted. It was the kind of cold that slips through your cloak unnoticed at first, but within minutes it settles a cool blade between your shoulders, clamps shut your jaw, and turns your boots to stone. Snow lightly dusted the ground and the bare trees but it did not stir or fall.

There was no wind. Everything was still. Watching. Waiting.

The darkness was swollen and taut with anticipation, like a bowstring stretched to breaking, poised to let loose a volley icy arrows. There were no wagons hitched at the roadside. No campfires glowing in the underbrush.

It was a bad night for travelling. Worse things than chill were creeping.

A large, impossibly dark figure stirred in the distance. It lumbered down the road, articulated by the heavy clack, clack of metal on the cobblestone, followed by the softer sounds of delicate footfalls. A glowing bulb of light danced and flittered alongside, shining in stark contrast to the hulking figure.

As their passing disturbed the stillness of the night, it was as if the darkness exhaled. The shadows were drawn up toward them as moths to a flame, tree branches groaned hungrily and reached out to drag them away into the abyss, and the drifting tufts of snow they kicked up in their wake whispered vicious, unspeakable threats.

"Guuuts," The dancing light whined. "When are we going to stop? We've been walking all night. I'm so cold. And tired." He elongated the last syllable just long enough to gall.

Guts gave a low grunt from under a thick, black cloak. A mass of wrought iron, molded roughly into the shape of a human hand appeared from within the folds of fabric and swatted lazily at the source of the light.

The shining thing dipped out of the way of the attack with a casual ease that comes with practice, and came to a halt in front of the cloaked man. It was not a light at all. It was a tiny, naked boy no larger than a sparrow. He had a head shaped like a chestnut, two long, pointed ears, and a pair of wings like an insect's. His skin emitted a pale-blue glow. He was an elf.

He stuck out his tongue and made a rude noise before predicting a second blow from the metal hand. He bobbed frantically up and down, making several rude gestures and blowing wet raspberries.

"Auuu..."

The third voice also came from under the cloak. It was timid, feminine, youthful, if a bit too deep to be that of an actual child. At the sound of the voice, the elf froze in the middle of his taunting, hand raised in the act of slapping his own naked, blue ass. A large lump under the cloak began to squirm. There was a moment of complete silence.

The moment passed, and a second later a woman burst from under the cloak with both arms outstretched, grinning with all of her teeth. She pounced on the elf in a clumsy attempt to grab him with all of her fingers splayed and clapped her hands together fruitlessly.

She fell onto both knees and made a frown so petulant that it made her look ten years younger. She had smooth caramel-colored skin, large black eyes, and messy hair that went just past her shoulders. Her face was round and had no lines. She was tall and slender, but even through her tunic, the curves of her tight muscles were clearly visible. Though she sat there with the look of a little girl who had just dropped her dessert, she was strikingly beautiful.

"Ah?" She asked.

The elf darted away, and the woman let out a decidedly unattractive laugh that came from deep in her throat. She bounded nimbly to her feet in one motion. In the time it takes to draw one breath she closed the distance and was chasing the bouncing pixie in wide circles, swiping ineffectively at his wings.

Guts gave a long sigh and shrugged off his pack. Then he hefted something enormous from his back. It was too big to rightly be called a sword. It was massive, thick, and beaten rough from long use. It would be more appropriate to call it a heap of iron with a hilt and pommel. He handled it effortlessly with one hand. The threads of muscle in his forearm bulged dangerously. He laid the sword against a tree stump with a loud CLANG!

"Puck!" He said so abruptly he startled the elf out of his reverie. Puck stopped in midair, much to the dismay of his playmate.

"What is it?!" He said, his eyes wide. For a moment, there was only a hint of playfulness in his tone. A rare enough thing.

"Don't let Caska wander too far." Guts said.

Puck seemed to inflate to almost twice his normal size. His expression went comically serious and unnaturally square. He made an exaggerated motion with an open palm at his forehead. "Yessir! Roger that!" He said in an accent that Guts could not quite place. Then Caska caught him by the leg and he yelped. "Unhand me, wench!" He said venomously, and stomped at her fingers repeatedly before wiggling free and buzzing happily away.

Guts moved about gathering an armful of thick branches as well as a downed tree, which he threw over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all. He mechanically stacked the logs on the tree stump and his greatsword made quick work of them, splitting them like a hot knife through butter. As he worked, he absently watched the reckless game of tag unfolding in front of him. His eyes followed Caska as she tripped and fell face first into the snow, leapt up without brushing herself off, and resumed the chase, unperturbed. His thoughts were far away.

His legs sprinted through ankle deep snow. He stood on a hill surrounded by swords stuck into the frozen soil. His arms beat furiously. His colossal blade moved like the wind. The clash of metal rang like thunder in his ears. The sun glinted on polished armor. Silver curls floated like down feathers in the breeze. There was a gentle, familiar smile. "Auuu..." Stop!

He swung his sword with such force that half of the stump shattered into splinters and the tip of the blade buried itself deep into the ground. He was panting. His one open eye was wild.

He huffed a deep breath and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin and accentuated all the marks and stories there. His face was lined with fatigue and mangled with old injuries. There were a dozen minute scars which stood out bold and white on his cheeks and neck. His right eye was lidded and sightless. His nose was a ruin with a deep scar, the ghost of a wound that nearly severed it at the bridge. His neck bore a burn that etched a peculiar, glyphic brand in his flesh.

He knelt to one knee and began to casually worry over the fire. After a few moments he had coaxed a modest flame out of the wood and continued to tend to it idly with a twig. A faint tremor ran up his arm as exhaustion gripped him. How many nights had he gone without sleep? He couldn't remember. A full night's sleep was a luxury he could no longer afford. He shifted his weight and his knee buckled, causing him to collapse onto the remains of the stump. He decided that he could allow himself to lie here for a while, rather than fight against his body. He let his head lull backward and rested his arm on his sword tenderly, the way one would with a lover. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he thought sleep might take him.

He thought of sweet things then. Somewhere in the realm of half-dreaming, he thought he heard a waterfall.

"AYAHH!"

Caska's distressed cry pulled him numbly out of his dazed state.

Then a stinging pain ripped his mind back into focus. His hand went to his neck reflexively and came away sticky and red. The brand on his neck was bleeding.

"Guts!" Puck shouted from across the field toward the forest. "Come quick! It's Caska. She's…" But whatever he was going to say was cut short as he dodged something like a tree limb overhead.

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Guts was already on his feet before the elf had finished speaking and was crossing the field with alarming swiftness. He spotted Puck at the edge of the wood weaving desperately as tendrils of black mist filled the air around him. The shadows being cast by the trees and shrubbery were peeling themselves up from the ground, and striking out wildly.

Puck dodged the first shadowy branch as it swiped at his head, but he was not as quick a second time. A branch swept his legs and set him somersaulting through the air. He managed to right himself just in time to duck as two tentacles grabbed for him at the same time. Finally, he was captured around the shoulders. As the cord of shadow twisted and tightened its grip, he disappeared into the blackness. Then several sharp slivers of light scattered the shadows, and he emerged blazing like a lantern.

He tried to make a quick escape, but his aura grew dim and he fell out of the sky into a snowdrift, leaving a hole in the shape of his tiny body. There was a small rustling under the snow. Puck sat upright with snow covering his face. He had placed it in such a way as to look like a shaggy white beard. He put on his best old codger voice. "Eh, sonny! Didn't yer mama teach yeh ta respect yer elders?" He said wearily, before sliding backward into the Puck-shaped snow drift, snoring almost immediately.

Guts scanned the opening to the forest for Caska. She lay about thirty feet away on her stomach. Her arms flailed helplessly and her legs were a tangle of vines made of the shade. She clawed all around herself for purchase, but only managed to pull up dirt as she was dragged slowly into the gaping, black maw of the forest. Her face was a mask of terror.

The sword arced high overhead. It caught the moonlight at the apex and cast a dull grey beam at Caska's feet. The earth shook with its weight as it slammed to the ground just below her ensnared legs. The tendrils binding her were cut clean and the severed ends dissolved into smoke. The remaining strands retreated into the trees, hissing and sputtering.

Guts stood between Caska and the danger as she scrambled to her hands and knees and crouched several feet behind him, trembling. He glanced over his shoulder. Her tunic was ripped at the forearm where she had scraped an elbow. She had also broken one fingernail and a little blood mixed with dirt lumped in the quick of the nail. Otherwise, she appeared to be unharmed.

"Stay behind me." He said.

She made a frightened cooing noise but her eyes showed no spark of recognition. Nonetheless, she did not move. Guts faced the writhing darkness that was lurking just past visibility at the edge of the woods, with his sword poised. He was heavily clad in tanned leathers and a thick blackiron cuirass. The leathers were full of clever little pouches and pockets where he stored throwing knives and supplies. Next to Caska, he was menacing.

A pair of bright red eyes appeared in the trees, followed by two more. Soon the boughs were alight with dozens of eyes, all full of mirth and malice. Guts started to envision a small army of little rotting bodies waiting in the darkness to eat him, until he looked closer. No, that was not right. Not in the darkness. They were the darkness. And they were one, rather than many. In some corner of his mind, it occurred to him that the tree line looked very much like a sharp grin, and he could almost see the teeth waiting to devour him if he were caught up in it. A chorus of croaking laughter filled the air as dozens of voices spoke all at once.

You cannot protect her. Die. We will rip her. It's your fault. Tear her to pieces. You should have died. He is coming. Hahaha. Never escape. Die! She belongs to us.

The brand on his neck throbbed and flowed freely with blood. He pressed two fingers into the brand, licked them clean, and grinned wickedly. "Come and get her, if you can. I'll spend all night cutting you to pieces." He said. His hand moved stealthily, imperceptible as it disappeared in his cloak. He hurled two knives at the pair of eyes in the center of the mass. They were unaffected even though his aim was true. The mocking ceased, the eyes winked out one by one, and there was a sound like a room full of people drawing a breath in unison.

Then the darkness erupted.

Tendrils of mist and shadow spilled out of the forest in every direction. They were too quick and too many to count. Fifty? Seventy, maybe. They rose high into the air, and came crashing toward him from several angles at once.

He saw an opening, but he would have to be precise. He dove, making himself thin as he slipped gracefully between the branches. He heard fabric tear and felt a searing cold as a talon of smoke punched through the bulk of his lower leg. It burned like a rod of white hot iron. He gritted his teeth in a monstrous snarl, tucked his shoulder, and rolled deftly on one hip. He brought his sword around his back with inhuman speed in a wide horizontal sweep. Five branches were cut down at once and dissipated like a snuffed candle. Half a second later, the shockwave kicked up snow with a mighty gust. A ten foot wide semicircle of dark green appeared on the ground where new grass was exposed.

A frenzied screech, loud and shrill, echoed from deep within the trees.

He was caught hard in the stomach by a branch as big around and heavy as the trunk of an oak that sent him careening through the air. He tasted blood. Thankfully his ribs and vital organs were saved by his chestplate.

It carried him so high that he could almost see the tops of the trees. He chopped at the mass of black smoke in a rowing motion. He was surprised by the amount of resistance he found there. His shoulder flexed under his cured leathers causing them to creak from the stress. Then the smoke gave way and he was free.

He hung in the air, framed by the moon. For a quiet moment time stood still.

And he was falling.

Then a cruel lash struck him across the back and hammered him into the earth. He landed face down like a stone and all the air left him. His vision darkened. Then a second blow cracked like a whip on his spine. Blood and bile spewed from his mouth. And his body went limp.

He heard a whistling as something cold brushed past his neck. He turned onto his back not a second too soon. He saw an icy spear embed itself into the dirt out of the corner of his eye. Distracted, he nearly did not react in time for the next attack. He brought his sword to his face just in time as two more black daggers aimed directly at his eyes glanced harmlessly off the hilt.

He struggled to his feet with some effort. There was a weak sound from behind that made his stomach clench in knots.

"Ooooo," said Caska. She was running from a bramble of deadly thorns pelting straight toward her.

Guts shielded her with his body. He brought both hands down hard with the broadside of the blade turned downward. He broke apart most of the brambles, but he missed a few of them. Thorns dug into the meat of his bicep and cut a deep gash above his eyebrow. He swung his sword back and forth, batting away the thorns as they struck out in quick succession like a nest of vipers. He deflected them with a stoic calm, heedless of the thin red lines blossoming on his arms and face.

"Ah! Ah!" Caska squealed. There was not a scratch on her.

The shadow of a vine slithered low to the ground and made to grab his ankles. He vaulted over it easily but was caught firmly around the waist from behind. His sword arm was pinned to his side.

He pummeled and pried with his metallic arm, but it was no use. The vine shook him in great swaying patterns and blood rushed to his head. His vision began to blur around the edges, so he bit down hard on his lip to keep himself from passing out. The taste of iron filled his mouth. The vine seemed to grow irritated when he was still conscious after a few seconds of this and slammed him to the ground. Once. Twice.

Guts' eye rolled back in his head and his body went slack. "No, dammit. Not here," he thought.

He dangled upside-down like a child's ragdoll just outside in front of the looming trees. There was a hollow breathing as a corridor opened up before him in the thicket, revealing a fleshy throat that was very unlike a forest. Hot breath steamed in the winter chill. It smelled like dirt, dead leaves, and decaying flesh. The red eyes came alight and fixed him in their greedy gaze. They began to murmur once again.

"Weak human. EAT HIM! She comes next. I want to chew on his bones. The hawk will meet you in hell. You die now!"

Slowly he raised his wrought iron hand as if in a halting gesture. A short rope was clenched in his teeth. His eye flashed open, full of hatred and fury. He pulled. The metal hand broke away, and his forearm was a hollow tube.

"DIE!" He bellowed, but his voice was drowned out by an earsplitting BOOM! Fire blasted from his wrist and sent him spiraling through the air. The blaze shot several feet into the demon's throat and exploded. The trees disintegrated into mulch and mist.

Guts lay there for several minutes watching the flames grow and lick up toward the sky.

The trees cast no shadows.

He laughed over the roar of the inferno. There was no humor in it. He laughed until his throat was sore. He laughed until his head grew light.

And he slipped out of consciousness with a smile on his lips.

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After an hour or two, the snow was melting, and just a hint of dawn was beginning to peek through what remained of the canopy of leaves. Guts woke with a start.

"Caska!" He said, and bolted upright. His chest was heaving.

Caska lay a few feet away with the sleeves of her gown curled up under her cheek. She had her back to a bed of smoldering coals that were whistling and steaming from the early morning dew. He made a move to wake her, but thought better of it and decided to let her sleep for a while longer. She breathed so silently that it would have been imperceptible if not for the bunched fabric of her sleeves that shivered slightly under her nose. In the dim light, he saw nothing of the dewy child in her. She was fierce. He took in the cunning arch of her eyebrows and traced his gaze along the slant to where they made a point. Her mouth was not curved in the perpetual oval of oos and aus, nor did it curl sheepishly at the corners. Instead, her lips were pursed just a bit, and the expression was somewhat grave. He tried to imagine the sound her voice would make if she were to awaken just so. His ears flushed.

And he ached.

As he pushed himself into a seated position, the stiffness in his arms and the jagged pain in his lower leg made it a chore. He prodded his calf muscle, curiously. He expected to find a hole, but instead found the skin to be smooth but for a crust of dried blood. He ran his hand along where the wound should have been, and something dry and grainy rolled between his fingertips.

He nodded to himself and brushed the dust away as if not particularly surprised to find it there. After all, it was one of the advantages of keeping the company of the fae folk. A few feet away, Puck snored contentedly with his mouth agape, while a bubble of snot swelled to the size of an acorn each time his chest rose and fell. His wings fluttered in his sleep and threw off a tiny cloud of particles that fell like snow around him. Guts noticed that the patch of grass where the sleeping elf lay was exceptionally green.

He entertained the idea of going back to sleep. He would need his strength and focus when the sun went down. The demons and dead things would surely come calling on him again, as they had most every night for longer than he could remember, drawn by the brand that marred his neck. It was the struggle of those cursed with the brand of sacrifice. He was a beacon for every evil spirit seeking a harbor in the mortal world. Rather, he was like a bloated corpse in a field, and every night they circled and swarmed and fought for the opportunity to peck at his carrion flesh.

Caska babbled a stream of nonsense and rolled over without waking. The bodice of her gown shifted and revealed a bold, red brand just above the swell of one of her breasts. Guts absentmindedly rubbed at his neck.

It was simpler when he had travelled on his own down the path of vengeance, as it were, hunting down and slaughtering the servants of the Godhand, the demon kings of the abyss. He had relinquished his mind to that sweet rage, allowing it to fill him and burn out every other thought. He abandoned his body to the fire and did not care for the price in bone or blood. Every foe he cut down brought him closer to the object of his wrath. Closer to Griffith.

But now there was Caska to consider. He had almost lost her once at the Tower of Conviction, when the black hand rose to the sky and the hawk was reborn. He made his choice then, and it had almost cost him. Everything. So he was resolved. He would not leave her again. He would not buy his vengeance with her life, because she was too precious and her blood was too high a price.

Now, rather than marking his steps closer to revenge, each passing day brought them closer to a safe haven in the land of the elves. Puck had been certain that Caska would be safe in his homeland of Elfheim. The magic of the fae could spare her from the dark path that he had chosen. He would have dismissed the idea as fancy if he had not experienced it for himself. He still remembered the cave where he woke so long ago with the afterimage of his right eye still burning in the empty, throbbing socket, and the stump of his arm bleeding into fresh bandages. That place had kept them safe for a time. Perhaps Elfheim would serve them just as well.

Guts waited until the sun rose before waking his companions. They shared a meager breakfast from his pack before setting out from the now ruined forest path without looking back. The day passed mostly without incident. Caska and Puck found new and marvelous games to play, while Guts kept a watchful eye on the road. Late in the morning they came upon a campfire that was still warm, stoked it, and managed a short rest. Then they did not see any signs of life again until well after midday when they passed a merchant's wagon. He seemed to be in the mood for a healthy dicker over his goods, and was more than a little put out when he was summarily ignored by the tall man in the worn black armor.

When the sky began to darken, they made camp in a field that opened up between two foothills, far abreast of the forest. It was quiet for most of the evening until the moon was high overhead. Caska was the first to notice when the witching hour began. She moaned and clutched her chest several seconds before Guts felt the telltale sting in his own neck.

There came a series of small tremors that ran up Guts' leg to the knee. Then mounds of disturbed soil began sprouting up like molehills all along the field. Thousands of old bones rattled in concert as a multitude of skeletal corpses exhumed themselves from their resting places. Some of them still wore rusted armor draped in the flag of some long lost empire, or bore the sigil of some long dead king. It must have been a battlefield in a distant memory in which the sides had been forgotten. Now there was only the living and the dead in a valley of dry bones.

Guts' warcry was so loud it roared back to him from the distant hills. His steel whispered. The sounds of bones snapping and clattering into heaps echoed long into the small hours of the night.