ã€ŠVem&#xF6;dalen: From The Other Sideã€‹


 All Hell Shall Sing

    The full-bellied moon spilled its light readily through high-etched windows past the wooden rafters holding up the cut stone in its reaching, sprawling construction of man¡¯s greatest precision. Senma found that few things here where not the doing of man, and thus the Music was damped, warped. They say the Song leaks from the world with each day¡¯s passing, but she heard it easy enough. Even here, far from home in a land where she didn¡¯t belong.

    The rhythm of it guided her. Her feat tapping along the floor in her own pace, one only Senma could hear, for it was her own song; an ever-flowing stream of words ushered into the living realm, slightly twisted for the wood-cut face she wore.

    Painted red for blood and white for bone, black for wrath and yellow for soul the devil¡¯s face snarled into the night, baring its pointed teeth and spitting tongue. A most sinful demon indeed, all just as well for it was committing the gravest of sins.

    Felt the grain of dark wood, long dead and deep polished against the thin soles of her footwear. She knew the bright people to be savages, but for them to use wood for nothing but steps and floor was past her reasoning. Even if she had kissed the aged boards before treading upon them, the grimace hidden behind her Face did not fade.

    But the song was growing louder as she drew closer to its progenitor, though the notes were all wrong, and the tune hurt her ears, she recognized it none the less. Had her scowling, no doubt looking just like the Face she wore to hide her own.

    She neared a corner, but the flow warned her and she twitched back; had the spear¡¯s shaft follow its gleaming tip before her narrowed eyes. Her blade lashed out, cut the haft into splintering halves. Left the Bright man with a broken stick is his paws. He stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do.

    Senma breathed another line and then her blade drifted as if afloat, sent the man¡¯s head spinning into the black bowels where the moon¡¯s light did not reach, heard the blood tap against her mask. Red blood onto red paint; All the same to her for she was ready to spill more of it.

    Footsteps echoed along the hall, hammering through the stretching shadows; or perhaps the stretching light. They knew she was here, which did not surprise her. But there were many, and so she would resort to other means.

    The body was still brimming, coiling with Song from its innards, still warm from when they had a purpose; from the blood, yet hot from when it was needed; from the soul, for it was bound to her now. And the corpse¡¯s notes were added to her own.

    Her lips moved, a low whispering against the howling wind, drifting slowly through the stone before growing and building and swelling with her surging breath and then she was almost screaming the lines, her hand sinking into the corpse¡¯s yawning wound, preparing herself for the demon would commit another sin, no less grave than the last.

    The crush of spears and shields spilled from the great arching doorway framed by dark wood, their armor clattering with a thousand sounds to join a thousand more already swimming in the cool night together with Senma¡¯s chanting.

    There was a stab of light, pure and white which burned at the eyes, and then the wood around the tangle of men burst apart in a boiling tempest with splinters as daggers, digging themselves into the disbelieving bunch.

    Senma wasted no time lamenting the shattered wood and dashed forward, feet following the Song¡¯s rhythm. Many were unable to respond and simply clawed at their ruined face, now so horribly cut open and torn apart. Her curved sword made quick work of those.

    Three more remained standing, wrapped in iron plate, they fanned out left and right before their short spears whipped out at Senma. A storm of thrusts whistled through the cold air, trailed by red cloth tied to the blades¡¯ base, all to hide the metal tip and confuse Senma. But their conviction was in vain.

    Their spears stabbed at her, their shields swung at her, but she was made of wind and shadow. Of mist and mirage. Easier to cut the flickering flame. Quicker to catch curling smoke. She moved between them with a drunken swagger, as if dancing to a song only she could hear. They could not guess where she would step next, let alone swing her warped blade.

    The spear hissed past her face and she twitched aside, pushed the shaft with a guiding hand and it dug straight into the other¡¯s guts. Had him look up mighty confused before letting a sputtering gurgle which blubbered off into silence.

    The man who just lost his spear fumbled for the dagger in his belt, but his fingers were panicked and all he could do was yelp before his throat showered Senma in his warm blood. And now there was only one. Stood there with his spear held far before him, eyes hard behind the helm¡¯s slits. Hands bunched around the haft, wringing at the wood. Feet planted square onto the tortured boards.

    Tip, tap, the blood dripped onto the floor, adding their noise to the song trailing off Senma¡¯s lips. There was a pace to it as well. You could hear it, all you need is to listen; listen close. Everything had a song of its own, eager to be heard. This was a dark one. A low creeping like that of a spider looming to its helpless prey. And Senma would have it honored.

    She stalked forward to the Bright man, her body swaying left and right, bursts of speed and sudden halts, a spastic flicking of her wrists along with the world¡¯s beat. No doubt he tried staring into her eyes hidden within the Face¡¯s shadows. No doubt he would find them strange; yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Not of the likes he had ever seen before for they belonged only to those beyond the Sea of Sand. Where the earth was ash and the trees of stone.

    She took another step and he roared so loud his voice was grated raw half-way through, then dashed forward, the spear¡¯s tip a glint in the night. She dodged the first thrust, then crouched low and spun behind him and as he turned, his arm was sent twirling round and round, a trail of blood following behind, hand still clutching the shaft.

    Unlike the others, he pressed through with a throaty growl and a hissing. His round, rimmed shield went for her, but she staggered aside and then her blade was wedged into his neck with a wet thud.

    ¡°Gueh.¡± He sputtered before sagging sideways onto the old boards, but whatever he tried to say was lost to her. Not that it mattered, anyway.

    If it had been a plie for help; then he was way past saving. Were he casting her into damnation, then she would accept his contempt for she had plenty of her own for him. Perhaps he was begging for forgiveness, which Senma could understand; for here they were committing the gravest of sins. One that had the demon breaking all the rules she was raised by. But they say there is a time for the breaking of every rule, and if this was not such a time, then when was?

    She grabbed the first body she saw and threw it out the window down into the gorge yawning below, binding its fall to her lips with a whispering. Then rushed further, leaving the lamenting over broken bodies and shattered lives to the moon and wind for she had more pressing matters.

    The Song was now a white pain, stabbing through her head at a steady, unceasing pace. It was the worst breaking of Song, the likes of which Senma had never heard before; only been scared by as a little girl by the Elders, told around the licking tongues of the evening fire as one of their many lessons.

    She climbed a twisting staircase, swiftly running up the wooden steps with a strange lightness for she was still singing; releasing the reverse binding and adding the stored momentum to her own.

    She fled from the stair¡¯s top and dove into the looming chamber, walls beset by laving crystals glowing with a ruby light and veins as lightning crawling along the stone-cut floor¡¯s etchings. Senma would breathe easier for she was no longer threading upon wood, but every part of the room sang vehemently and worked on her sensitive hearing.

    Her heart bled for she knew how these crystals had been made; born from Blood. Another breaking. Another most sinful deed. This would not be forgiven. Senma would see to it.

    More bright men came for her, but by now she was a walking, breathing storm and had no more stopping to her than death itself. She called another binding into the world, a direct one. The stowed force of the fallen corpse latched itself onto the men¡¯s guts and they were harassed by a sudden nausea, had their knees shaking while retching bile onto the polished tiles.

    It was difficult to bind so many, as Song was lost as its medium with every passing moment. But it was enough to dispose of these men, unknown and inexperienced with this use of Song. Never mind that Senma was good, dangerously so. Her blade darted out; lashing, hacking, ever-flowing with the world¡¯s rhythm.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    The last fell crumbling, life gushing from his inner thighs where a great slice was carved from his leg. Senma glanced around but found the windows too high up the reaching chamber walls to throw them from, so she would need do with what was left. Pathetically little, being honest. But there was no helping it. Nothing to be done other than continuing her singing while the halls and rooms passed her by as she ran.

    And then the ever-moving moon¡¯s light spilled in no more. In the darkness there was now only a gloomy, reddish light released by the irredeemable crystals. She came to a sudden halt as a dark smear appeared standing in the foremost doorway, giving an abysmal emptiness shimmering around its hunched frame. About the figure there was no music. And when it moved towards her, the crimson light near it flickered, waned and then faded. Senma wondered if there were nothing but sinners past the Sand Sea. Then wondered what that meant for her.

    The man¡¯s lips moved but here was no Song, only hard words forced to do his bidding. There was the squealing of metal and a cold tugging. She slipped aside before rock rained down from the shattered ceiling, cutting along her body with a flint-like sharpness.

    She stole the song from the tumbling rock, watched the mans flapping robes, light as any mage would like, whirl around him as she released another binding at the cloth. He wailed about, blinded by the torrent of robes but his hand became freed before she reached him and fanned a clap of fire at her.

    The orange cloud of flame roared as it came for Senma. She cursed underneath the devil¡¯s Face, touched the cool wall, ushering a direct binding between hot flame and cold rock. The sundering curtain went out with a cough of dark smoke that caught in her throat.

    Her pulsing hand left the hot stone, aching as if it had touched a boiling kettle even though her palms and fingers were wrapped in cloth; just as her arms, her calves, and her torso. She did not have to rely on thin robes like the old man before her. Though she preferred herself as weightless as possible none the less.

    The black curl of smoke grated at her lungs, had her coughing between lines of Song. The man grinned, seeing his chance, and the gold and silver bangles along his arms shifted and clattered under his wide sleeve as he started reciting another barrage of cold words in his gravel voice; more of the red light fading away as he pulled the Song from it.

    His face was split for the wide grin he wore as he finished his spell, but the joy was short lived. Senma willed the last bit of song shimmering around her and bound his tongue to his lips in the opening that always presents itself after the spell¡¯s calling and before its coming.

    His shriveled eyes widened with disbelief as the last word turned a lisp, the Kaude ruined and thus uncontrolled fury was born into the chamber; spitting drooling flame before erupting with a call of thunder in the man¡¯s outstretched hand.

    Senma turned away from the explosion, covering her ears from its booming, felt hot air blow around her to rustle her clothes and countless braids. A sharp ringing resonated in her skull, the room a blurry smear of hollow dark and faint red and falling dust that had her coughing something fierce.

    She tried blinking the confusion away, internally cussing the fool to have poured as much Song into his spell as he did. And when the ringing faded there was a bloodcurdling scream. Senma watched the old mage clutch at his mangled elbow, the ruined flesh around a poking shard of bone.

    She went for him, fast as she could with the world still lurching for the hammering in her head. But the man was quicker to find his balance and spat a simple line into the world while brandishing an intrinsically decorated card. The square slice of crystal beamed an angry red, and before she could react, a hard thud sent her sprawling backwards, then sliding further along the floor; all breath expelled from her.

    She heard the man¡¯s footsteps echo away as he fled while she squirmed on the tiles, grasping at her aching chest. No doubt broke a couple ribs then. She growled against the pain, flicking bloody spit with her rattling tongue, clawed herself upright against the wall¡¯s polished chunks of rock, and started limping towards where the man had fled.

    She staggered after him, his pained groaning an ever-present noise during her struggle. At the end of the hallway a door stood flung open to her right. She knew him to be there; weakened and wounded. But the room sent a sickening rill up her spine that set her scalp to tingle and her knees to shake.

    She licked at her lips, suddenly nervous. Scared. For what sinful deeds hid within the frame¡¯s black maw? She wanted to turn back. Felt bile rushing to her lips and spill onto the floor with a gurgling. She heaved, sweat sliding from her face and clinging to the wooden Face. Narrowing her eyes, she bared her teeth in a furious snarl.

    Senma took a step forward. She would not stop. Not ever. She leaned against the wall, fingers curled painfully around the hilt of her worn blade, easing closer to the black bowels from where the cries came. She suddenly realized they where not the man¡¯s making.

    Wet crying, broken and forever ruined. Animal cries, distorted and warped, frighteningly alien. Dampened and torn, low and high slobbering its constant fear and agony. Tortured sobbing of the damned, told to be eternally chained to Hell¡¯s Hollows. Senma gritted her teeth and entered the room with her sword held firm.

    What revelation?

    Not any of her teachings could have prepared her for the sight within the dark chamber. No nightmarish story had driven her this far. This close. Teetering at the edge of madness.

    A dozen children where nailed to the walls, upside down, skin torn from their naked bodies and hung by rings, countless tubes and tools buried into their exposed innards. Eyes wide and glazed and bulging from their sockets lined with dried and yet flowing blood and it bubbled from their ears or ear-holes, eyes or eye-sockets, mouth or simply a maw carved crudely in their face.

    Some missing fingers, others missing entire limbs; bare bone sticking from chopped flesh and thin metal rods inserted at the ends. Senma¡¯s wide, frightened eyes followed the tubes and needles from the children¡¯s bodies to where they touched the ceiling before flowing down into a basin filled with the spilled blood. Saw the old man grasping in the red water with his remaining arm, frantically searching for something.

    ¡°You¡­¡± Senma muttered, unable to perceive the horrors she had seen. Was still seeing.

    ¡°What have you done!?¡± She screeched, gesturing at the children hanging round the circle room. By the Sands, she felt sick. ¡°Why!?¡± How could anyone go this far? She could not understand. Not this. Not ever.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know?¡± The man gurgled, deep-stained with the children¡¯s blood; their weak cries ever-present. ¡°Know why the flowers bloom? Why the wind churns? To delve within the earth¡¯s hollows? To see the Other Side?¡±

    Senma took another look around, feverish eyes darting, creeping from body to body, child to child; one chopped and sliced to less than another. Saw now that only one was still somewhat whole. Missing all fingers on his left and half of his right, cut lips hiding bloody gums lined with broken teeth, bald except for some thin plucks of hair patched around his skull. No tubes were inserted into him. Not yet.

    ¡°Sacrifices have to be made, don¡¯t you understand?¡± The mage growled, now having lost his fear and growing angry as if it was Senma the one committing the sins.

    ¡°They¡¯re children!¡± Senma screamed, feeling a cold spreading through her. She drew closer, teeth groaning for the pressure of her jaws. The man gave a grating, dry laugh.

    ¡°They¡¯re just flesh, now. Still alive as it is needed for the cause.¡± Alive? He called this alive? Bodies mounted and molded and inhumanly abused? The children looking at everything and nothing with their gleaming, popping eyes.

    The cold kept growing until it filled her with ice. Her shadow loomed over him, still splashing around in the blood searching for whatever he deemed worthy of working such horrors.

    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t understand.¡± He muttered, still not looking up. Around her sounded the mindless slobber and wailing of untangled words and cries of the tormented.

    ¡°Indeed, I would not.¡± Not ever. And she snatched the man by his shoulders, pushing his face underneath the water¡¯s surface. He tried fighting back, arm flailing, stump waving, legs struggling. But her grip would not relent. Not ever.

    More sputtering, writhing. Bubbles broke the surface, coiling around the water as foam before lessening and then there were none. Senma stood there frozen, still holding the body fast, the room now so very quiet. She dropped the man, whose name she hadn¡¯t even known, and found that the children had died. Silence now claiming the room.

    Whatever had bound them to the realm of the living seemed to retain them no longer. Senma slowly walked over to the bodies and quietly started unhooking each and every one of them, closing their lids though some had no eyes. Crossing their arms, though most missed those, too. For the first time in years, Senma found herself crying. It was a quiet, wet sobbing at the nightmare of man¡¯s own doing. The cruelty these children had underwent.

    She stumbled to the last child, her vision swimming for the salty tears teeming, and reached out with her wrapped arms and plucked the child from its constraints. Held the little boy close to her chest, ignoring the pain thumping at her ribs, and hugged it as tight as she could.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± She whispered brokenly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­¡±

    But then she felt something. She looked up, dazed, at the child¡¯s chest. No mistake, he was still breathing. Other than the rest of the children, his innards had not been carved open. The breathing was faint, but there none the less.

    Footsteps sounded in the hallway, drawing closer. Heard armor rattle.

    ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± She whispered to the child. ¡°It¡¯ll be alright. You¡¯re under my protection now.¡±

    The figure of a guard appeared in the door¡¯s opening, but he was different then the rest. She knew him.

    ¡°Senma, we need to¡­¡± the young man trailed off as he looked upon the room. ¡°By the Gods¡­¡± He hadn¡¯t even seen the worst of it for the curtain that was draped upon the ruined children, now little more than a pile of meat.

    ¡°Senma, are you alright?¡± He asked, worriedly. Then saw the blood on her, then the tears streaking her face, then the child she was holding. He paused, then swallowed heavily. ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡±

    ¡°My child, from now on.¡± She responded, wrapping the boy in a patch of the mage¡¯s robe. The man winced.

    ¡°Do you think we can take him with? He¡¯ll slow us down¡­¡± Her eyes flared up with a wrath worse than a thousand raging devils.

    ¡°He¡¯s my child now, and I would rather tear the skin and flesh from my bones than see him abandoned.¡± She snarled, snatching the dropped Face from the blood-stained tiles.

    ¡°Then we¡¯ll need to hurry.¡± The disguised Roag begged. ¡°More are coming. Much more.¡±

    She pulled the devil Face back on, finding she and it were much in the same mood, much with the same purpose in mind.

    ¡°Let them come.¡± She hissed, and Song shimmered around her again; coiling, boiling like Hell¡¯s infernal wrath. ¡°I¡¯m am prepared to Sin.¡±

 Far Across The Land

    Yoven¡¯s spade cleaved the earth with a grating of stubborn gravel. Sihn, the higher Moon, shone her dull purple light from above the clawing canopy, calmly awaiting her brighter siblings. He rolled his aching shoulders and threw the dirt behind him, far is it would go, smiling all the while.

    He was screwed, being this far into the Far Lands. Yovens felt the Hillmen¡¯s stares on his back, carefully watching him dig his own grave as per their instructions. He stabbed his shovel back in the earth, and it deflected on a rock, had it send a ringing up his strained arms. But he kept his wide grin present. They could rob a man of much, of most, really, but never his spirit.

    Thick beads of sweat streamed down his face and tapped the upturned earth, every muscle pained under the labor after being starved for a full Howling. His hands were rubbed bare on the wooden shaft, having formed blisters, now seeping blood along the grain. Every movement pained him, and yet his broad smile gleamed in the purple light.

    The night¡¯s air was chill, here, before the Hall of the Old Gods, whose silver peaks reached for the sky as dark behemoths standing at the abysmal horizon. Yovens had never liked the unfamiliar cold, nipping at his ears. Even so, he smiled.

    The spade bit the earth. He rolled his shoulders. The dirt flew, spreading along the duff. And Yovens smiled knowing that his killers would have a shit time refilling the pit he was digging. A spiteful thing, true, and one unbefitting of a Bright once renowned as he. But much has changed since that time.

    The rhythmic shoveling to his bright eye¡¯s side halted. Yovens slowed his digging to curiously glance at his neighbor. The Northman stood waist-deep in his grave, head craned up at the foreboding sky, sucking in air through his slim nose.

    ¡°Rain.¡± He whispered in a dry voice before resuming his labor. The long-haired man had already been under the Hillmen¡¯s watch when Yovens had arrived and looked even weaker than he. Hardened skin that had once held lean muscle now seemed so horribly strained and thin. The man trembled with his every effort. The only one in a worse state then him was ¨C

    Yovens looked at his bare eye side and saw the only captive who wasn¡¯t digging. He sat- laid, rather- against a tree as crooked as him. He was bound in chains, clad with braces, and restrained by a muzzle, as they might just as well.

    Never had Yovens seen a man as sick as him, hollow skin patched with red and riddled with white. No hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes or beard. Stained deep with dirt and filth. The nameless man sat there, collapsed against the grooved bark, awaiting whatever fate there be for him, round eyed, mad eyed, wet eyed. Yovens did not know how they saw sense in restraining a man like that.

    Once it would have pained Yovens to see a man broken; robbed of faith and dignity. But that had been long ago. A lifetime past, when he was still a Bright under the grace of Solis ¨C the one God. He still remembered Her warm acceptance flowing into him the first time.

    ¡°Think you can take them?¡± Came a muffled voice from behind. Yovens did not look back and kept with his labor, flicking the dirt away. Spreading it wide. ¡°Hey, you. If I distract them, could you beat their skull in with that shovel?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Yovens grunted at Regen, still smiling. ¡°I was a Bright, true, but it would take someone like Radiance to kill this lot with nothing but a rusted spade.¡±

    ¡°Ah. Radiance.¡± The voice mused. ¡°The man of legend. The chosen one. The Hero.¡±

    ¡°Dangerous¡± Yovens said, heaving another load.

    ¡°Really?¡± The voice sounded. ¡°you sound as if you¡¯re scared of him. He seemed so virtuous, though. A true Cain.¡±

    There was a rustling in the forest as the Hillmen moved about, speaking in their hacking tongue.

    ¡°You seen him fight?¡± Yovens asked.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen him spar, once. In the square before Werk¡¯s Bell tower.¡±

    ¡°Not the same¡± Yovens replied. ¡°Everyone should at least be a little scared of Radiance.¡±

    ¡°Hmmm.¡± A pause. ¡°So, you can¡¯t take them down?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    The man sighed. ¡°T¡¯is a shame.¡±

    Yovens heard footsteps trod the earth from his Bright eye side, where the hole loomed in his vision. He had never gotten used to losing that eye. He moved his head, to regard the Hillman, and the shadow moved with it, slowly creeping to his right. He would rather have lost his arm, or a leg. His eye, no, a man¡¯s eye is what defines him. For the eyes are the mirror to the soul.

    Yovens gripped his spade as he saw his captor near. The Hillmen were a strange lot, one of the few tribes yet unknown to the Clearland¡¯s reaches. They were draped with thick furs that interchanged with wrappings of straw and reed, tied to them with cord or twine.

    Though the forests they inhabit were grim and dark, the Hillmen found ways to paint their clothing and skin in vibrant colors. Just like the man before Yovens, whose face bore a deep-blue pattern which stood in stark contrast to his pale skin. He eyed the grave and then his white-tinted lips parted in a brimming smile.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Yovens looked down at his work, seeing it was sufficiently deep now to keep a body out the reaches of Echoes or beasts. He had fulfilled his purpose. It would be a shame, for his life to end here. So far from Solis¡¯ loving embrace. His smile jerked as he realized he still missed that feeling. To have pure Humanity flow through his body and fuel the forge of strength. Sihn¡¯s light waned as iron clouds overtook the sky, darkening the land further.

    Rain started tapping down, light in touch now but soon the drops would come falling like arrows. He would die here, Yovens admitted, but he would die smiling as he had never before, and he wouldn¡¯t go alone. He clenched his teeth, flexed his muscles, working himself up for the task. Yovens had learned long ago that the right moment for anything never really shows itself when you want it. Most of the time, you¡¯ve got to simply make the best with what you¡¯ve got. He heaved a hissing breath that had his chest swelling mightily, then pushed it out, slow, into the wet night. Now was the time.

    He worked his jaw and spat right in the Hillman¡¯s eyes who staggered back from it. Just in range. Yovens gave a furious bellow and the spade¡¯s blade hacked down, cleaving through the patter of rain. There was a thud as Yovens saw that the shovel was caught in an unforgiving grip.

    Yovens growled through bared teeth, pulling back. But his hands were so weak, as was he. He looked his assailant in the eyes, glowing eyes, and with sick realization he saw that the Hillman was burning Humanity. His muscles swelled as he chanted the Kaude in his foreign words.

    He pushed Yovens back. Had him slip and slide in the dirt, now slowly becoming mud. Yovens flailed his arms wildly to keep himself from sprawling in the muck, his eye trained on the painted man. The Hillman¡¯s eyes glittered with Humanity¡¯s sundering. Yovens hadn¡¯t known these people to have knowledge of the Kaude, and to see it in action here was cause for fear. It shouldn¡¯t¡¯ve caught him off-guard. How else would these people survive the Howling?

    Yovens¡¯ lips moved by themselves in a habit forged by years of tempering his skills, but nothing happened. The air around his frame did not stir. Where his Bright eye was, shadow swarmed. The hole in his vision an unpleasant reminder of times lost. People abandoned. Faith forfeit.

    The situation was hopeless. Yovens glanced right, at Regen, but the small man would be of little use. He set his one eye back on the Hillman who was slowly edging closer ¨C framed by mirage. What horrible spell could he call forth? How fast? Yovens entered the Guard of the High Sun, spade held above his head instead of a blade. The weight was strange in his hands. To hold it like that.

    The Hillman trod closer still, now standing on the grave¡¯s edge. Toes curled in the soil. Slowly, he retrieved a wicked bone dagger from his waist, holding it in his fist. How strange a thing, that was. He¡¯d use the Kaude for greater speed, no doubt. Yovens¡¯ bare feet wriggled in the mud, setting himself fast. He would be a rock. Unmovable. His shoulders swelled under the strain. Ready to split the Hillman¡¯s head open on the first sign of movement.

    He said something, the Hillman did. But the words were lost to Yovens. So, he smiled, wide as he could. If you ever face death, his father had said, then show you are fearless and maybe, death will believe you. Make it hesitate. The Hillman smiled back, teeth aligned and gleaming, and Yovens knew the man held no fear for the end.

    He moved, wind churning violently, pulling at fur and straw, and his eyes burned. Smoldering like hot coals and hissing curls of smoke before he slumped down. Yovens stood still, wide eyed, watching the man, still smiling, as he crashed into the freshly dug grave. Yovens could only gawk at the sight of it.

    From the trees, two more figures drew forth. Each took their place before an empty grave. Humanity sundered, eyes flashed over and puffed ash out into the air as their bodies became empty vessels and sagged into the earth.

    The rain kept pelting down, harder than before, on the bizarre scene. It seeped into Yoven¡¯s ragged clothing, trailing down his shivering body until it tapped the sodden earth. Yovens couldn¡¯t make sense of it. He looked to his Bright eye side, at Regen, but the short man looked just as baffled as Yovens felt. Mouth hanging open. Black hair plastered to his dirt-stained face.

    The shrubs rustled, shaking beads of water down, and Yovens watched the other Hillmen retreat into the grey forest without a backward glance. Vanishing into the soaking dark. Suppose that just shows you can never quite tell what ways the wind will blow you. Then again, he had never tough to end up here in the first place.

    ¡°The Hillmen¡­¡± The Northman started in a papery voice. ¡°They¡¯re a strange lot, no?¡±

    Yovens glanced at the tall man, strange burn marks running across his skin in eldritch patterns; spreading, snaking their way across his chest, shoulders, arms, hands. No doubt those burns had sundered for days after their branding. The lean man could probably feel their sting to this day.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Yovens craned his head up at the sky, watching the clouds shift, keeping his one eye out for anything strange.

    ¡°You think a Howlin¡¯s goin¡¯ ta come?¡± Regen asked, nervously peering up, next to Yovens.

    ¡°Don¡¯t know.¡± The old Bright grumbled, eye twitching at the rain. ¡°You can never tell, when you¡¯re this far away from a Node. Lands tend to grow unpredictable.¡±

    Regen shivered, folding his arms round himself. ¡°Sure do miss the Gods¡¯ blessings.¡± He whined.

    ¡°Blessings¡­¡± Yovens whispered, his hand unconsciously drifting to where his Bright eye once sat. Then stopped himself. ¡°You ever wonder why the Gods bless us folk at all?¡±

    ¡°Huh?¡± Regen turned, distracted by his own misery.

    ¡°Nothing.¡± Yovens started walking to the nameless man, still staring at them from his seat at the old tree; staring vacantly. ¡°You coming with us?¡±

    ¡°You even know where were going?¡± Regen asked from behind, trudging through the slop.

    ¡°I don¡¯t. Not really. But I reckon any place away from three lumps of meat is a better place to be. These are the Far Lands, and there¡¯s a Howling on the way, no doubt.¡±

    ¡°A howlin¡¯?¡± Regen yelped, joining Yovens before the bound man, still gawking with his wide, bright, bright eyes. Mad bright. ¡°I though you said you didn¡¯t know one was comin¡¯?¡±

    Yovens shrugged, cuffed Nameless by the chains and hoisted him up, grunting all the while. He might be a hollowed pile of bones, but still a big heavy bastard. Even bent over he was half a head taller than Yovens, and a great deal broader. He hadn¡¯t said he¡¯d come, but Yovens reckoned he might as well help him on his way to wherever. The least he could do, in any case. The only thing he could do. The world was cruel enough as is. No reason to add any to it. So, he grinned at him, and gave him a slap on the shoulder that sent the big fucker almost sprawling.

    ¡°It would be just my luck.¡± Yovens said as he started padding to the forest. ¡°That¡¯s sure enough as sure can be.¡±

 Grizzled Crag

    The splattering and blaring of sheep plowing through the wet sludge covering the terrain in a greasy sheen woke Crag from his troubled slumber. His eyes opened slightly, letting them adjust to the early morning glow, sifting through the hides making up his roof. He felt a warm presence against his burly torso, and when he looked, he saw his spouse sleeping peacefully beside him, yet unaware of the world¡¯s dawning.

    He carefully untangled himself out of the furs which topped them, cautiously unraveled Veira¡¯s embrace, and dressed himself in his thick skins and rough wools. The pelt of a greater clawed fox was draped across his broad shoulders, as any chieftain would have it. And with his iron war axe hung beside his waist, he stepped outside.

    The villagers were all busy with their various tasks. Herders guided their livestock out of the marches, towards the driest patches of grass they could find. Hunters and tanners were moving their meat and tools away from flooded tents. Some women were scooping water out of their overflown shanties, an endless task that didn¡¯t appear to do anything at all. And anyone else helped erect blown over homes, destroyed enclosures, ruined shacks. The storm had raged long and hard, and it wasn¡¯t surprising that some were busy digging in the sodden muck to bury those they lost.

    Some huts were also holding the sick, of which there were enough as well. Crag stepped inside one of them, bending over, using his right hand to move away the hide flap that did a sorry attempt at stopping the icy breeze that drifted across the woodland.

    ¡°Bah, close that would you? Or we¡¯ll all freeze to death!¡± croaked Silva, the village owl. She was long and bent, grey and old. Her cane seemed about the only thing that kept her sharp frame standing. Her large knobby hands enveloped the oaken piece of crooked wood firmly, and her cunning but tired eyes looked over at Crag, who hurriedly shut the tent.

    ¡°Sorry.¡± He said, although it was more of a curtesy, he hoped it would set her at ease. These past few days hadn¡¯t been easy for anyone, her least of all.

    ¡°Save your apologies for the living,¡± she muttered grimly. ¡°They are wasted on this old owl.¡±

    Crag nodded absentmindedly as he scanned the ill. It didn¡¯t look good. Jay and Slink, and even Rail, the youngest girl in the village were lying in a heap of wool and fur, sweating and burning. Dying.

    ¡°Shite on this,¡± Crag rumbled, ¡°shite on it all.¡±

    The owl nodded, grumbling. ¡°Right before the winter, too. Just our luck.¡±

    Aye, luck hadn¡¯t been on their side for a while now. And with the forest up north flooded¡­Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°You recon they¡¯ll venture this far south?¡± Crag queried.

    ¡°The Vulma? I don¡¯t know, they might. With nothing to hunt, scavenge or steal, they might try their luck southerly.¡± and luck was always on their side. The green-skins¡¯ that is.

    Crag ran his mighty ham of a hand through his thick beard, pondering, lost in thought.

    ¡°Half the livestock has disappeared, too, you know.¡± The crone said as she placed a wet cloth on Jay¡¯s flaming forehead. ¡°Gone with the spirits of the woods and storm.¡±

    Shite on them too. The spirits, the woods, and the greens as well. Shite on the lot of them.                         They both stepped outside, peering around their wasted campsite. Crag in front, tall and mighty. Silva, staggering after, tall and tired, but wise and keen.

    ¡°Perhaps it would be better to join up with iron-tooth¡¯s group for the winter, he still owes me a favor or two.¡± Crag proposed. The Owl pulled her cane out the mud in which it had gotten stuck, groaning and cursing.

    ¡°If you could manage to pull that off,¡± she said doubtfully. ¡°But I reckon he has his own issues, just like everyone else.¡± The Owl wheezed and gasped as she limped after Crag, who trudged through the muck with wide strides.

    Crag¡¯s eyebrows knit together, a dark expression forming, dark as the clouds of the vicious storm. Dark enough to suffocate the weak and unprepared.

    ¡°What do you say we should do then?¡± He growled, dodging a drowned chicken, sunken in the trampled sludge. ¡°We don¡¯t have enough people anymore to raid, too many have already gone back to the green. And the sick can¡¯t come with us, even if we do. They¡¯ll be here, alone, with no one to protect them from the Vulma.¡±

    Crag halted his bickering march, pausing at in the village¡¯s center, and stared up at Dhorm, the enormous grey giant, standing unwavering at the throat of the world. If he acknowledged any spirits, any gods, then let it be that gargantuan pile of unmoving rock at the far north.

    Its peaks were white all year ¡®round, white as virgin snow. Many had attempted reaching it, but none had even made it to its feet. As you went north, the deep green would swallow anything whole, with its endless fields of tearing briars, its labyrinth of ancient trees, and its maw filled with ravenous beasts. Even the Vulma had creatures which they feared, and they all prowled the northern woods.

    Crag had once lost a whole squad of hunters to a Grey Spook. He scratched the deep scar the creature had carved in his arm. He had fled, at the time. Ran like death was gnawing on his heels, and prayed to the spirits, and the mountain, and the woods. Prayed until he ran out of prayers and then prayed some more. And the beast that shot iron spikes, breathed acid clouds, and knew no fear had left him alone.

    Crag sighed, bitterly. He knew they would need to leave the others behind, for a while. Not now, but soon; when the jaws of winter clamped down on the unwilling land.

    ¡°So, what¡¯s the plan?¡± Silva asked, her silver, all seeing eyes glistening in the pale morning light.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see if I can at least round up some guys from Iron, see if anyone¡¯s willing. Other than that¡­¡± He shook his head. ¡°Hope that the Vulma won¡¯t come sooner than we want ¡®em.¡± The brown robes wrapped around Silva clacked sharply.

    ¡°Is there ever a want for the green-skins?¡± the Owl asked sardonically, swaying in the rough sighing of the wind. Crag¡¯s expression grew grim.

    ¡°When I have my axe in hand, and all the men in the north behind me.¡±

 proverbial dustbiter

    Whispers drifted around him, low and unforgiving. Lies and deceit swarmed and buzzed like flies in his ears. He grimaced, rumors were never to his liking. Never had been. But it was his task to snuff anything out, no matter how pointless. And so, he listened. Listened closely. Ears all perked up, shoulders hunched, making himself unnoticeable.

    The sun was stretching long shadows across the market street, warping faces, twisting gestures. Art grimaced, he disliked rumors.

    ¡°Why yes, Genny has been spending an awful lot of time with Thom recently.¡±

    ¡°Truly?¡±

    Please, do tell me more.

    Two wives squabbling over droopy vegetables.

    ¡°Murlock owes me five bits, still. If he doesn¡¯t pay up soon¡­¡± Some drunk grumbled to himself, all dirty and slimy with mud and muck. You¡¯ll do what? Go on, share your wildest thoughts.

    ¡°There have been sightings of torax again, near the farms. Those guards should stop bothering us, and get rid of those things instead!¡± One man said lowly. Angry enough to speak, too fearful to say it aloud. Careful, now. People might be listening.

    ¡°Yeah, they should. But they¡¯re cowards, what do you expect? Besides, it¡¯s more a job for hunters, Aint it?¡± His friend argued. ¡°Them, or a slayer perhaps.¡±

    ¡°Bah! Slayers are nothing but bad news! Monsters is what they are! Why would you send one to fight another?¡± He shook his head stubbornly.

    ¡°We¡¯ve fared well enough without those things up till now.¡± He was about to continue, but Art heard someone else speak.

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of card-shrine sightings to the north.¡± It was a merchant, decked out in satin robes. Blue and red. Pricy enough to buy any vendor twice over.

    ¡°They say a hex has been calling for them,¡± he continued, ¡°they say¡­ Them wildlings will be coming from over the northern teeth, the lot of them.¡±

    ¡°Who does?¡± some seller asked, worry written across his pink face.

    ¡°Why, my acquaintances, of course. They say a hex is there, near Iverburg. Plenty of bodies have been found, all pale, veins crawling across them.¡± He lowered his tone, and Art had to inch closer to hear what he said next.

    ¡°Eyes blue as lightning.¡± His grimace grew further. He didn¡¯t know about the wildlings being called. But those corpses¡­ He didn¡¯t like any of it. Nor should anyone else.

    A tingling sensation.

    His head whipped around, cloak twirling around his shrouded figure. Many people, from lots of places, all here to trade goods. Except one. Or perhaps he came here to make a trade of a different kind.

    The sharp scent came from a man in a simple tunic, brown and grey. Wool, as some wore in these parts to ward against the cold. Shifty movements. Nervous. But who wouldn¡¯t be, when making the deal of a lifetime?

    Tunic¡¯s head swiveled around, frightened like a mouse. And I am the cat.

    His target started moving towards a dark alley, out of sight of the busy street. Art followed him, brushing and flowing between merchants and traders like the chilly breeze.

    The alley was dirty, some of the mud had clung on Tunic¡¯s boots, making it easy enough to track. Not that it matters. Can¡¯t escape this nose.

    As he left the alley, a person bumped into him. The chainmail on Art¡¯s armor tinkled slightly underneath the light cloak.

    ¡°My apolo-¡± the man started before turning bleak as mist. His eyes had crept down to the amulet, jingling from Art¡¯s neck.

    ¡°By the gods, a tyran.¡± He mumbled with a shaky voice. Fear. it shook him like an earthquake. Enough to make him fall on his knees.

    ¡°Oh, master Tyran! Please forgive me! I hadn¡¯t seen you, I swear!¡± He was screeching, high notes, lowly bowing.

    People around them turned heads, raised eyebrows. Why, yes. A freak show for all to see.

    The news spread like wildfire, with equal amount of panic. And of course, my friend knows, too.

    And the man spun and ran. Pushing people to all sides, hurrying along the packed street. But I am faster.

    Art spurted with a strange lightness to his step. At first glance, he would appear to be gliding along to muddy cobblestone, rather than sprinting across it.

    He quickly shortened the distance, frowned to see Tunic throwing boxes and goods on the ground. A sorry attempt at a barricade. But fear brings out the strangest of behaviors in us, does it not? Hope and despair, coiling around his manic head can make anyone believe there is light at the end of the tunnel.

    But he can¡¯t escape me. No one could, after all.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    He vaulted the wood and the food with impeccable from ¨C left hand on the hurdle, right foot outstretched, left foot underneath. It was textbook, but effective.

    He flew over it, wind throwing of his hood. The sun caught his eyes, brown as the mud that clung to his boots. His dark hair was tangled and had gone unwashed for some days. Twirl in the wind, it did not.

    Others?

    He felt more people following him, some behind and one ahead. Strange, but not unusual.

    The final alley in which Tunic turned was his downfall. Art turned the corner, his hand on the wood to keep his speed. Shit.

    He ducked underneath the brick, felt it brush his greasy hair. Heard it crunch against the wall. Bits of stone and splinters of wood rained down on him.

    He growled and pulled out the knife from his belt, its polish reflecting his scowl.

    The fear had bit into Tunic now. He glanced at the shiny blade in the Slayer¡¯s hand, undoubtedly holding a razor edge. Naturally.

    Sweat trickled down the man¡¯s forehead, thick and slow. His blue eyes darted around, looking for something. Anything. Eyebrow lifted, skittish grin on his face. Translucent teeth.

    ¡°Fuck!¡± Art cursed, snarling. He leapt forward, almost a blur. The man took a small bag of light blue powder from his sleeve, and bit down on it. The dust glittered and shimmered, dancing in the brisk air.

    Tunic¡¯s pupils dilated, and he smiled. Had a real taste for it, as they do after a while. Some words were spoken, a hand was raised, the space around it warped and wreathed, angry and twisted.

    Art ground his teeth together and reeled away, his hand grasping the blade¡¯s handle painfully tight. The spot where he stood shrieked like tearing metal, sharp and hurting. Art felt raw wood digging into his calf. Of course, Tunic had to aim down low.

    He pivoted, biting through the pain, all his weight behind the mean point of his rugged blade. It sliced right through the man¡¯s windpipe. Send blood spurting, voice gurgling, fingers clutching at nothing.

    Art stood there, breathing slowly, clouds forming at his mouth. Feet wide, back bent, slightly crouched ¨C ready to go again.

    But his cut was true, and his edge fine. The man chocked on his own blood - thick and rich in color, and he fell on the harsh stone. Yet the smile never left him. It was etched into his skin. Carved into his bones. The smile of the addicted. Bloody dustbiters.

    Art felt others drawing near, three of them. Slow and steady. They knew to be cautious. Because fighting a slayer is kicking death in the shins.

    They stopped seven strides from him, keeping to the shadows. Two behind, one in the front. A fine pincer trap. If only I wouldn¡¯t be standing in it.

    Art shifted his balance, all on his hind foot, slick with his own blood. He grimaced. It would hurt, badly. His calf was already stinging something fierce. If it wasn¡¯t for the jagged piece of wood, stuck firm into his flesh, his bones might¡¯ve done something about that. But no fight is ever ideal, is it now?

    ¡°You have made a serious mess of this, haven¡¯t you,Slayer?¡± There was a certain smudge of maleficence when the man blocking his escape spoke the word. Oh, how loved I am. It would bring a tear to my eye. Too bad it mostly brings blood to the cobblestone.

    Someone behind him spoke. Loud and stern, yet with a wobble to the tone that showed angst.

    ¡°Calm down. We aren¡¯t here to tussle with you, Tyran.¡± How often I¡¯ve heard that¡­ How seldom it has been true.

    The voice Continued, ¡°we have been tracking that dustbiter for the better half of a moon. Trying to wring out its means of distribution, and acquiring the product. Of course, now we are a dead end. Thanks to you, that is.¡± I appear to be at a dead end as well. Art glared at the man in front. He fingered his knife. Unless I do something about it, that is¡­

    ¡°Again, please. We all know not to start anything with a Tyran. Here, see?¡± He heard the swords being sheathed behind him. Heard the iron hissing into the leather.

    He kept his eyes on the man before him, axe in hand, mantle flapping. A deep frown, deeper eyes.

    ¡°You as well, friend.¡± Art growled through clenched teeth. The man spat, some of it sticking to his red beard. Art almost had to stifle a splutter of laughter at that. Almost.

    The axe was slowly returned to a loop, clung to the side of his belt. Art allowed some tension to lessen in his back and arms. He straightened himself, eying Beard as he walked past. Watched the man snort as they almost touched in the narrow alley.

    He joined his companions at the end of the street, all staring at him. Judging his stance, attire, weapons. His grizzly, weather-hardened face. The steam coming from his nostrils. The traveler¡¯s beard on him. His height- rather small. Not as tall as they expected, at least. And can you blame ¡®em?

    ¡°What brings you here, Tyran?¡± It was a woman¡¯s voice, this time. Art frowned, she was bigger than him by a head and a half. Broad shoulders, a jaw that could have been an anvil. Her meaty hand enveloped the pommel of the large sword that hung from her waist.

    ¡°The wind.¡± Art answered, and they glowered. ¡°And the rain, and perhaps even the birds. Noisy things they are, birds that is. Been chattering about all sorts of things, you see.¡± Art tucked the blade away, but it didn¡¯t make any sound as it did. Would be against the point.

    ¡°And what have these bids been saying?¡± The woman asked, her patience wearing thin. But that didn¡¯t matter to Art. Not one bit.

    ¡°Torax, beast, and such. The usual.¡± He held her glare. Hard eyes, she had. Hard as the stone out of which she had been carved.

    But his eyes were hard, too. Hard as the iron out of which his sword had been forged. Hard as the crystals from which my bones have grown.

    She tore her gaze away and looked down on the corpse, slowly spilling blood.

    ¡°All this way for torax, is it?¡± She asked. It was clear this bull of a woman didn¡¯t believe him.

    ¡°Aye. Someone has to clean up the mess you merry folk ignore.¡± Art casually replied.

    He saw anger shooting through them, briefly. It was only natural. They were payed to protect the city, but only the parts of it they were ordered to. Farms on the outskirts, they couldn¡¯t involve themselves in, even if they wanted to.

    Art leaned over and pulled the angry splinter from his squirming skin. He grimaced slightly as pain sprang forth, but that was quickly subdued. His bones could go to work now.

    ¡°I see,¡± The woman said, her voice raw from restraining her ire. ¡°Then be gone with you. We will be busy with the mess you made.¡± Art didn¡¯t need to hear that twice. He smoothly turned away from the seething guild-colored trio, and stalked away into the shadows. He turned the corner, but lingered for a moment.

    Ears all perked up, shoulders hunched, making himself unnoticeable. Whispers drifted around him, low and unforgiving. And he heard the woman speak, voice steady and deep. Failing to keep it as silent as she would¡¯ve liked, no doubt.

    ¡°Yes, he also has the seal, damn. Where do they keep getting their dust? Who¡¯s making it?¡±

    ¡°Too effective to be from any third-rate alchemist. You saw what that level three kaude did. Even the Slayer was caught off guard¡­ And that¡¯s never any good news, even if I like seeing ¡®em bleed.¡± He heard Beard saying.

    ¡°We¡¯ll bring this to captain Severod, see if he can do anything with it.¡± The woman sighed helplessly. ¡°Damn, fucking Tyran.¡±

    He hated rumors.

    But rumors hate me more.

 Adronitis

    Autumn¡¯s splendor was well behind them, and the snorting horses were now trudging dully through the fields of the Northern Bernts, labored by carts and wagons, stretched out behind them. Even at the edge of his land, Lord Imgrint¡¯s mark was clearly visible on every pole and sign Cos and his company passed.

    Around them, the plants and trees were withering solemnly on their half-frozen earth. They had grown and blossomed, spread and risen through the spring¡¯s thaw, summer¡¯s warmth, and fall¡¯s rain. They had worked hard, and lived harder. But now, as the winter slowly clamped its maw shut upon the land, everything was tired and ready to die.

    It relaxed Cos, to hear the sound of creaking wood and whipping vines, all brought to life once more by the harsh wind, lashing about with crackling frost. To know that he could simply wrap himself in thick blankets for the night, to shield against the mischievous breeze.

    Now, too, he sat huddled comfortably inside a wagon, covered by a white tarp. But Cos knew that on the road, things don¡¯t always go as you expect them. The weather could worsen, a storm could swoop in, a horse might trip and injure itself. After all, you have to be realistic about these things.

    He heard the soft taps of boots as they hit the cart¡¯s wood with light ticks. He turned himself to the right, tired eyes opened to a crack, and saw his sister sitting on the end of the cart¡¯s planks, legs swinging at the rhythm of her humming.

    Her slender body was outlined against dawn¡¯s rosy blanket, hung across the lazy sky. Her hair was black as pitch. It was a curtain of purest midnight and it shimmered in the morning¡¯s white sun. It had never been cut, and easily reached past her waist, treading boldly in the territory of precariousness.

    Cos found himself staring at it as he listened to her gentle humming, glad it was the first thing he witnessed at day¡¯s break. He knew to be quiet. If she sang, it was only because she did not realize it herself. If she caught herself doing it, she would abruptly stop and sink into silence which could last for quite some time.

    But Cos was lucky, because all her focus was directed at a bound book, resting in her tender hands. Curious, he leaned forward, trying to see which one it was.

    The cart hit a rock, and Cos¡¯ hand slipped and caused him to fall without any sense of grace, face-first onto the hard surface of the wood. His sister turned around at the sound, and saw her brother sprawled between crates and boxes, meekly looking up at her clear-cut emerald eyes.

    ¡°Mornin¡¯¡± he said sheepishly, slowly untangling himself from the mass of blankets, wrapping him in some form of cocoon. He heard her giggle softly at his antics, and became slightly ashamed. Making a fool out of yourself in front of his little sister was not the first thing on Cos¡¯ list for that day.

    ¡°Did you sleep well?¡± She asked quietly while once again focusing on her precious book. The remnants of a smile still tickled the corners of her lips.

    ¡°Yes¡± Cos answered, now having raised himself into a seated position, leaned against the side of their family¡¯s wagon. ¡°What about you, Syn?¡±

    ¡°Good¡± she said, simply. Her fingers gingerly moved across the spine of her leathern book. Her eyes were glazed, completely absorbed by black letters written along yellow paper.

    Books weren¡¯t cheap, but their family were traders, and they always had a number of reading material with them on their journeys. It was mostly Syn who read them, though. Anything from handbooks and novels to history and bestiaries. She would greedily devour anything she could get her tender hands on.

    ¡°So, is it any good?¡± Cos asked, grabbing a piece of stale bread from one of the jute bags.

    ¡°Huh, did you say something?¡± Syn asked as she tore her gaze away the text. Cos frowned slightly as he tore through his food with some effort.

    ¡°The book. How is It?¡± He repeated, some crumbs falling down his shirt. Her eyes lit up, and they shimmered like a day of spring, drowning Cos in their green brilliance.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°Yes!¡± she exclaimed, shifting herself towards Cos. ¡°It¡¯s the story of how emperor Phallias met the Lady Of The Night and came in the possession of his blade; Endring.¡± Cos scoured the vast library inside his brain, holding all the fables and legends that Syn had told him about before, and those which he had found himself.

    ¡°Ah. ¡®She swallowed burning coals¡¯, right?¡± He guessed, remembering Rondel¡¯s poem about the event. She nodded furiously, her hands grasping the edges of the paper.

    ¡°That¡¯s it!¡± She said, loud and exited. Her eyes drifted away, as if searching for something in her mind. Cos laughed to watch her.

    ¡°No, don¡¯t worry. I heard that story when you were too young to remember anything. The only reason I still know of it is because I found myself quite captivated by the story.¡± Cos admitted, downing the last piece of bread with a mouthful of water.

    Syn¡¯s smile grew warmer still, as her gaze went back to the lettering.

    ¡°To forge a weapon of that power, simply by eating one blade and spitting out another¡­ I wonder how it feels to be that strong.¡± She sighed dreamfully. ¡°Makes me think what it would take to reach that level.¡±

    Cos remembered it quite well. The lady of the night had been described as a tall woman of young age, to have true golden hair, equally golden eyes, and two abys black horns are said to sprout from the sides of her head, warping around to form a crown. It comes as little surprise that Phallias had first mistaken her for a monster, breathtaking and terrifying as she was told to be.

    ¡°Well, she¡¯s a god after all¡± Cos pointed out. ¡°Humans, such as we are, can never achieve that pinnacle of power. To create a weapon that annihilated hundreds of wicked with a single slash, to level mountains and split the sea¡­ We must be happy to light a single candle wick without the help of crystals.¡± Cos chuckled.

    ¡°I know.¡± Syn said soberly. ¡°I still like to-¡±

    ¡°Shhh!¡± Cos hushed her while raising his hand. He heard fast hooves, crushing the dirt road. He stood up and carefully walked to the front of the cart, moving the flap away so he could see the up ahead. Three riders, holding the banner of lord Imgrint, were galloping towards them.

    He heard his father stop the horses, pulling the merchant¡¯s caravan to a halt. Cos looked at the guards that rode with them, and saw their hand to be placed on the hilt of their blades.

    ¡°Why are they on edge?¡± Syn asked, baffled. ¡°Aren¡¯t we on good terms with Lord Imgrint?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right. But it wouldn¡¯t be the first time bandits dressed themselves up to rob unsuspecting travelers.¡± He said restlessly, keeping his eye on the approaching men. They were now close enough for Cos to see chainmail reflecting light, and weapons hanging by their waist.

    ¡°And even if they work for Lord Imgrint, that doesn¡¯t mean they wouldn¡¯t try swindling some extra coin from us.¡± Cos had known it to have happened before. His knuckles whitened at the mere memory of it.

    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t!¡± Syn objected, large eyes staring unbelievingly at him. Cos swallowed, tearing his gaze away from those pools of endless green. His hand felt the grip of his dagger, placed inside his coat. The heartless metal sobered him up.

    ¡°They would.¡± he said scornfully. ¡°humans will do anything if they benefit from it. If you want to remember one thing, and one thing only, then remember that. You have to be realistic about these things.¡± Syn loved her books and stories, and Cos loved her because of it all the more so. But it had made her biased, and na?ve. It worried Cos that her gullibility might one day get her into trouble.

    ¡°State your business!¡± their father called out, a trace of wariness to his voice, but still polite in that tell-tale merchant tune.

    The trio slowed down to a walking pace when they neared. Their weapons remained sheathed, but their expressions were hard. It boded no good news, that much Cos could tell. He felt Syn inch closer to him, her hand clutching the hem of his well-worn coat. It made him somewhat feel bad about scaring her like that, but it was for the greater good.

    ¡°There¡¯s a thief on the run.¡± The first rider says, looking over the convoy nervously. ¡°Stole some horses and ¨C¡± he paused when he noticed Syn, and then stared at her with an odd look in his eyes. Cos didn¡¯t like it one bit. Dagger half drawn.

    ¡°And?¡± His father pried, redirecting the man¡¯s attention.

    ¡°And some valuables,¡± he continued hastily, ¡°A cart, two horses, and a number of items loaded upon it. Two people riding. You¡¯ve seen anything?¡±

    ¡°Two? Didn¡¯t you say there was one thief?¡± Cos asked, skeptically. The riders briefly glanced at each other, shifting in their saddles.

    ¡°I know what I said boy. If you haven¡¯t seen anything like that pass, then they must be on the road through Kappyln.¡± He turned his horse round, spurring it firmly in the sides. ¡°Come, men, let¡¯s go. We¡¯ll need to catch them, as we all know what failure means.¡± He gave them a meaningful look.

    With a last peek at Syn over his shoulder, the three riders set of, pushing their foaming horses hard. His father set his own in motion as well, when the riders were a good distance away. The guards relaxed, and so did Syn and Cos. His hand was white from gripping the blade, and as he looked at it, he realized what a fool he was.

    Even with the dagger, Cos knew he couldn¡¯t have done anything. He was only fifteen turns old, armed with nothing but a short knife against three armed, trained soldiers in service of the biggest landowner in the Northern part of Ansein. He felt stupid and powerless.

    In some situations, no matter what you do, or how hard you try, you just can¡¯t make a difference. You have to be realistic about these things.

 Rigor Samsa

    The River ran wide and far, following the road, fringed by jagged rocks and dead greenery, the surface prickled by the snow, flat and grey as far as the eye could see. Art¡¯s eye couldn¡¯t see very far in this weather, it had to be said. The opposite shore could¡¯ve been a hundred strides away, and it would remain so for miles. The great Iron River, as they called it in these parts. Nothing great ¡®bout it, other than a great pain in the ass.

    Art had long ago given up any attempt at staying warm, and the wind cut through his pants, his coat, his banded armor. Felt it gnawing on his fingers, and chipping his lips. Can¡¯t feel my toes.

    Being cold, tired and hungry had become a part of his life. It had been so for a long time, come to think of it. He closed his eyelids, felt the snow patter against his face, heard it land on the frozen earth with soft taps. Art knelt by the river, pulled the stopper from his water skin and pushed it underneath the surface, watched the bubbles break as it filled up.

    He placed the opening against his chapped lips, tipped it back, and took a wincing swallow. Cold water didn¡¯t taste well in cold weather, but he needed to drink. What I really need is some ale and a piece of meat.

    He had become a lot thinner, following the barren road North. These were lean times, after all. He silently cursed the mongrel that had left a pit in the road. Horse stepped right into it. Broke its leg and plunged in the frigid waters some sixty miles back. All Art¡¯s gear loaded. All his luggage sunken to the murky bottom of it.

    He blinked through the snowfall, at a bend in the river further upstream. His map was gone too, and his memory of this area was vague at best. The weather did nothing to improve the experience either.

    ¡°Third bent ¡®round. This must be the Tri-point, North side of the river.¡± If memory served him well, which it often did, there should be a bridge to cross the water some distance ahead.

    He thoughtfully rubbed his frozen thumb along his rough chin, trying to recall the distance. Thirty miles. He sucked his teeth, tried moving his toes. Failed. Thirty miles.

    Past the bridge he knew to be a town of sorts. He could get some decent food there. Perhaps even lift with a farmer¡¯s wagon. Few farmers active this time of year, though.

    He took the last heel of moldy black bread, and chewed on it as he started walking again. The blisters on his feet were burning, sending sharp stings along his ankle. He wrapped his coat round himself a bit tighter. Did next to nothing in that cutting wind.

    He remembered well the last time he felt like this; in the frozen tundra of the Brethon mountain-range. The snow as his blanket, two other trainee Tyran as company. He remembered sleeping in a clear cave, and waking in darkness. The snowstorm had closed their crevice completely, burying them in an early grave. If he hadn¡¯t woken in time, they would have all suffocated.

    Thinking back, he almost felt his fingers dinging through the frozen snow once more. Dark-blue fingers with bursting skin, blackened nails, torn and worn. He remembered having to amputate Werner¡¯s dying hand, too. Then his left foot. His ears. Remembered having to carry him on his shoulder trough miles of steep cliffsides and deep valleys. Remembered his cries when he had to abandon him in some grim forest. He heard them from far away, those screams, further than one should. Sometimes Art still heard them, when the moon was gone and the trees howled in the wind.

    Berg had broken his leg some days later while fleeing from a Graffer, big and brown, and filled with hunger and carnage. Art remembered his wails and broken screams as the beast tore him apart. Remembered the sloshing of his guts as they were ripped out and gobbled down. Remembered his blisters searing as he fled down the hill. Remembered being unable to move his toes as the bellowing frost lashed at his battered body, his beaten spirit. It certainly put things into perspective, now. Made him think thirty miles weren¡¯t all that bad.

    The sun, having become bored with looking down on grey clouds and frozen land, headed for the horizon, and the world darkened with it. The shadows casted by grisly trees blackened the water¡¯s already somber surface. Now it mirrored nothing and no one.

    The road climbed steep into the rocks above the lake, here built up, there cut deep into the stony ground. It was worn and pitted with age, pocketed with weeds. Art was panting and sweating, his legs and feet burning with the effort. His pace had slowed significantly.

    His boots barely gripped on the frozen cobble, packed with snow and covered by a sheet of ice, all slippery and cumbersome. I hope I slip right here and fall on my ass; that would be fucking perfect.

    From between the looming tree line, Art spotted a dull light, bravely piercing the darkness. He stared at it, carefully thinking, clenching and unclenching his hands, trying to work some warmth in them, and movement in his fingers. Far too late for that.

    The crossing was still roughly ten miles ahead. The light couldn¡¯t possibly come from the town, and Art wasn¡¯t in the habit of trusting random campfires, hidding within the forest. He was too tired and knackered to be bothered fighting highroad scum or savages. He knew the latter to be active, further North. They were about the last thing he wanted to meet at this point.

    But the night sapped all the heat from his body, or what remained of it, at least. He would take his chances and scout whatever dared camp in these woods. I¡¯ve always been my own worst enemy.

    His leather boots silently trudged through the forest¡¯s soil, dampened by quietly cracking snow. He heard some bird chirp above, in the clawing canopy. Heard the soft snapping of wood in the fire. Muted breathing and restless shifting. Some horses snorting and moving carelessly.

    He brushed some twigs away with his hand, frozen snow clutched to his palled face. There were two figures lying close to a struggling fire, flickering in the vehement breeze. They were huddled against each other for warmth, shivering, plumes of smoke rolling from their blue lips in the dim light.

    Art looked around and saw two horses bound to a tree at the edge where the flame¡¯s clarity reached. A cheap cart with two wheels laid a bit further, loaded with some goods, too obscure for Art to see anything in particular.

    The flames danced and lit the figures more clearly. A middle-aged man sporting a dark beard with a girl in his arms. Young, no older than thirteen turns, Art guessed. A strange gathering at this time, in this place.

    He slowly slid from the thicket, felt the glow of the fire stroke his face, thawing his frozen eyelashes. His knife was held firmly, or about as firm as one could hope for in these conditions. He snuck closer, making no sound. Not even his leather groaned. Not even his chainmail dared tinkle.

    He was close enough to feel their clouded breath on his hand, steel against the man¡¯s throat, shining brightly under the ever-moving moon. Art sucked in the cold night air through his leaking nose, preparing himself for whatever there was to come. Nothing pretty, that much is as certain as the edge of my blade.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°Wake up.¡± Art muttered, heart calmly pounding, calm as the snow topping the three of them.

    The man opened one sluggish, exhausted eye. He blinked at the sudden light, his reddened eyes widened when he saw the ghastly shadow hunching over him. Art¡¯s hand covered his mouth, only muffled yelps came out. He struggled, but it ended the moment Art pressed the blade against his bare neck. A thin line of red formed where steel met skin.

    ¡°Good. Be nice now, and I will return the curtesy. I¡¯d be a shame if we had to wake the girl, wouldn¡¯t it?¡± Art warned, glancing down at the sleeping child.

    The man nodded slowly, saw the amulet dangling from Art¡¯s neck. Frightful eyes staring hard. They were a dark brown, Art noticed. Not the right time for that.

    ¡°I will remove my hand now, and you will behave. I am going to ask you some questions, and you will answer them to the best of your abilities. Understood?¡± Art spoke every word unhurried and deliberately. The stranger nodded once more, as he understood, and Art relieved his grip, hand damp with the man¡¯s breath.

    ¡°Who are you, and what are you doing here,¡± he looked at the girl, ¡°in this particular company?¡±

    The man swallowed, his throat pushing against the blade¡¯s razor edge. Some droplets of blood trickled down. But Art did not remove his knife. Only a fool would.

    ¡°we¡¯ve,¡± the man seemed to hesitate, unsure of what the best course of action was. He was thinking, and that wouldn¡¯t be the truth. Art barred his teeth, bleak in the dull light.

    ¡°One more pause like that, and I¡¯ll carve a bloody smile in your throat. You got that?¡± He hissed viciously. By the look on his, now, paler face, he seemed to have understood. He swallowed again. More blood dripping.

    ¡°Men from Imgrint thought I¡¯d talked, even though I hadn¡¯t! They were going to arrest me and lock up in the dungeons! I had to flee!¡± His voice was raw and wet with tears, but his eyes were hard and dry. He had shed his share of grief.

    Art gestured at the child with his chin. ¡°What about her? What did she do?¡± Art also wanted to know where the mother was.

    ¡°They, they,¡± his face contorted, eyebrows knit together as rage was swelling and mingling with helplessness. ¡°They we¡¯re going to take her, just like they took her mother! They took my wife! I saw them dragging her away, kicking and screaming! I took my cart and horses and Claudile and fled with whatever was at hand!¡± He had gotten louder now. Too loud for Art¡¯s liking.

    ¡°Shhh! Quiet down before-¡± He looked down at the man¡¯s daughter and saw two big brown eyes staring back at him. As brown and fearful as her father¡¯s. shit

    The scream was high and piercing, stung right inside Art¡¯s head. He pulled his hands away to cover his sensitive ears, ringing and buzzing from the noise. The bearded man saw his chance, and jumped up, unsheathing a knife of his own, only shorter and dull as a cow¡¯s imagination.

    He pushed his daughter behind him before jumping at Art, roaring as loud as he could, trying to work some courage into himself. The first thrust was wide and crude, but Art was off balance and the tip punched right in his gut.

    Art wheezed and grabbed the man¡¯s wrist tight, keeping the blade pressed against his stomach. Stuck in the chainmail.

    The father tried punching him, but was cut short. Art¡¯s forehead struck his chin with a hard thud. The man reeled back, but Art gripped his coat, pulled him closer once more. The next blow split his nose open, sent blood flying, and the man sagged to the cold ground.

    Art¡¯s head thumped and hurt, but it wouldn¡¯t last for long. It never does. Being a tyran is worth something, after all.

    The girl rushed to her downed father, still squirming in the dirt, clutching his bubbling nose. Art sighed tiredly. He had come here in the hopes of a night¡¯s rest and a warm fire, maybe even some food. And look wat¡¯s come of it. He turned to leave. This place had nothing to offer but sorrow and heartache.

    But as luck wouldn¡¯t have it any other way, three men came from the trees. They were cladded in light armor, wielding sturdy broadswords, and colored in some lord¡¯s symbol. They seemed desperate, and exhausted. But quickly brightened up when they spotted the father-daughter pair. The one who seemed to be the leader grinned at Art.

    ¡°My thanks, stranger. You¡¯ve made this a lot easier for us.¡± They were all smiling now. Disgusting smiles, Art found.

    ¡°He knows too!¡± The father yelled, as loud as he could with blood seeping down his face.

    The expression on the soldier¡¯s face darkened, and so did the others. They spread out to Art¡¯s left and right flank. ¡°My apologies, stranger,¡± the leader said, ¡°it seems there¡¯s no other way.¡± His sword was held at the ready, both hands enveloping the handle.

    ¡°Aye,¡± Art growled, ¡°I¡¯m sorry too.¡± His boot kicked at the burning coals. Cinder flew through the chill air, hissing angrily as they hit the left one¡¯s face. The man shrieked as he dropped his blade, rubbing feverishly at his eyes, only making it worse.

    Art flung his knife at the person to his right. The blade sunk deep between the slits of his helmet, right into his mouth. He sputtered and gurgled, lurching forward as he spat out broken teeth.

    The sword of the last one whistled past him, only dodged at the last instant. Art¡¯s grappled his arm, locking it down at the elbow in the meanest grip he knew. Increased the strength until the man released his blade. Until he screamed and begged. Until he heard the sickening snap of bones breaking.

    The soldier dropped to the ground, grabbing at his mangled arm with the other. Art heard some horses in the distance gallop away, frightened by all the noise, but paid it no mind. His boot came down hard. There was a crunch as the man¡¯s skull caved in, and shards of white bone and blobs of pink brain splattered about.

    He casually walked to the last one standing, still scratching his face with dirty gloves. Art¡¯s fist shot out and connected with his throat, felt something break and give away underneath his hardened knuckles. After a couple futile attempts to breathe, the swordsman fell down. Another corpse to stack the pile.

    Art retrieved his blade from the now dead man, the metal all slick with dark blood. He used the lord¡¯s colored cloth to wipe away the filth, and sheathed the clean blade back where it belonged after turning it over in the moonlight, inspecting for any damage. Broken point. Just what I needed.

    When he turned ¡®round, two pair of panicked eyes were staring unbelievingly at him, cowering in the dying light of their petty fire. Everyone knew Tyran were dangerous. But most don¡¯t even have an inkling as to how horrifying it is to see one at work. Now they know why folk call us Slayers.

    ¡°Your horse and some of your food.¡± Art said without any trace of emotion to his voice. The two stared at each other, not knowing what to make of it. Art cleared away some blood from his face.

    ¡°It¡¯s the price you will pay me for the job.¡± He explained, dead eyed. Dead as the corpse¡¯s littering the forest¡¯s pitiless floor.

    ¡°But, but, with only one horse we can¡¯t take the cart with us!¡± The man stammered, eyes darting about, alive and filled with fear. ¡°I never agreed to a job!¡±

    ¡°You agreed to it the moment you involved me!¡± Art snarled, looming over him, fists clenched, nails digging into flesh. ¡°Be glad I don¡¯t put you in the ground with the rest of ¡®em for attacking me!¡± He threatened, taking another menacing step towards them.

    ¡°But¡­¡± The man searched for something to say, ¡°Don¡¯t you have a heart?¡± He asked, hugging his daughter tight, clenching his jaw tighter through tears. ¡°Aren¡¯t you Slayers supposed to help people?¡± A good question indeed.

    ¡°No. We fight apparitions and beasts. Nothing else. All fore a price. And that debt is due.¡± Art walked past them, towards the cart, and started stuffing a bag with food. The man made a strange noise, something between a sob and a yell.

    Art unsheathed his blade and pivoted around. The point of it was broken, but it skewered the man with nauseating ease. There was a cry from behind the father¡¯s broad back. Probably the girl.

    The man, whoever he was, coughed up a mouthful of blood, right in Art¡¯s face. He could taste the bitter iron in it. Almost made him sick. But I¡¯m past that. Far behind, far ahead. Feelings like that are a thing of antiquity.

    The man fell backwards, the knife remained stuck in his chest; sticking out horrid and sobering. Not even the sight of a helpless girl touches me. Not her wails, nor her outbursts. I am not a good man, after all. With me I bring nothing but death and misery.

    He saddled the horse and walked it out of the woods, towards the dimly lit road. The mare¡¯s hooves lazily hit the worn stones with clear clacking. The wind seemed colder than ever, but there was no warmth left inside Art to rob him of. Now, it will come.

    During fights, his mind is free of any murk or doubt. It was clear cut as a great river-smooth stone, translucent as the finest Acrea glass, peaceful as the sea before storm. But it was now, when he was alone in the darkness that it came crashing down on him. He shook like a leaf in the autumn wind as he walked in absolute silence and reviewed the carnage he had caused that day. The agony he had brought. The lives he had ruined.

    He chewed on the insides of his cheeks, and thought dark thoughts. Dark as the night that welcomed him. As the Great Iron River. And he whispered, too quiet for even the curious owls to hear.

    ¡°Still alive." He muttered

    "Still alive."

 Ash and Blood

    The chill wind whipped at his face, sharp and mean. It blew smoke and ash into his nose, throat, eyes - rasping and grating it raw. The disgusting smell of burned flesh wafted through the winter air, filling his mouth with sour spit.

    The village was a slaughter ground, strewn with all the filth of battle, wrapped up by the ruined remains of what once had been a place for people to work, eat, live. The corpses did little of that, now. Fire had grown from the barn, stacked with dry hay, and swept across, reducing buildings to black husks, trees to ashen claws and grass to crumbling grey.

    Crag¡¯s eyes moved tiredly from corpse to corpse, one burned to less than the other. Crispy and sweating, some still smoking. He sighed bitterly.

    ¡°We found some salted meat in one of the houses. Two barrels of the stuff, although one¡¯s half is burned badly.¡± Came a gruff voice from the right, rough and dry - dry as the air that clawed at their lungs.

    ¡°Aye, so what does that stack up to?¡± Crag asked as he tried wiping some blood from the blade of his axe. But the cloth was already stained beyond help, the brown smears only stretched out. His reflection was spotted with filth.

    ¡°Nothing much, chief.¡± The man gave something between a sigh and a growl. ¡°If only they had fuckin¡¯ listened. They would still be milling about in their cozy homes, and we¡¯d be of with some of their food. No one worse for it!¡± Red Hawk grumbled, patting some soot from his pants, finding a new tear in it, cursing.

    ¡°Well, can hardly blame ¡®em. The storm had hit ¡®em, too. Reckon they had little left themselves.¡± Said Swift Hare, coming from an empty shell of a farm. Always the realist, that one.

    ¡°Got plenty left now, don¡¯t they?¡± Red Hawk snarled, he stretched out his arms, making a spin round. ¡°All the peace in the world, they¡¯ve got! Back to the green, the lot of ¡®em!¡± Always been the dark one, Red Hawk. Dark as his right eye, all swollen and purple.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    Crag frowned, this was supposed to have gone differently. Roll in, him and his band of men. Bargain with whoever saw himself fit to do so. And leave with whatever they could get, no harm done.

    His frown grew deeper. He¡¯d even warned them. Said he was Grizzled Crag, from the deep green. Said they either gave some of their food, or he¡¯d take it himself.

    Arguing, shouting, cursing. One farmer threw a rock. A small one, barely larger than a pebble. Hit Red Hawk right in his eye, the stone did. And that was that. One had a torch, panicked, dropped it in the hay, and off it went. Fire. The great humbler of men. Roared with ire and rage. All to ash.

    He blinked, some of it had flown into his eye. He rubbed it with his hand, damp with blood. Another smear on his greasy face.

    ¡°Fuck!¡± he growled, his mood only growing worse. Crag saw some men cutting grasping fingers, taking clutching rings. He shook his head. ¡®em silver and copper would be worth naught when the snow starts falling, and yer children start starving. But he could hardly blame ¡®em. They were Iron¡¯s men. Lived by different rules, other standards.

    And as if it came from his command, fat flakes of snow came twirling down from the grey sky above, mingling with the greyer ash and red blood pooling the trampled earth. Crag reckoned the snow wouldn¡¯t be leaving anytime soon. Their time was running out, fast.

    ¡°Not enough.¡± Crag said to no one in particular. He peered south, to the somber horizon of dying land in winter¡¯s unforgiving grasp. He could return now with the meagre winnings they had gathered, but his village would suffer severe losses to hunger none the less. To him it was simple. If it took another town, drowned in bloodshed, to aid even the tiniest bit in the survival of their people, then that was a simple price to pay. And one he would gladly atone for.

    ¡°We¡¯ll continue.¡± He said with iron to his voice. There was no room for debate. He was Grizzled Crag from the Deep Green, and would not allow for anyone to disobey his will.

    ¡°Aye,¡± Red Hawk growled in agreement, walking off to fetch the others, still busy with their pointless scourge for trinkets and treasures. There was shouting and cursing, but only a fool would fight Red. Always the violent one, Hawk that is.

    ¡°They¡¯ve been alone for three-quarter moons, now,¡± Hare said carefully, ¡°leaving them for even longer¡­ I believe reminding you is unnecessary?¡± He passed Crag by with wary strides, treading on the fresh snow, leaving crimson prints in his wake.

    ¡°I know,¡± whispered the grizzled chief, ¡°I know all too well.¡± Only a fool would argue with Swift. Always the cautious one, Hare that is.

 When The World Was Full Of Wonder

    Through the cover of the night a shape came staggering, tired, blinded by the curtain of falling snow. Horse guided by its reins, useless in the raging storm. Made little difference in the end.

    He squinted, eyes little more than slits, with ice flocking his vision. Blotched white obscuring the outstretched black. Can¡¯t see shit.

    A sheep bleared in the distance. Art flinched at that, surprised he heard it in the first place with the roaring ¡®round his ears. His lips formed a shaky smile. Can¡¯t fool a tyran¡¯s ears.

    He waited, hunched and with his coat around his neck. Felt his rough beard prickle, the horse nudging impatiently, the snow clinging to his already frozen face. Where?

    He swiveled his head. Right, then left and right again. The snow never relenting. Always there to clutter his eyes, block his ears, stuff his nose. It laid so thick there was no telling where the road led. If there was a road at all.

    The animal screamed again, careless, hungry. Art¡¯s grin grew a little wider, his grip on the reins - tighter. There you are.

    He turned to his right and walked past the carefree trees, idly pilling snow atop. The forest split, and light spilled through. Dim and blurry through the snowfall. But it was there. A town.

    ---

    Bored. It was the only way Cos could describe his current self. After all, his company were trapped in what could only be called a run-down village. The inn, little more than a hovel really, was small and cramped. Or at least it appeared so, with travelers all crowded inside. And most of the band was even staying in farms and barns. Really, only his family was claiming the inn. Them, and some other travelers.

    His eyes panned around, dully, at the gathering, just as he had done some hundred times already. Wrapped in white, yet stained with mud, sat a priest of the goddess Solis. His advice and prayers had run dry some days ago, when no one bothered looking his way whenever he started blabbering on about Almighty this, righteous that. Now, he just sat in a corner, hunched over his ale, gathering dust.

    Two farmers had decided to spend about the last of their sum on watered-down beer, and were holding the mugs in their hardened hands, savoring every drop as if it was God¡¯s finest nectar.

    Next to them sat a fiddler, leisurely plinging away at his lute, birthing only lousy, broken tunes. His traveling coat well-worn and draped loosely around his sharp shoulders. He had given up on entertaining anyone when he realized there was no coin to be found. Not here, in this corner of the world.

    Cos didn¡¯t know why, but the people here were rock bottom poor. They had homes, and fields, and livestock and grain. Yet, the money seemed to seep between their fingers. To the mud, and then? Cos didn¡¯t know. Didn¡¯t care much either. Not anymore. Being hovelled-up inside a creaking excuse of an inn does that, after a while.

    ¡°And wherever his mightiest o¡¯ wings blocked the scorchin¡¯ sun, a roar, so terribly loud and frightening that even the bravest o¡¯ knights a stood trembling in their bright suits ¡®o armor, would be the only thing heard for miles o¡¯ end!¡± Cos looked at his little sister, staring wide eyed at the Teller of Things, and was happy to know at least she hadn¡¯t suffered under the monotonous tedium of their situation.

    Cos¡¯s eyes wandered over the bearded man, telling one of his many tales. This one with the same vigor and interest as the last, and the one before, and the one before that. Syn taking in every word, any gesture, all the miraculous victories and heart-tearing defeats. With eyes wide and observing a world full of wonder. She had always liked her stories.

    Cos looked at the Teller, and his road-worn clothing riddled with holes and tears. He was stitching them together as he told story after story. Thick fingers struggling with fine needles and rough cord. There was some entertainment to be had, besides his tales after all, Cos thought.

    ¡°His speed so great it be warpin¡¯ the very clouds through which he soared!¡± His Verkath accent laid thick on his words, but Syn didn¡¯t appear to have trouble making out what he said.

    ¡°And how strong was this dragon?¡± Cos asked, slightly mocking, somewhat challenging. He had heard this story before, hundreds of times. By Tellers from here and far, and in books from even further. So, it was safe to say there was little for him to learn here.

    ¡°How strong!?¡± The teller asked, befuddled, round-eyed, his grey hair messy and greasy. Wild. Just as his eyes at that instant. Awfully wild and so very, very deep. Sunken way beyond anything. And Cos was suddenly scared, then. Scared of what lurked behind that faint shimmer of anger. Beneath those layers and layers of endless knowledge and knowing. He regretted his arrogance. Kindness to a Teller is doubly repaid, offence thrice, as was known.

    The Teller scoffed, and the pressure was gone.

    ¡°Well, there be no records o¡¯ his fightin¡¯ prowess. But I be reckoning it to beyond any mortals knowin¡¯.¡± He leaned back in his chair and the old wood groaned. The Teller scratched his cheek, flakes of skin peeling off like paper.

    ¡°How long has he been alive? The Silver Dragon?¡± Syn was sat on the wooden boarded floor. Legs crossed, eagerly leaning forward. Staring hard at the Teller. Drowning him in her eyes of endless emerald.

    Cos knew there was a correlation to be found between age and power in many stories and legends, and it wasn¡¯t far from the truth. The longer one lives, the greater the knowledge he can gather. And it is well known that power is birthed from knowledge, as the strongest mages and swordsman could count well on their years. Cos wondered how many ages the Teller had seen¡­

    ¡°Hmmm¡­-¡± The wrinkled man pondered for a spell, rocking his jaded chair back and forth.

    ¡°Long before us, little lass. Long before the wicked, too, I reckon.¡± His eyes grew all distant. Peering at the low ceiling, or what laid beyond.

    ¡°Long before the age of glass, and the eon of ash. Perhaps even before any gods be settin¡¯ a foot on this land¡­¡± There was an interesting thought, Cos found. Very unorthodox, as most would say there was nothing before the Almighty.

    ¡°Before the All-powerful, Almighty, eternally wise and all-knowing Solis, there was nothing and no one!¡± screeched the priest, drunk on ale or boredom. Perhaps both.

    The farmers, right next to him, recoiled at the sudden outburst, but remained quiet otherwise. Seemingly having no want for conflict left inside of them.

    The man clad in stained white raised himself from his crooked chair and grabbed his amulet tight. Fingers whitening from the stress of it.

    ¡°Solis, holy in her name, was the shaper and architect of this land and all of which surrounding it! So it was written in the seven books of gospel! So it be told and so it be done!¡± The priest¡¯s face was red with rage or alcohol, and his teeth bared like a rabbit dog.

    ¡°Calm down. I be meaning no offence,¡± said the Teller, raising the palms of his hands in a sign of peace, ¡°only tellin¡¯ the tale as it ought to be told ¨C as it were told to me.¡± But there was no quiver to his voice, no doubt or worry. His hands weren¡¯t shaking, and his lashes weren¡¯t batting.

    ¡°As it were told to you!? AS IT WERE TOLD TO YOU!?¡± The priest took a wobbly step forward while pointing an accusing, trembling finger towards the Teller. Another stirred in the far-right corner of the room.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Will you just shut up, for the love of God!¡± The fiddler growled, setting aside his instrument. ¡°The staleness is enough to kill a man, but you might just do me in completely, with al that blabbering about your stupid God!¡± The man moved his table aside, getting up from his seat. Eyes flaring, fingers twitching.

    ¡°YOU DARE!? YOU DARE SPEA-¡± The priest grabbed for his blade, and the fiddler reached inside the folds of his coat. Cos moved to protect his sister, and the unwanted bystanders prepared to make way.

    But before the farmers could lurch aside, and chaos could ensue, the inn¡¯s door slammed open, letting the raging storm blast its icy wind through the room. And all within sobered. Cos knew, just as the priest, and the fiddler, and all others gathered ¨C you don¡¯t make a scene with a Tyran around.

    ---

    The tavern looked a broke-down hovel from the outside and a step indoors revealed no grand deception. A sorry tongue of fire squirmed inside a hearth blackened far past the point of rescue, a sour fragrance of wood-smoke and damp and rank bodies unknown to soup wafted through.

    The counter was little more than a slab of old wood, full of splits and cracks, polished by years of elbow and warped in the middle, where the keep stood, wiping away at his cups with and old rag that ought to represent a towel.

    Narrow and low, and too cramped for Art¡¯s liking. But what can you expect on a night like this? With the weather as it is¡­

    The door shut with a bang, and the whole place shook with it. The people within all bloodlessly pale. Some cowering, some sitting, some standing. Surprised, frightened, impassive, curious ¨C an expression to dress each face. Am I interrupting something here? Don¡¯t mean to be rude.

    Those who stood quickly sat back down, and those sitting shifted uncomfortably. The usual response, I see. Can¡¯t say I¡¯m surprised.

    Art eyed the gathering, his face hard and leer harder. Every person he set his scowl on looked away, except for three. An old man, who seemed aged way past reckoning, yet holding himself with a strange feeling of danger. Art felt something tingling, and scowled some more. A Teller, huh? Here to weave some tales? Sure, I¡¯ll give ye one. You can call it: bloodthirsty Tyran butchers pitiful town. How¡¯d the crowd like that ¡®o one?

    But the Teller didn¡¯t budge. Art even had the feeling the old fart was smirking slightly. Hard to tell with that thick grey beard.

    He noticed two pair ¡®o eyes looking at him. One pair dark brown, the other a bewitching green. The former was a young man, placing himself between himself and the latter. Half crouched, half sitting. His hand suspiciously close to the blade, hidden underneath his woolen tunic. But there¡¯s no hiding from me. And even then, what would you do?

    Art¡¯s eyebrow rose. A challenge. The boy seemed to calm down, his fingers first forming a fist, then relaxing again. Smart.

    But the girl, however. She seemed fascinated by him. Art felt himself being analyzed, as if he were a piece of art, or perhaps a book. Or an animal.

    This time it was Art who looked away. No sense or pride in scaring a little girl. Even if it is irritable.

    He walked for the Keep, fatigued weighing on his strides, the floor boards complaining with every step. Everyone¡¯s attention was focused on him, how he moved, where he looked. The heavy blade dangling from my waist. Silver, try and take it, if you like.

    He shrugged the sodden coat from his shoulders, let it drop on the counter with a splat. To say the Keep looked worried would be an understatement.

    ¡°What can I do for you, Master Tyran?¡± The man asked politely, nervously twisting the cloth ¡®round his dented cup. Art found the man oddly on edge, even for his standards.

    Art grabbed in his coin purse, safely tucked inside his banded armor, heard the metal tinkle and clatter, retrieved two crowns and pressed them onto the wood between himself and the Keep.

    ¡°I¡¯ll take two baskets of dried meat and hardened sausages, and another one of cheese as well,¡± He watched beads of sweat trickle down the man¡¯s face. Strangely tense, even borderline hysterical, if you ask me¡­ But who does? It is generally I who askes the questions.

    ¡°I¡¯ll have some meat right now, and ale to go with that. A room, too, if you don¡¯t mind.¡± The Tyran looked through his furrowing brows, saw the Keep¡¯s eyes flitting around. Why? What¡¯s there to worry about? Got something to hide?

    ¡°S¡¯cuse us, Master Tyran. We ain¡¯t got no rooms left.¡± Art looked at the stairs where a freckled girl was stood, dressed in a barmaid¡¯s dressing. He raised an eyebrow.

    ¡°No more room left for old me?¡± He posed, slowly turning to face her. And with every second that passed the girl seemed to shrink more and more, trying to hide in the shadows that their puny fire left.

    ¡°forgive her master Tyran!¡± The Keep interjected, ¡°she¡¯s mistaken! We¡¯ve got another room left. ¡®T aint much for ye, but I reckon it be a better fit than a barn, or rather¡­¡± His mind trailed off and his voice grew quieter under Art¡¯s gaze. What is it with these people?

    ¡°I¡¯ll take that, then, no point in making an issue of this¡­¡± Art said, ¡°I take it the lass can lead me to my room? And have her bring me the food as well.¡±

    ¡°Yes, understood, Master Tyran. It will be done as you said.¡± He slid the crowns inside his apron and retrieved a couple of pigs and iron bits as change. Art did some quick math in his head and came to the unsurprising conclusion that the food was expensive as Acrean silk. Little shock considering the weather and winter. But it was frustrating none the less.

    Art sighed wearily, grabbed the coins and his coat, turned and made for the stairs when an eager voice stopped him.

    ¡°Is it true that all Tyran have bones made from crystals?¡± Art pivoted slowly until he was once again staring in mirrors of lively green. The girl was looking at him as if he were the only person in the room. Clear green eyes and a pure skin encased in the darkest hair he had ever seen. So dark it seemed to swallow the light around. Breathtaking, was what it was. Even for me.

    ¡°Syn! What are you thinking? You can¡¯t just ask-¡± The boy started interjecting.

    ¡°Yes, that is correct,¡± Art said, shutting the boy up. ¡°Once we are fully formed, that is, power dwells inside our crystal bones and abide to our kaude.¡±

    Art peered at the Teller from the corner of his vision, but the man seemed impassive. Wasn¡¯t even looking, just moving his hands back and forth, stitching together what was left of his ragged clothing. But Art guessed the man would be listening. They always do. Trying to gather what little knowledge remained unknown. Thinking they can catch up with her. Fools.

    The girl lit up, shifted her weight, and leaned closer.

    ¡°Do you¡­-¡± She started, but Art had already turned and started to leave. He wasn¡¯t going to spill anymore beans. Trade secrets were meant to be kept.

    The stairs protested underneath his weight, and dust fell as he ascended, following the lass towards his room. And by the Gods did he crave a decent night¡¯s sleep.

    ¡°Like I¡¯m telling ya, we aint got no food left to give ya!¡± Briar said, cursing his own fate. Why? Why him of all people?

    His neck was strained from looking up towards the looming savage. By the Seven, he had heard tales about giants, but this man was even bigger than that.

    ¡°We ain¡¯t askin¡¯,¡± The savage-looking man next to him barked, ¡°We simply sayin¡¯ we gon¡¯ take some. And that¡¯s that. you can choose, either fight and die, or stand aside and live,¡± he flashed a bestial grin, ¡°T is all the same to me.¡±

    His guts were all tied up, his throat so very dry. There was no bargaining with these brutes. So, fight them? Briar shook his head at the mere thought of it. There were at least twenty of em¡¯. Well-armed, and with a lot more fight in ¡®em then him. What could he do ¡®bout it now?

    The giant shook his head, crossed his burly arms.

    ¡°We need to remember the balance. For every life taken¡­¡± He stared his companion down, not finishing his sentence as if it were unnecessary. The red-bearded one stared back a moment, but then abided.

    ¡°Aye. S¡¯pose yer right¡± Briar felt a great deal of weight lifting off himself.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t some chump say there was a large fort further east?¡± The giant asked an oaken-haired man to his left.

    ¡°Yes.¡± He confirmed, flatly. And the weight came crashing down, then. Only now weighing twice as much, felt his boots sink through the snow, into the mud. Lord Imgrint¡¯s estate! If they were to attack there... They had no idea of what powers were held there. What was kept in the well¡­

    ¡°We can¡¯t let you go there!¡± Briar protested loudly, louder than he had wanted. But the words had come out on their own, and he was surprised himself that he had the courage to speak ¡®em. But the brutes didn¡¯t take kindly to it. The sinews in the red one¡¯s neck were bulging and swelling. The giant¡¯s frown had grown darker than the night. And even the slim one¡¯s eyes were sharp all the sudden.

    ¡°Can¡¯t? You think, I, Grizzled crag from the Deep Green, have to answer to you?¡± steam was hissing from his nostrils, his giant hands were squeezed into fists. Briar didn¡¯t want to say anything anymore, not a peep. But he heard a voice whisper, then, and his body did the rest.

    ¡°Huh?¡± Briar looked at his hands, stained in red, holding a dagger he didn¡¯t even knew he had.

    ¡°Huh?¡± Again, Briar didn¡¯t know what to make of it. Why was he, the village chief, stabbing some savage?

    The giant looked down on the shallow wound in his side. At the knife that barely pierced his pelt. And he gave a furious roar which tore through the raging storm.

    The heavy blade of his axe soared through the air and cleaved down Briar¡¯s shoulder, and kept going, until it came out the other end, near the stomach. Blood and intestines seeped from the gaping wound and fell in steaming piles on the ground to melt the snow.

    ¡°Guess that leaves us no other choice, then.¡± Crag said in his native tongue to the rest of his clan, turning himself to the three man the dead chief had brought with. Each more horrified then the next. Still nailed into place, frozen, like the fish in their ponds.

    ¡°Aye.¡± Said Red hawk, no complaint in his voice. Off course not.

    ¡°So it would seem.¡± Said Swift hare, with no less pity in his.

 Heartache

    After the Tyran had secluded himself to the confines of whatever chamber he had been appointed to, tension in the room dropped quickly. Even the priest and fiddler seemed to have calmed themselves some. It was only the keep that kept nervously rubbing at his cups. Eyes jumping from his hands to the staircase every now and then.

    ¡°And held within the yawning abys o¡¯ the cave there be a demon, so grand and powerful, that even the mightiest o¡¯ heroes perished once they wandered inside its depths!¡± Cos barely had the time to lecture his sister on her behavior before she was absorbed by another tale. Truly, what was she thinking, questioning a Tyran like that? Cos sighed tiredly. He had tried long to get her mind acquainted with the real world. But it seemed like all effort was in vain. She just couldn¡¯t think realistically.

    ¡°The Demon¡¯s horns, foul and black as the unknown hollows of hell, be scraping the cave¡¯s very ceiling,¡± the Teller continued, unfazed by the Slayer¡¯s passing, ¡°and its skin be equally dark, as well. But this be no foolish demon either! It be cunning like a snake, and knowing o¡¯ the troubles of man. Chained to its tomb, it may be, but it lures man and beast alike to its seclusion with sweet promises and the fulfillment o¡¯ wishes!¡±

    Cos knew this legend as well. In fact, he was sure Syn had read it before, too. But she was none the less listening attentively to every word the Teller spoke. Cos leaned back onto a table, his mind wandering to other places. The road, the North, the men they had met along the way, those suspicious soldiers¡­ Whatever came of them?

    The staircase groaned, and all eyes were fixed in its direction for a tense moment before two people descended ¨C his parents. They had dressed themselves in warm clothing, with a fur-covered hood and thick gloves to top it off.

    ¡°Are you going outside? In this weather?¡± Cos asked, confused. He¡¯d rather stay indoors, where it was somewhat warm and protected from the wind.

    ¡°Just going to check on the horses, Cos, and maybe drop by the guys for a sec,¡± His father¡¯s neatly trimmed beard moved as he spoke, ¡°no need for worry. We¡¯ll return in a moment.¡±

    Cos spotted his mother staring at the Teller for a spell, listening in on the story. It wasn¡¯t hard to guess where Syn had her curiosity from. His father grabbed her by the hand, redirecting her attention.

    ¡°Come, dear. I¡¯m worried with the storm and all.¡± His father had a gentle expression on his face. He always had when he talked to Bella.

    ¡°Yes. Oh, Cos, be sure to mind your sister. She can be awfully distracted at times.¡± She gave a motherly smile, her green eyes shining, and raven-black hair twirling as she turned to follow Cos¡¯s father.

    ¡°Don¡¯t want to hear that from you¡­¡± Cos muttered. Watching them leave through the door.

    Time passed by, not any faster than before. The farmers had left as well, now. The fiddler was idly snoring away, and the priest kept to himself. But the Teller was content with droning on about this and that. Only now Syn had gotten drowsy, her lashes batting and staying down from time to time. Her head gently nodding as sleep overtook her. Cos felt her silky hair stroke his arms as she laid in them, her chest slightly heaving in a peaceful rhythm. Cos moved his hand to push a stray lock of velvet black from her serene face ¨C

    A scream split the night, a roar and a groan, a crashing bellow, another scream. Everyone jumped at the noise, wide-eyed, peering at the door. Silence.

    ¡°What was that?¡± Croaked the Keep, holding his cloth tight.

    ¡°What do you think it was, moron?¡± The fiddler spat, his hand already gripping inside his cloak.

    ¡°Be quiet!¡± The priest hissed, sword drawn. Glistening in the heart¡¯s dull light.

    ¡°Raiders are attacking!¡± A yell came from afar, ¡°raiders are ¨C¡± a yelp, a wet crushing, wetter gurgles. Cos tried to swallow, but his throat was so very dry.

    ¡°Cos?¡± Syn whimpered quietly, tugging at his tunic. That got him focused again.

    ¡°We need to find our guards, have them set a perimeter¡­¡± his mind scourged all the texts he had read, all the lectures he had heard about small group escort combat tactics, ¡°then secure a means of escape by horseback¡­ horses¡­ Mom, Dad!¡± Shit, that had slipped his mind.

    ¡°Big brother Cos¡­¡± His sister¡¯s small voice broke his thoughts again. He firmly grabbed her slender shoulders, and looked into those dangerously green eyes of her.

    ¡°Syn, you¡¯ll need to listen exactly to what I say, alright?¡± Some tears were forming at the corners of her eyes, and Cos regretted being so stern. But there was no time now. She nodded, visibly shaking.

    ¡°We¡¯ll need to find mom and dad, at the stables, and hope we find some of our guards on the way. Our main priority is escaping as fast as we can. Syn, you need to stick real close to me. Never leave my side. You got that?¡±

    ¡°Hmm,¡± She said meekly, grabbing at Cos¡¯s woolen clothing.

    ¡°Alright¡­¡± Cos said to himself, getting his thoughts in order, and sliding the dagger from its hidden sheath. He hoped he wouldn¡¯t have to use it, though. Cos looked at the others, each of them staring blankly in outright frenzied fright.

    ¡°Any of you wish to join?¡± Cos posed hurriedly. He didn¡¯t really care whether they lived. But another meat-shield to protect his sister was more than welcome.

    ¡°Are you mad!?¡± The fiddler shrieked. Eyes wild. Bloodshot, almost. ¡°We¡¯ll get killed outside! It¡¯s allot safer indoors where we can at least barricade ourselves!¡±

    ¡°Precisely!¡± The priest agreed quickly, and the Keep was all too eager to join them.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    But Cos knew better. If his guess was correct, then these raiders were Northmen. And when one drop of blood is spilled, those who pray to the spirits of the Deep Green have no choice but to purge until there is no one left. Such is their way.

    Cos briefly watched the Teller of Things, passively stitching at his rags. Not a care in the world. Cos even thought the man was smiling, but wasn¡¯t sure. The thick beard made it hard to tell.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± He took his sister¡¯s hand and lead her away. Cos¡¯s fingers enveloped the door¡¯s handle, he hesitated, not knowing what loomed beyond the faded wood. Darkness, a storm, death ¨C he knew that much. But hope? Only one way to find out.

    The heavy door lurched open, and the snow and wind tackled them with a blow. Cos squinted through the blinding white, heard the door close with a smack behind them.

    He looked around, but saw only a white expanse obscuring the void. Couldn¡¯t see two feet in front of him. Couldn¡¯t hear anything but the bellowing storm. Panic latched at his heart. Fear of the unknown.

    He looked back, but saw no door, no hovel, no light ¨C only snow, coiling, twirling. He held Syn¡¯s hand tighter and started walking to where he remembered the stables to be, fighting against the blizzard with every step, pushing him left and right.

    Cos kept going, nothing but the occasional scream or roar to break through the unceasing snowstorm. His foot slipped on something, he looked down. An arm.

    He wanted to vomit. Cos pulled at Syn, hoping she didn¡¯t see. But guessing from the look on her face, she had gotten an eyeful.

    Cos suddenly heard a regular thump, thump, thump. To his right. He turned and started struggling in that direction.

    There was a building, it¡¯s door swaying in the wind. Clattering against its frame. They staggered inside, felt like being swallowed by the abys. So dark. Dark as the unknown hollows of hell. The sound of cracking hay.

    ¡°Shhh!¡± Cos stopped his sister. They were still standing on soil. The noise hadn¡¯t come from them.

    A pause.

    Cos¡¯s hand ached from gripping his dagger painfully tight. His eyes saw only dancing ghosts in the shadows. Mocking, sneering, knowing him to be weak. He set his jaw tight ¨C teeth creaking.

    An angry hiss, a dark shape flitting past. The farmer¡¯s cat.

    Cos almost sank through his knees. All wobbly.

    ¡°By the stars¡­¡± he heaved.

    ¡°Syn, are you ¨C¡± The door flew open and light flooded the barn. Cos pivoted, eyes narrowing in the torchlight.

    A roar, the flash of metal. Cos barely had time to dodge before the blade whistled past him and bit into a pole, raining splinters onto them.

    ¡°Syn, run!¡± Cos raised himself, felt his shoulder stinging, warm blood leaking. But his sister wasn¡¯t leaving. She still stood nailed in place, holding his sleeve. Eyes wide and filled with tears. Scared witless.

    ¡°Syn!¡± But he wasn¡¯t getting through to her. Another clatter, the sword leaving the wood in a wide ark. Cos pushed his sister hard as he could. Saw her tumbling back into the hay.

    He tried to dodge, but the sword licked his side. He wheezed at the pain. Burned so badly. How deep was it? How much blood was he loosing?

    ¡­How long did he have?

    He gave a bellow of his own, fighting against the agony. The Northman tried swinging again, but the blade was thick and heavy. Too slow. Cos¡¯s knife reached for the man¡¯s carotid and tasted blood.

    The man hissed, angry, but not dead. His arm had blocked the strike, and the dagger had struck there.

    Cos twisted the blade from the man¡¯s flesh and prepared to stab again ¨C aiming for his groin, this time. There was a punch in his stomach. Cos heaved and coughed up bile.

    Just a punch, he could live through that.

    His arm reached back, building up momentum, and jabbed forward. Only, he wasn¡¯t holding the knife anymore.

    ¡°Huh?¡± He felt terribly dizzy. Cos looked down, saw a heavy blade buried inside his stomach, dark blood seeping from the wound.

    He looked up, at the raider¡¯s rugged face. Red with anger and eyes gleaming with rage. Before Cos could say anything, the knife was pulled out, water splashed onto the floor ¨C or was it blood? Cos didn¡¯t know.

    He felt the metal punch into him again, but the pain was gone. He felt cold. It was as if ice was spreading from his guts, crawling along his spine.

    He heard his sister scream something, but couldn¡¯t really make out what. Cos wanted to ask her, but couldn¡¯t really form the words.

    The Northman released the scuff of Cos¡¯s tunic, and he flopped onto the soil like a rag.

    ---

    What? What was happening?

    Syn saw, but didn¡¯t believe. It was impossible. There was no way her brother could have died. After all, that never happens in stories. The hero never dies.

    ¡°I¡¯m coming for you now, little bitch!¡± The Northman spat vehemently. But Syn just watched as he trod towards her. Heavy footsteps splashing through her brother¡¯s pool of blood, staining his furs.

    The torch held in his left hand casted looming shadows along the barn¡¯s walls. Stretched them out and made them dance. The raiders face now all the more frightening. Cos¡¯s corpse all the more horrid. Blood dripping in fat drops from the gleaming blade.

    The man¡¯s hand reached for her, big and riddled with old scars.

    ¡°No!¡± Syn squeaked, ducking away.

    ¡°Yes!¡± she heard the Northman laugh. Felt his grip on her ankle. Her fingers dug into the dirt as she was dragged away, saw something reflecting in the torchlight.

    Her brothers dagger.

    Syn¡¯s fingers clutched the weapon, felt the edge cut her fingers. Warm blood trailing along her hands.

    She was raised up into the air, held by her leg. Saw the large knife lingering in front of her face.

    She screamed again, and the man could only laugh, and shake her about ¨C enjoyed her pointless squirming, wailing around.

    She closed her eyes, tight, and let the knife plunge into the unknown. She heard a painful wail, and was dropped on the floor. Her head hit the dirt, sending her eyes spinning ¡®round and ¡®round.

    Blurry shapes, outlined in the radiance of light. The raider cried out, pressing his hands onto the gushing wound in his inner thigh. Started to wobble and sway left and right, blood shooting from the wound at the rhythm of his heart. Slick lines of red forming on the barn¡¯s soil.

    ¡°You fuckin¡¯ bitch!¡± he stammered, tumbling over. Fell right next to Syn, and he looked into her eyes, and she into his. They teemed with seething rage, so awfully dark.

    Syn cried out, raising the dagger high, both hands enveloping the handle, and pushed the blade down with all her strength. The Northman gurgled as the metal dove inside his chest. Syn rose her arms again, stabbing down. Again, and again, her wails turning into sobs. Tears obstructing everything ¨C a blurry mess. Shlick, shlick, the handle turning slippery.

    And then she couldn¡¯t lift her arms anymore. Could only stare into the man¡¯s eyes. Oddly vacant, madly accusatory, dreadfully hollow. Dead.

    Syn laid there, her throat raw and breathing hard, before slowly raising herself from the mutilated corpse, and with wavering steps, she stumbled towards her brother. The light shifted in the draft, showing an expression almost lifelike. Almost alive.

    She knelt down, her knees drenched in blood. The raider''s, her brother''s, there was no telling now. Not anymore.

    ¡°Cos?¡± she whispered weakly, ¡°Cos?¡± Only the lashing wind answered.

    ¡°Cos!¡± She cried out, embracing her dead brother, so dear to her. Salty tears mingling with iron blood, and dust, and dirt.

    ¡°Dark fang, you in here!?¡± Come a yell from outside, ¡°you sure you heard something, Red?¡±

    ¡°Course I¡¯m certain!¡± A voice replied, rough and dry.

    The door swung open. The blizzard rushed inside.

    ¡°Right in here ¨C¡± Three men stood in the opening, tall and threatening.

    ¡°What the fuck!?¡± The long haired one looked at Syn, then her brother, then the raider¡¯s dead, sprawling body. The red one¡¯s eyes narrowed at her.

    ¡°You did this, cunt?¡± But Syn had nothing left in her. No more reason to resist, no more reason to fight. She had lost already. Lost everything that mattered to her. All she held dear. Lost it like ash in the wind.

 Hard Wired

    Art reeled forward, sending his rough blankets flying. Something had woken him from his sleep, but he failed to recall what it was. He listened closely, to the groaning hovel, the cold draft stroking his body, some arguing downstairs, the smack of a door. What¡¯s going on at this time of night?

    He waited, upright and undressed. The wind howled and was joined by a bloodcurdling scream. Shit.

    He jumped off the bed, grabbing the clothing which had been scattered on the floor. He had taken it all of in a hurry after eating his fill, and now regretted it. Art peered through the candle-lit shimmers to where his stuff laid. He had gorged too much as well, had slumbered too deeply. Something that could have been a fatal mistake. Could still be. Might already be too late. Who knows, maybe those soldiers had friends, and now an army has surrounded this friendly town.

    He fastened his belt, fitted his riveted mail and banded armor ¨C all in terrible need of maintenance. As he swung his cloak around him, there was a crashing below, yelling, metal scraping, more screaming. Not good.

    He grabbed his blade, resting against the nightstand, and rushed downstairs. His boots trudged swiftly down the wooden steps. He turned the corner and greeted a scene of chaos.

    The priest was locked in close combat, feverishly waving his blade around, keeping a bearded brute at bay. Not doing a very convincing job at it. The fiddler had already claimed a victim, as his opponent was bleeding badly from a wound in his right side. Clean in the liver. Pretty good.

    But there was another attacker who jumped in, and now they were grappling and rolling across the boards. Kicking and biting, the Fiddler got in a stab or two here, got a few teeth knocked out.

    The Keep was still clutching his rag, holding it between himself and the assailants as if it were a ward against evil. Art doubted it would be an effective one. And the Teller sat peacefully in his chair, fingers intertwined and resting on his stomach, looking upon it all as if it had no bearing on him. Fucking Tellers.

    Art didn¡¯t need to look twice at the attackers to know they were Northman, though. And that was still better than an army, but worse than a regular band of raiders. Art had some unpleasant exchanges in the past with those madmen. Choosing a side remained easy enough, with the raiders blocking his escape.

    Art lurched forward, little more than a shimmer in the dim light. His sword whistled sharply, and in the next moment had an arm twirl round and round in the air, red blood trailing after it.

    The Northman had a look of confusion on him. Surprise. But before he could feel the pain, his head was sent after his limb, and hit the wall with a sickening thud. But Art was years past nausea. Before the priest could say something, the Slayer was already moving onto his next target.

    Two quick steps, and he was on top of the Fiddler¡¯s opponent. Art spun his blade around, and shoved the point into the man¡¯s back, stopping short of piercing the Fiddler too.

    Another raider came for him, axe held at the ready. Reeling his arm back for a downwards strike. Art let his blade stick into the corpse and jumped forwards.

    The man swung ¨C

    ¡°Argh!¡± His axe hooked onto the low rafters. He panicked and went for his knife, but it was far too late for that. Art¡¯s palm shot upwards and drove the raider¡¯s nose bone deep inside his brain. There was no yelp or scream. Just a throb, and done. The man fell backwards, dead as can be. Another corpse to stack the pile.

    Art turned to the gathering inside, all looking at him as if the plague was standing in their midst. Horrible, putrid, unstoppable. Art had dispatched the men who would have otherwise killed them in mere moments. Just as in every story that told of Slayers.

    He peered at the Teller, who seemed like he was enjoying a good show. No doubt memorizing it all to tell later. No doubt. Fucking ¨C

    Wait. Art looked around, but didn¡¯t see the children from before. Not the protective boy nor the curious girl.

    ¡°Where are those kids at?¡± He asked the gathering.

    ¡°Went outside a moment ago,¡± the priest breathed, holding his hand on his stomach, a red stain spreading on his white garb, ¡°searching for their parents and entourage, they said.¡± Fuck.

    He didn¡¯t have time for this. Why did he care about them anyway? No point in doing so.

    The image of the young girl¡¯s eyes flashed inside his mind again. Eyes, green as the wildest forests. Art spotted the Teller smirking, but ¨C. Hair, black as the darkest nights. Fuck.

    He abandoned the others, and ran outside. The blizzard welcomed him in its icy embrace, robbing him of most his senses. There was little time, he knew that much for certain. When the Northman tire of their bloodshed, fire will be raging it all to ashes. Such is their way. Where?

    He looked for tracks to follow, but there were many of them, most already covered by a layer of fresh snow. Fuck!

    But two pair led away, to somewhere, Art had no idea. It wasn¡¯t heading for the stables, that he did know. Fucking clueless kids.

    Hesitation. He could still leave, forsake them all. It¡¯s what he used to do. What he should do, really. But he had a gnawing feeling, a tiny voice that whispered he would regret it. Art found he already regretted enough as is.

    He made his decision and trudged forward, his cloak clacking in the vehement sighing, eyes strained against the cluttering ice. He heard a cry, high pitched, from the way he was heading. Right on.

    There were voices all the sudden, too. And light casting five dark shapes against a barn, blown almost to ruin. The men headed inside, cursing and yelling to each other.

    ¡°Hold her fast! I¡¯ll carve the bloody cross in this cunt!¡± The voice sounded like it had swallowed gravel.

    Art followed the group inside, silent under the roaring storm. He panned around, at the room cast in orange light. There were two corpses, one sprawled and carved open ¨C a raider¡¯s, the other was the boy. Shit.

    The four Northmen were homing in on the girl, who didn¡¯t even look their way. She was just hugging the boy¡¯s dead body. No fight left in her. The raiders already had something in mind, it seemed.

    ¡°I¡¯ll flay the skin from your back and suck the marrow from your spine, bitch!¡± One of the men went to grab her ¨C

    ¡°You better stop right there.¡± Art warned flatly, and the men turned in surprise.

    ¡°Oh?¡± The Red one snarled at him, ¡°and what will you do ¡®bout it, maggot.¡±

    They started fanning out, left and right, as a team. These men were dangerous, experienced in combat. But that didn¡¯t matter to Art. Not to a Slayer.

    ¡°Rethink what your doing,¡± Art said, voice hollow and flat. His eyes reflected nothing ¨C they held no more pity then the winter. Less even. ¡°I¡¯m a Tyran, and a good one, at that.¡± Depends on the word¡¯s meaning.

    ¡°A Tyran, hey? Don¡¯t know what that¡¯s s¡¯posed to be. Dead is what you¡¯ll be after I¡¯m done with ya!¡± The Red one spat, brandishing his weapons. There was only one way to go now. Art pressed down on his left pinky, felt it bend and creak and give way, snapping with the sound of shattered glass. And the Kaude went to work. It¡¯s nasty, horrible work.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°Kill me?¡± Art growled, the scars squirming along his jagged face, ¡°I¡¯m the one who does the killing, fool!¡± And the talk was done.

    The long haired one came at him with axe in hand, but Art¡¯s silver was there first. Wrists were severed from arms, still gripping the weapon. The raider screamed as blood sprayed about, dousing Art in red. A swift thrust to his throat had him bubbling up his last gurgling breaths.

    He heard a shuffle to his left, turned and blocked a short blade, jumped back to evade another. The bastard was duel wielding, and did it well. Quick strikes, missing by an inch, deflected on the last instant. Fast and tricky clever. But not clever enough.

    Art gave a bellowing roar, and his sword blew the blades aside, spun and flowed, weaving glinting trails of light through the darkness, and shaved the man¡¯s head half off on the follow through, showering the wall with blood and brain and shards of skull.

    But the next one was on him already, and he brought a friend. Art bobbed his head, felt the spear kiss his cheek. Jumped aside, felt the club¡¯s blow against his ribs. He set his jaw and snarled, bits of drool and slobber leaking out.

    The spear went for him again, and art weaved around it, closing the distance. So close, their faces almost touched. Art roared again, and shoved his blade through the man¡¯s bowels, felt his hand push through the breaking skin. Felt slimy entrails wriggle around his hands. He grabbed onto them and tore them free, flinging it at the one with rings in his ear.

    The man shrieked, waving his arms around, trying to untangle himself. Failing. Art¡¯s blade came down on him like a falling boulder and split his head open like a vegetable, kept going and slicing until it struck inside the lower ribs. Intestines slobbered onto the soil in a warm steaming pile.

    He jerked his sword loose with a roll of his shoulder, massive and swollen. His entire body overflowing with the carnage of a thousand monsters. And he knew himself to be one, too.

    The Red one looked different at him, now. Warily, doubt reflecting in his eyes. But anger present none the less. And the hatred fueled the fire of rage.

    He came for Art with axe in one hand and mace in the other, great heavy weapons, though he used them quick enough. The mace swung across, tore a chunk of wood from a beam. The axe came down, clattering into Art¡¯s blade, made it sing and dance. But art¡¯s grip didn¡¯t relent.

    The silver spun and had the axe drift away with a metal scraping. The mace reached for him, but Art twitched away, biding his time. The Red one missed his shoulder by a hair as Art jumped aside.

    The weapons swung around, fueled by burning hatred and the screaming that accompanies it. Holes were blown into walls, beams crumbled apart in a rain of splinters, bustles of hay were send flying with every strike.

    The axe stuck fast in the wood for a moment and Art¡¯s silver flashed over, broke the haft into splintering halves, leaving the raider with a broken stick in his paw. He flung it away and hefted the mace, came on even harder than before, swinging it round with furious bellows.

    It sailed over, and Art caught it just below the head, ripping it out of the big hand. It twisted through the air and clattered into the corner, but the Northman pressed on, spreading his thick hands out wide. Too close for art to use his silver, now.

    The raider smiled as his mighty arms closed round Art, tight, holding him fast.

    ¡°Got yer!¡± he shouted, squeezing Art in a great big hug. An awful mistake. Better to embrace the burning fire. And by the Seven was the Slayer¡¯s skin ablaze. Sent Hawk¡¯s hands sizzling. Burning red hot.

    Crack!

    Art¡¯s forehead smashed into his mouth. He swung his head back far as it would go. The second charge cracked Red¡¯s nose open, felt his grip slacken some more.

    Crunch!

    His broad jaw was hanging sideways, and it was Art who was holding him up now. He coiled his arm around the man¡¯s neck, and his other round that one.

    Squeezing, squeezing, felt his muscles swell and wriggle beneath his steaming flesh. Heard Red¡¯s skin hiss as they touched. Kept building up pressure, more and more as drool leaked from his brandished teeth. Snarling madly.

    Pop!

    And there it was. Eyes sprung from sockets, teeth fell from gum, blood spilled from wherever it could. Art released Red and let him fall. He sagged sideways and crumpled onto the soil, fluids oozing from his deformed face.

    Art hissed, sending long drips of spit and blood slithering between his gritting teeth. The world was a greasy smear, and everything was hurting. His head, his arms, his legs.

    Ligaments were torn, tendons had snapped, muscles were shred into sausage meat. He screamed, clenching his head, nails digging into his skin, drawing boiling blood. Had it sizzle down the side of his wriggling face. Horrible scars brought to life again as the Kaude pulsed and celebrated.

    He looked down at his blade, lying on the soiled dirt ¨C disgusting, gleaming, savage, thirsting metal. It made him sick. He wretched and out came nothing but blood and sour acid to claw his throat raw.

    Never liked using the Kaude, Art did. But you aren¡¯t always given a choice, right?

    Art looked upon the carnage he had created only moments ago, now viewing it as an outsider. He didn¡¯t like the stories, but they told of the truth. He didn¡¯t like them because they told of the truth.

    The hero defeats. The Tyran butchers.

    The ugly truth.

    Art looked at the girl through the blur, still clinging to the deceased boy. Probably hadn¡¯t even seen the fight. Perhaps for the better.

    He took a step, had the world lurch away, stumbled, slipped in some intestines strewn about, cursed and rose again. One wonky step at a time. Left foot, right foot. The world spinning through the hurt.

    ¡°Hey,¡± Art heaved, still clutching his head with one hand, ¡°Hey, we need to get going.¡±

    But the girl didn¡¯t react. Kept her face buried in the drenched clothing. Art grimaced, he didn¡¯t have time for this, and neither did she. Who knows how many more are outside. All too eager for taking revenge.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡± And he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away. She offered no resistance. Kept staring at the corpse with empty eyes as Art guided her to the barn¡¯s exit.

    Once outside, Art was relieved to find the blizzard having calmed some. But that came with a prize, too. They were red smears on a white canvas. Easily spotted by the blindest of foes.

    So, he kept to the shadows, crawling from one to another, dragging the girl along as dead weight. Was there even a point in taking her? Chances of recovery were very low. Art had seen this before, time after time.

    When you kill a man, you don¡¯t just take from him, you rob from all those who hold him dear. A soldier you cut down could be a son, a brother, a father. Art glanced at the girl, and her green eyes, now so terribly empty. He had seen it time and time again ¨C people suffering through his hand, grasping blood-stained gold. Fuck¡­

    He saw two shapes outlined in the snow. One tall, the other massive. Seemed more like a mountain than an actual human.

    ¡°Who are you?¡± The giant asked, an axe of inhuman size held with a hand that could have gone for a spade. Art pondered his odds. Whatever could get him out of this alive. He didn¡¯t feel like fighting another two Northmen, never mind the ogre¡­

    ¡°A traveler,¡± Art answered carefully, ¡°Just passing through with my daughter.¡±

    The long haired one¡¯s eyes narrowed, shifted his weight. An arming sword swaying with the movement. ¡°He¡¯s lying.¡±

    Art grimaced, his frown growing deeper. No time for this, and by the Gods was he hurting.

    ¡°A traveler, huh?¡± Boomed the giant, ¡°No ordinary one, that much¡¯s certain. Never met a man as foul smelling as ye. You carry the stench of a hundred corpses, looks like ye bathed in them, too.¡±

    ¡°And that face of yours,¡± The other added, ¡°looks more like a butcher¡¯s block. I know of Red Hawk, how he enjoys killing, and pillaging, and raping, but you look twice as savage still. So, why don¡¯t you tell us who you really are, and how you got covered in all that gore?¡± He was well spoken for a Northman, and what he said dug deep. Art ran through his options, none really working out, being honest.

    ¡°I¡¯m a Tyran,¡± Art grunted vehemently, ¡°And as for the goop, you can ask your friends, or what¡¯s left ¡®o them. In the barn, you¡¯ll find them scattered about. You¡¯re welcome to join them, too, if you¡¯d like.¡±

    The giant looked into his eyes, and Art held his gaze. His friend shuffled somewhat, lowering his blade.

    ¡°It¡¯s best not to fight him, Crag,¡± The man warned quietly, but Art heard it clear enough, ¡°I¡¯ve seen Tyran at work before, outside the Green, and they aren¡¯t something you want to involve yourself in.¡±

    The giant exhaled through his nose, scowling. Not dropping his enormous blade even an inch.

    ¡°So, just let him go? After all the men he killed?¡± He asked angrily, voice low as thunder and just as threatening.

    ¡°Getting ourselves killed won¡¯t even out the balance. Not yet, at least. Remember the village, Chief.¡±

    A moment of tension weighed on them, seemed as if violence would erupt at any given moment. Then Crag spoke, his great axe thumping the soil.

    ¡°We¡¯ll let you go, but you better not stop us from taking what we¡¯ve earned.¡± There was no room for argument in his tone. Art felt the girl grip his cloak, quickly peeked at her from over his shoulder.

    ¡°All I need is my horse, and I¡¯m gone.¡± Some men would sacrifice one life to save many.

    He¡¯d forsake the many, to save the few. He was no hero after all.

    ¡°Then be off with ye. May we never cross paths again.¡± Art couldn¡¯t agree more.

    He pulled the axe from the earth and walked past Art, almost touching. The other one kept staring at Art for a moment, before following his Chief.

    Art didn¡¯t lose any time, and quickly headed for the stables. The building hadn¡¯t been touched by the raiders yet, and his horse stood at the ready. Art quickly saddled him, and placed the girl on top before leading the mare away from the village by it¡¯s reigns. He wanted to find a somewhat decent road before riding off.

    A tingling sensation. It made his stomach churn. Something felt unnaturally sick and awfully disgusting. Tasted like rotting fish. Not good¡­

    Art guided the horse towards it, his frown etching deeper as recognition dawned on him. He found four corpses, hacked and slashed, posing as corpses do. Three of them a bit further from the first to die. Art walked to it, tasted barf at the back of his mouth.

    The corpse had almost been chopped in half, blue veins crawling along the ashen skin, like snakes. He kicked the body with his boot, made it roll over. And it stared at him, at the sky, at nothing at all with eyes blue as lightning.

    The heinous work of a hex.

    Seems like my work here isn¡¯t over yet.

    It¡¯s never over.

    Only heroes get their endings.

 Son Of The Flame

    The vulgar sound of flesh hitting flesh increased his heartrate. The sight of two humans, sweaty and breathing heavy, elevated his blood pressure. The moaning and gasping of two lust driven mammals held his complete attention. He watched them grasping at each other and the sheaths. He studied the hungry expressions decorating their faces. He looked, but only looked; he didn¡¯t interact, he wasn¡¯t seen, he wasn¡¯t known to be there.

    Something hit the rooftiles behind him with a soft thump. He flinched, but only briefly, turned and saw. He saw that it was only a cat, small, black, and alone. He let the breath go he hadn¡¯t known to be holding. No one had seen him, no one ever saw him.

    He kept looking at the feline until it departed into the darkness which the night offered in abundance. ¡®stupid cat,¡¯ he muttered silently. But he couldn¡¯t really hate the thing, they were similar, after all. Just like the stray, if he was seen, he would be scorned and hunted. No, wait. Humans, other humans didn¡¯t react that way with cats, only with him. He changed his mind, he did hate the cat. Why was only he hated? It wasn¡¯t like he ever did anything wrong! Other humans get angry for the dumbest reasons. He didn¡¯t steal, he only took stuff that others left lying around. How was he supposed to know that someone owned it? Stupid humans, he thought.

    A pause. ¡®stupid other humans¡¯, he corrected himself in his mind. He was human, too, of course. He bet that they would even get angry at him for looking through that crevice in the wood, having their sweaty fun. Stupid. He simply looked through an opening that was there. What was wrong with that?

    He had the desire to go back to looking, but decided that it would be better to get on with what he came here to do. Yes, that was a good idea; he always had good ideas.

    The crescent moon did a poor job of lighting up the roofs, and so he had an easy time swooping over them. Onlookers might, after looking at him maneuver, think him to be something inhuman. He moved too fluid, too fast, too quiet; a shadow in the night. But no one saw him, so there were no onlookers. And thus also no one who might wrongfully accuse him of being something monstrous.

    He climbed down a wall, using the crevices in the wood as holdfast. With lizard like motions, he continued down until he reached the window. Not a window. The window. It had a lock, but of this, he knew.

    Of course, he knew. After all, last night he had scouted the place. They say that a good sneaky person could get in anywhere without scouting. And he was good. But they also say that a smart, sneaky person always checks the place out beforehand. And he was smart; smarter than any other human, he found.

    The tools he brought made quick work of the lock, all it took was but a moment, a fiddle with the fingers and a twist of the wrist. A barely audible tick indicated the lock to be open. He, shrouded in a dark cloak, slipped through the opening, and softly landed on the wooden planks that made out the floor. Lips, curling into a smug grin, his eyes darting across the many beakers, bottles, tubes and containers, he searched. One thing was all he needed, but in this room were many things- making the finding quite arduous.

    His eyes went from one object to another, and he realized that he couldn¡¯t even name most of the stuff, scattered about. But it mattered not, his search would continue; because you didn¡¯t need to know a name, to know what it was. His gaze was briefly captivated by a glass bottle, containing a floating frog. It was mostly due to curiosity, and also because he was hungry. Actually, mostly the latter. He tore away his gaze from the tempting snack, and moved to the other side of the dark room instead.

    ¡®Aha!¡¯ his mind called out. He eagerly stretched out his skinny, long arm, covered in cloth, and grabbed a glass wine bottle. But it wasn¡¯t alcohol that it held. No, it was white-blueish, slightly glimmering in the moonlight, and not liquid at all.

    ¡®Finally found the dust,¡¯ he thought victoriously. Another glance at the shelf from which he had fished the first bottle rewarded him with another one. He snickered contently, this sort of loot was going to set him for a while. There was paper pasted on the bottle, riddled with text. After trying to make out what it said, he remembered that he couldn¡¯t read, so it didn¡¯t matter. The language that other humans used had too many words, he decided.

    After stuffing the two bottles in the satchel, that hugged his back tightly, he turned around to leave from where he came. Step, step. Turn. Step, step. Creak. Wait. He froze. That sound was not of his making, he doesn¡¯t make any sound. He glanced over his shoulder, at the door which should be closed, and found it to remain so. He slowly exhaled. The sound must have come from elsewhere, he assumed. A nervous grin crossed his face. Without further pause, he left the place behind. The lock remained open. If anyone came looking, they would assume that they left it open. Genius! He was proud of himself for having such a clever plan, he was the cleverest.

    He soundlessly darted across the rooftops, but halted when he was about to pass the room from earlier. ¡®A quick peek can¡¯t hurt,¡¯ he thought. He pressed his eye against the crevice, and peered into the darkness. Boring. The woman was already gone, all that was left was a river of blood. The unlucky bastard had been ripped open from the inside out. The perpetrator was nowhere to be seen. Weird, he thought. But then again, most other humans were weird.

    ¡®Let¡¯s get out of here,¡¯ thinking this, he crawled down the wall, into an alley, concealed by shadows. He hit the cobbles, but no sound was heard. No sound was ever heard from him, he was silent. No sight was ever caught of him, he was invisible.

    He turned, and froze. At the end of the alley came a man, staggering, almost stumbling. He first assumed the unexpected visitor to be drunk, but his nose was sharp, and he didn¡¯t smell any alcohol. He smelled something vile, putrid. The stench curled his nose, raised his hairs, and bared his teeth. ¡®Not good,¡¯ he thought, panicked.

    The thing staggered closer, eyes black as night, and skin white as snow. Dark veins wreathed across its body, like snakes or worms. It was unsettling, unnerving. He had no desire to deal with whatever that was. So, he, as any normal, sane human would do, ran. He ran as the wind. He ran as if death itself was chasing him. And as far as he was concerned, that was true.

    ---

    Annabelle carefully retracted the cold, steel blade from the cervical spine, right underneath the back of the skull. It slid out effortlessly; for the blade was wicked sharp. It had been a pain to keep the weapon concealed, but it payed off. The blood was calmly wiped off on the soft sheaths that covered the lavish double bed. She studied the man¡¯s petrified expression for a spell, and saw that he never knew what had happened. His visage remained serene and content, albeit a bit sweaty. She was, too.

    It had taken too long for her to satisfy him, and now she was short on time. Well, she wasn¡¯t exactly pressed, but the night was now at its darkest point. No need to waste it. She grabbed a fluffy towel, that was draped over the nightstand, and dried herself off. Once she decided herself to be sufficiently dry, Annabelle retrieved her clothing, that was scattered across the floor from when he had pulled it off. She grimaced when she spotted a tear in her blouse; the desire to kick the ever-cooling corpse that was spread disgracefully on the bed gnawed on her for but a moment, before she decided against it. She snuffed out the few candles that had provided some light to her earlier actions, but were now unnecessary. The scarcely dressed woman left the dark room behind her as she left through the door, leaving her ¡®patron¡¯ to rot. The only thing she had taken from the room that wasn¡¯t hers, was a key. Small, delicate and silver. But the key¡¯s intrinsic value wasn¡¯t the reason why she stole it, wasn¡¯t the reason why she killed Damien, leader of the Thorne.

    Striding through a collection of hallways and passages that riddled the large estate, she tried to make as little noise as possible; men were sleeping, men who she didn¡¯t want to wake. There was a patrol who came strolling by, but she avoided them by hiding in the shadow, provided by a tall closet, tugged between two walls. If she was caught here¡­

    Eventually she reached her destination, a lone wooden door-the only thing between her and her goal. It had been her job to kill Damien, Warden of the Thorne. But she had come to this door for a personal reason. She smiled. Not a pleasant one, the way someone would smile at seeing children play, or flowers bloom- it was a vulgar smile befitting of someone like her. She stepped closer to the door. Creak. She stopped, cussing herself out internally. Annabelle quickly glanced around the corridor, waiting for someone to come running at the noise. But of course, no one came. She let out a tired sigh. ¡®I¡¯ve been up for too long,¡¯ she decided. ¡®I¡¯m slipping.¡¯

    The key easily slid in the lock, a click signaling the deadbolt unlocked. A similar smile blossomed on her face once more. She entered the room, closing the door behind her as softly as possible. She was greeted by a collection of tools, beakers and other utensils that made out the laboratory. Most people would make a place where chemicals were mixed, and fires were lit, out of stone. But Damien had seemingly deemed such a luxury unnecessary. At least there was a window - at the back, up against the ceiling. Any dangerous gas could escape through there.

    She wasted no time, and immediately started rummaging through the messy, unsorted junk that littered the place. She only had eyes for one thing, and she knew it to be here. ¡®dust,¡¯ her mind begged. ¡®please, let me find it!¡¯

    But even after half a bell of searching, she found no such thing. Sure, powders littered the place; but no crystal dust. Her smile had first turned into a frown, and then into a grimace. Now, her face was contorted into frantic desperation. Unrest had welled up from deep within her, and surged over her shaking body. The entire place had been turned upside down, revealing all sorts of concoctions and chemicals, but none of them were what her heart yearned for.

    Her nails were digging into a wooden table, were stating to rip and tear, prompting blood to leak out from beneath them. First comes an unbearable hunger. Her bloodshot eyes were fully open, staring down on her bloody hands. She bit down one her lip, trying to regain her focus. ¡®¡¯It¡¯s not here,¡¯ her mind bellowed. ¡®I need to leave.¡¯

    She closed her eyes, which had become weary from peering in through the darkness for too long, and tried to still her rasped breathing. Her hand reached for her arm, and she quelled an upcoming itch. Options ran through her mind, but it seemed that leaving through the window was the best decision. She eyed the lock wearily before slipping a crooked nail into it. She turned and, ¡®huh?¡¯

    The lock was open.

    ¡®Did someone forget to close it?¡¯ No. That seemed like a slim chance to her. Her cautious gaze fixated onto the now ransacked room. ¡®Someone must¡¯ve come in here earlier and stolen the dust¡­¡¯

    It wasn¡¯t a pleasant thought to entertain. Someone had outsmarted her, played her like a fiddle. Whoever was behind this must have been highly intelligent and skilled too boot, she deducted. ¡®A true professional.¡¯

    She carefully opened the window, and by using a chair as support, lifted herself up and through the small space. Her thin dress was caught by a protruding splinter of wood, and became ripped in the progress.

    ¡°Shite.¡± The night eagerly ate up her frustrated muttering, as it did with many sounds. Peering over the wall, seeing the path she has to take into the ally, her irritation only increases. ¡®I¡¯ll have to find a way around,¡¯ thinking this, she, with great effort, clambered her way up the wooden wall. The impression the supposed thief had left her with only increased. She couldn¡¯t fathom how someone could¡¯ve made their way down this wall.

    ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s not human in the first place at all.¡± She says under a rasped breath. She quickly dismissed the thought, though, as it would be unfathomable to think some beast would be able to slip past the Cains¡¯ senses. Her thought briefly went to Radiance, the Cain prodigy. She¡¯d only seen him from afar, but that handsome, spotless face¡­ Really wanted to tear it up. The visage of the unbeaten bearer of Solis¡¯s highest title. The hero who saved thousands during the Battle of Right. The gallant, shining Cain¡­

    She was sneaking along the rooftops, doing her best to not produce any unwanted noise, when a screech reached her ear. It was high-pitched, like a banshee¡¯s, and drenched in a new depth of terror. A shiver crawled over her spine, her hairs on end, and her heart beating at a rapid pace. Petrified by despair, she remained nailed to the rooftop, unable to move even a single muscle in a natural act of self-defense.

    An explosion vibrated, hammering her eardrums, and dust kicked up from the scum-alley below. She was freed from her frozen state, yet her mind remained in turmoil. She liked at her lips, dry and split, and gathered enough courage to peer over the roof¡¯s edge, into the shadows.

    On the cobble, dirty and ragged, laid a woman as if she just suddenly dropped. Annabel could see the faint heaving of the lass¡¯s chest; she had only fainted. The same couldn¡¯t be said about the corpse in front of her- sprawled, face down in the drain water, with a gaping hole in his chest; this man was definably dead. Thick, black goop was oozing from the wound, mixing with the water on the cobbles, creating a vile and putrid mixture. There was also a shadow, a third person; it extended its hand, allowing some black soot to fall on the grotesque corpse. But no matter how much she strained her eyes, she couldn¡¯t see the man¡¯s face.

    It seemed done with sprinkling whatever on the deceased, pressed its thumb to its index finger and snapped. As if by incantation, flames, brimming with unsatiable hunger ravaged the corpse, consuming it in mere moments. The flame¡¯s licking light lit up the grim persona that stood before them. It turned to her.

    She saw it looking at her without eyes.

    Its abyss black, hollow eyeholes stared into her very being, sending a primal fear, ripping through her. Its bone-white skull stood in stark contrast with its perfect-black self. The only clothing it was wearing was a brown coat and a wooly, grey scarf. It held two metal pipes in its left hand by a wooden handle. Its toothy mouth opened, revealing the gaping darkness, swarming within it.

    She didn¡¯t think twice about bolting off, almost sliding off the wet tiles. Her escape lacked both grace and flair, but held an unforeseen speed; speed akin to someone who had death on their tail.

    ---

    A hot throb and his head thumped against the cobble wall. Had the alley spinning and him sliding down the cold stone. They gripped his hair, felt the pulling at their roots. Heard their ripping and tearing as he was hauled back up for another beating.

    ¡°The Cain will come and-¡± Yoran¡¯s fat fist hammered in his empty stomach. Had Berk wretch the bits off food he had managed to eat that day.

    ¡°Shut your hole!¡± Came a shouting, spit against his bruised face. Another punch, this time against his jaw. Blood filled his mouth and teeth were knocked loose. He crumbled to the ground and a foot buried itself into his ribs, had him heave painfully for air. They kicked him some more as he was already down.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    His legs were scraping against the grime of the narrow passage. Ash mixed within for some reason. Tried getting up again, only to be pushed down, skull hitting the pitiless stone. High pitched ringing in his ears.

    ¡°We told you not to come here anymore!¡± A foot stepping on his hand ¨C reaching for nothing, ¡°This is our turf!¡± The boot grinded his fingers into the sludge. There was a snap as one gave way.

    He wanted to scream at the hurt but was cut short by another thwack. He spat, and some teeth clattered along. Saw them yellow pearls sinking away, trampled.

    ¡°They¡¯ll come and save me.¡± He whimpered brokenly, ¡°The Cain will come and punish you evil¡­¡± His mouth was filled with bitter blood and his last words blubbered away.

    ¡°As if the Cain are concerned with the likes of you lowly scum! They¡¯re of fighting whatever God condemns to Hell.¡± The bulging boy kicked the child on the ground again, felt the satisfying crack of breaking ribs as he did. By the dead it felt good.

    He reached down to the boys crooked fingers. I¡¯d be nice to break another¡­ He stopped at the noise of footsteps echoing hollowly. His little gang turned at it, worry written along their faces. Had the guards heard the kid scream? Cold sweat trailed along his swollen jaw as his eyes flickered to the bloodied boy lying on the ground. Or was it really ¨C

    ¡°It¡¯s Radiance,¡± the boy whispered through blood-sputtering breaths, ¡°The hero¡¯s come to save me.¡±

    Yoran grimaced, clawing for his knife, all rusted and bent. The image of him trying to stab the Cain¡¯s armor with it flashed through his mind. Utterly ridiculous.

    ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here.¡± Tim hissed, eyes round with panic. ¡°If it¡¯s Radiance then were screwed, man. Nothing¡¯ll remain of us after he¡¯s done!¡±

    ¡°Shut it!¡± Yoran barked, but couldn¡¯t keep the fright from his own voice. He fingered the blade again, all greasy with sweat and mud. ¡°Fuck¡­¡±

    A shadow crept across the wall, tall and looming. Was that a sword?

    ¡°Fuck. Fuck. Fuck this!¡± He screeched and bolted off, his petty gang quickly following behind.

    Berk smiled to the silhouette come staggering closer. Then frowned. Cain of the holy church didn¡¯t dress in rags.

    ¡°Watcha¡¯ lookin¡¯ at?¡± a skittish voice asked, his body all jittery and twitching. The hunching man was almost dirtier than Berk.

    ¡°You¡¯re not¡­ Radiance.¡± The boy stated, sounding both confused and disappointed. But also weak and fading away. Felt his body sinking into the void. Not what he imagined death to feel like. Not warm and pleasant as Solis embraces you like a mother. But then again, he never had a mother, so knowing it¡¯s embrace would be strange.

    ¡°Course I aint.¡± Svegen spat, rubbed at his leaking nose, snorted a deal of snot. And he left the kid behind for God to deal with. Because she knew he aint got the time to spare. She ought to, after all.

    He trudged away, almost slipped in the muck, sputtered some curses against the Emperor and what have you. Rubbed his nose again. Sniffed. Goo sucked back up, only to come seeping down as before.

    ¡°If they don¡¯t have it today, too...¡± He grumbled darkly, scratching at his arm, the skin red and raw from it.

    He arrived at the thick door, a slab of rich wood slapped into the stone wall, reinforced with iron shingles. His sickly eyes flicked from his clammy hands to the man posted in front. His last challenge. And the¡­ And then he would get what he needed. What he deserved.

    The bald man¡¯s arms were crossed, bulging sinews refusing to hide even underneath the woolen sleeves. He looked down through his hairy brows at Svegen as one would look at trash. He didn¡¯t like the guard¡¯s manners, but it was a small price to pay. This was the last place he knew to get his dust.

    ¡°Sod off.¡± The man growled, voice grating like gravel. But Svegen wouldn¡¯t be deterred so easily, even though he had recoiled at that.

    ¡°I¡¯ve come to buy!¡± he spluttered, stumbling on his own tongue, all slippery and nervous. His mouth watering at the thought of tasting again.

    ¡°Yea? Well you can still sod off, or I¡¯ll make you.¡± His let his arms drop down. Cracked his knuckles.

    ¡°No, no! I can pay! I can pay!¡± Svegen rebuked, grasping in his pocket and fetching some chipped and bent pigs. ¡°See? See!?¡± His eyes gleamed with eagerness, almost shoving the coins in the man¡¯s face. But he only got a dark scowl in return.

    The man¡¯s fist thudded against his head, had him lurching away and sprawl on the stones, money rolling and jumping from his hands.

    ¡°No, no!¡± Svegen¡¯s desperately grabbed at the fleeing coins. How hard he had fought to get them. Precious metal¡­ Some were lost in the dirt.

    ¡°You bastard!¡± He shrieked, jumping up. ¡°How¡¯s that to treat a buyer!?¡±

    ¡°There aint nothin¡¯ to buy, maggot!¡± Gern shouted, loosing his cool against some repulsive junkie. Always used to keep calm, back in the day. Gern ironhead, they called him back in the company. And look at him now, getting angry at this filth.

    He watched the bum¡¯s face change from outraged, to unbelieving, to frenzied.

    ¡°What!?¡± He blurted out, his broken nails scratching at the festering rash under his blood-oozing nose. Gern grimaced at the image. These fucking dustbiters¡­

    ¡°Were all out of it!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s impossible!¡±

    ¡°It aint if Damien is fuckin¡¯ dead and his stash¡¯s been ransacked!¡± Gern bellowed, immediately regretting saying it. Shouting it especially.

    ¡°What!? No, no! Where will I get it now?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, and I don¡¯t bloody care, piece of wriggling filth!¡± Where were the times when he would proudly march under General Thully¡¯s banner. Fighting alongside strangers he considered more than brothers. With cavalry galloping, templars charging, and Cain unleashing Gods righteous fury upon the heinous people of Brethon. There was a war brewing again, rekindling his drive to relive past days of glory. Where did those times go?

    ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡± Gern cursed under his breath as he saw two city guards stroll over. He turned at the junkie, only to find him already gone. He sighed, unclenched his hands, and wore his friendliest smile, albeit rather unconvincing on his rugged face.

    ¡°Nothing much, brothers. Just some¡­ difference of opinion.¡± But the guards only smirked at that.

    ¡°Sure, sure,¡± one said, grinning at his college, ¡°But you needn¡¯t worry, citizen. For we are here now. And we¡¯ve come from far in order to supply aid. Running all that way has made us quite¡­ Thirsty. You wouldn¡¯t happen to be so kind to offer us hardworking men something refreshing, would you?¡±

    Gern frowned briefly, but quickly changed back to his smile. But damn, he hated the fucking Guild.

    ¡°Of course, friend.¡± He offered a crooked smile and a small flask of delight. Damn he hated the Eight Roots.

    ¡°Only this much?¡± The guard lifted an eyebrow, picking the glass vial between two fingers. ¡°Will hardly be enough to ¨C¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s all I have and all you¡¯ll get¡­ Brother.¡± Couldn¡¯t hide the edge from his voice that time. God, he hated remedies.

    The two guards frowned, hands tickling their sword¡¯s handle.

    ¡°So, it¡¯s true Damien¡¯s kicked it?¡± Alpean asked, eying the large scarred brute standing before them. The man didn¡¯t look like he followed the Root¡¯s rules very closely. Dangerous.

    ¡°None o yer business.¡± He snapped, having lost his final inkling of patience. Alpean glanced at Conall, asking. He shook his head. Best not press the manner any further. If they got in a fight with the man, they might get themselves into some deep shit. With the Thorne gang, none the less. Alpean knew them to be close with The Root of remedy¡­

    ¡°Fine!¡± Alpean said, throwing his hands up. ¡°but keep it down next time, will ya? You don¡¯t want any unrooted guards to come peeking, do ya?¡± The brute grumbled something, to obscure too hear, but sounding like agreement none the less.

    ¡°Great!¡± he exclaimed, clasping his hands together, ¡°then we¡¯ll be off. May Solis watch upon your path, friend!¡± The warden started muttering but Alpean had already turned, marching through the scum-alley.

    ¡°Was all that really worth that flask of delight?¡± Conall asked, frowning judgingly at the small vial, orange liquid sparkling within. Alpean stared at it, made his skin all prickly, hairs standing on end.

    ¡°Of course.¡± They turned another corner, saw some dead kid covered in mud and blood. He frowned but ignored it otherwise.

    ¡°Still, it¡¯s better not to meddle too much with these people, Alpean. Don¡¯t want to get too involved, you know.¡± The busy streets of the capital sounded ahead, breaking through the distasteful silence of the reeking alley.

    ¡°Sure, sure.¡± Alpean waved dismissively, stopping before the strips of light, peeking into the narrow passage. He unplugged the cork, had the sweet smell wisp through the air, tickling their noses. One look at Conall told him he was just as eager for a taste, but shook his head.

    ¡°Best wait when were off duty,¡± he said with a little regret.

    ¡°You¡¯re right¡­¡± Alpean admitted after a bit of hesitation. They trod into the light, suddenly people all around them. They were back into the crush of folk going everywhere and nowhere. Alpean frowned, struggling to get the vial plugged again. Some people turned as the strangely sweet smell reached them.

    ¡°Fucking, damn¡­¡± Was the plug too big? Alpean grumbled, fingers sweaty and slipping on the vial¡¯s smooth surface, and then ¨C a clatter. Alpean went wailing, ass hitting the tiles with a painful thud, flask tumbling away and contents spilling along the cobble to be stepped on by the unknowing.

    ¡°Hey! You bastard!¡± Alpean turned to the one to bump into him, only to be left in silence. For the bearers of the holy pendant are to be left well alone.

    ¡°Sorry!¡± he called over his shoulder, although it sounded more like a rasping heave ¨C which it was, truth be told. Running, running, by the dead, how long had he been at it? Another body? That¡¯s like¡­ The sixth, right?

    Men and womenfolk alike were elbowed aside, faint curses thrown after Astron as he dashed through the bustling crowd. Why did his parents sign him up as a messenger, anyway?

    Sweat prickled his skin, steaming hot underneath his white garb. His breath was ragged and sore, and every time he sucked air into his wreathing lungs it only hurt more. Should¡¯ve become a priest, really. Not that he had the aptitude for it, nor the connection with Solis.

    He grabbed a corner, spun and tumbled and continued onwards, feet sore from the leather scraping them, soles hurt from slamming onto the harsh stones underneath. But he was close, now.

    He entered through the parapet, guards glancing at his insignia, then ignoring him. Continuing their idle chatter about this and that. Astron envied them for it. When was the last time he got time to do anything but work or sleep? He wanted to be angry, but found he had neither the energy or the spirit for it. All he could do was focus on his breathing and hope his heart wouldn¡¯t give in.

    He jumped over a neatly trimmed hedge, feet caught the vines and he just saved himself from falling face first into the dirt. Stumbled some, flailed his arms, breath hurting, sweat drenching his whites, turning them grey.

    His hand grabbed another corner, swung him along. There was a hard thud and a metallic clang. His head was on fire as he bounced backwards. He rubbed his forehead, already starting to form a painful bump.

    ¡°What¡¯s got you in such a hurry?¡± He heard a bemused voice, sounding faint through the ringing in his ears.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a message for the Order of Cain.¡± Astron said through his heaving, trying to stand. A hand gripped his and pulled him upright. A young man was holding him up, not much bigger then himself and wearing simple plate and mail. A squire? Astron received a judging look before the man nodded.

    ¡°I can guide you to them, or rather, him. Most of the Cain have been ordered to investigate vanishings in the province of Quince.¡± Astron started following, trying to catch his breath as they walked at an easy pace. Quite grateful for the young man¡¯s easy-going nature. But still, he had to hurry.

    ¡°I don¡¯t mean to be disrespectful, but the message I carry must be delivered to the Cain with great haste. It is of utmost importance that it arrives as soon as possible!¡± But his guide only smiled apologetically while shaking his head.

    ¡°Sorry, but even if we hurry now, running through these hallways, we¡¯ll need to wait anyway.¡± Astron stumbled after, light falling through the colored-glass panes, arranged into striking images and patterns; showing legends of old and battles of new. One colored a young Cain holding an enormous blade cast in white flame.

    ¡°Wait?¡± Astron asked, incredulously, ¡°Wait for what? This message ¨C¡±

    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± They treaded down stairs and past an aged corridor, passing through a great door cast in heavy oak. ¡°When Lord Radiance is sparring, there is little that can disturb him.¡±

    ¡°L-lord Radiance!?¡± he blurted, and light stabbed his eyes. Astron squinted them close, peering through slits at the courtyard laid before him. Two swordsmen standing ten paces from each other. Astron immediately recognized the Empire¡¯s hero.

    The light danced across his polished armor, as if celebrating his very presence. His tabard was the purest white, unknown to defilement ¨C the very image of the Goddess. His visored barbuta¡¯s eye-slits were trained on his opponent, clearly his lesser.

    Radiance squared his shoulders before angling his blade, and what a blade it was. It had been sharpened to a mirror polish, and rays flared over it as if ablaze. It was enormous. If stood on its tip, no doubt it would stand as tall as Astron.

    The opponent lifted his shield slightly, had his blade scrape its rim as he had it slide over. By the dead did his armor weigh. He swallowed, beads of sweat gliding down his face, stinging his eyes. All blurry. Staring hard at Radiance. Wondering how the kid wasn¡¯t trembling with that slab of metal in his hands. Arms steady as a great oak.

    He darted forward, sword flashing over and clattering down. But Radiance was quick as anything. By the seven he hadn¡¯t ever seen anything like it. Even with all that weight, Radiance¡¯s sword flowed as a feather carried downstream. The sword gave a metallic lick as they touched. Bren saw metal embers flying of his blade. Now would come an overhand¡­

    He lifted his shield, gritting his teeth to catch the blow. But it didn¡¯t come. Instead, Radiance¡¯s shoulder crashed into him. Sent him flying. Did he hear his breastplate bending? By the Gods¡­

    He crunched into the wall. Even all that heavy armor hadn¡¯t saved him. He looked up, shaking, at the victor. His helmet had been removed to reveal true golden hair, eyes of the purest blue, and a face unknown to imperfection. Fearless. Righteous. Unstoppable.

    He saw Soli¡¯s crystal pendant burn with the clearest white as it hung from his neck. Radiance stretched out his arm, offering it to the defeated, who accepted it with a tremble. He was hoisted up without any apparent effort.

    ¡°Well fought.¡± Radiance said, smiling gallantly. And Brent couldn¡¯t help but smile as well, albeit a bit ashamed to be bested by someone ten years younger. Although Radiance was rather tall and broad for someone of seventeen turns.

    ¡°My thanks, Lord Radiance,¡± Brent said sheepishly, ¡°excellently fought.¡± What a lie. He felt embarrassed.

    ¡°Pardon the intrusion, Lord Radiance.¡± Came a voice to his left. Radiance flinched, gripping his blade. Only a squire, though. A soundless sigh of relief.

    ¡°No need for that,¡± he said calmly, ¡°what can I aid you with?¡± Astron stared at the Hero with wide eyes, just as the Hero¡¯s gaze set on him.

    ¡°I-i-I¡¯ve come with an important message from the head of office, I mean, from the sixth division of the Guild, I mean, its head, Master Balkan.¡± He sputtered, staring at the Cain¡¯s impeccable posture, his grand, chivalrous expression.

    ¡°Oh?¡± Radiance ignored Astron¡¯s hiccups, for which he felt most grateful, ¡°And what may this message contain?¡± His sparring partner as well as the squire left through the other door, leading deeper into the castle. Astron swallowed, the words clinging to his tongue like oil.

    ¡°Another body has been found¡­ Another Defiled.¡± There was the coldest of chills that gripped Astron, then. He stepped back, looking again at the Cain¡¯s face. But nothing seemed amiss.

    ¡°Is that so¡­ Then I¡¯ll have to stop by and take a look. No?¡± He smiled again, but it wasn¡¯t an easy one. The messenger boy had seen him slip, not something he could allow for. His armored hand stroked his glowing amulet gently, lovingly. Felt Soli¡¯s calming glow. Her warm love, burning for him. And he burned for her. He lessened his grip on the sword, held by the base of the blade, tip pointing backwards.

    He passed the boy, still nailed in place. He couldn¡¯t slip now. Could never slip. Radiance strode along the castles many hallways, towards the stables. He¡¯d go by horseback. There was a maid, passing him, holding a tray of silver wear, staring at his visage with large eyes. She tripped, had the metal crash onto the floor.

    ¡°My apologies, Lord Radiance!¡± She called frantically, gathering the many times along the floor. She looked up. ¡°Lord?¡±

    There was the clashing of metal on metal. There were roars, all around him, coming from everywhere and nowhere. He spun and spun, stabbed, cut, slashed, metal screeched, flesh was cleaved. Friend or foe?There was no telling.

    His sword burned true white, flames devouring all. He cut and sliced, cries and wailing hammering inside his head. Metal clashing on metal. And blood. So much blood. Was this war? This crush of men, ground together like a pile of hair and meat and iron? Chaos.

    There was only Solis¡¯s voice in his head. Calming, cooing, had to listen. Had to do the right thing, didn¡¯t he? His blade struck, and a glistening coil of innards slithered from someone¡¯s bowels, into the slits of his helmet. Tasted the bitter iron in it. But he had no fear. For to be with fear was to be without faith.

    ¡°God.¡± He muttered, mouth full of goop and it leaked from his helmet. Radiance He heard it within his heart, soft like a mother¡¯s voice and just as calming. Radiance. And all was well. He could do it, if only for her. He gripped his steel, teeth grating, heart pounding. He looked upon the enemy, staring around and filled with fright. They though the world was complicated, and full of dangers. Radiance pitied them. The world was simple. The only danger was in resisting God¡¯s design.

    ¡°Poor lambs, believe in God¡¯s grace!¡± he bellowed, ¡°O Lord, they do not know what they are doing!¡± He felt the blade brimming. Burning white hot.

    ¡°Bemoan not thy fate. Ooh Lord hath not forsaken us!¡± Fire raged from his shoulders like searing wings of flame.

    ¡°At the end of the long trek,¡± he lifted his blade high, had it bathe in the sun¡¯s light, to let it dominate that which decides when it be day or night. For it was only one of Solis¡¯s many creations. ¡®You will reach the promised land!¡± His sword came down, and equal judgement followed. All too ash. Small and great men alike, all embraced by God¡¯s love. Just as him.

    Radiance. He smiled at the sound. Oh, how he loved her.

    Radiance. So dearly.

    ¡°Lord Radiance!?¡± He looked into the frightened eyes of the maid as she shouted in worry. He was lost for a moment. Stared at the young woman, shuddering on the floor, at the sword he held in timorous hands. He wiped some sweat away from his head. Tried to swallow. But his mouth was filled with sawdust. So dry. His hands held the blade tight, so tight it hurt and had him trembling. He slowly rose. Tried to smile, but couldn¡¯t for the life of him.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he said, trying to calm her. But his voice was thunder. Had her flinch and shake, all dewy eyed. ¡°Just been back from training. A little tired is all. Now, if you¡¯d excuse me¡­¡± He glanced left, at the large scar he had carved into the wall. Half molten stone. Can¡¯t slip now.

    He trudged to the stables, caressing the dangling amulet. Set his thoughts on the Defiled. Get them off the mishap. Their heinous nature. There¡¯d be no evil. He would make sure of that. He was Radiance, the empire¡¯s hero. Born in a torrent of flames, white as the beauty of Heaven. And by Heaven he was blessed.

    Blessed with Solis¡¯s burden. Her might. Her voice. And her love.

    It was a burned he would carry to the end of days.

    Like a Hero ought.

 How Strange The Silence

    She waded through shadow and deeper shadow, the darkness so dense it was suffocating. She turned and turned, clawing around her, desperate. Her nails dug into her throat, scraping and tearing and blood flowed, hot blood seeping and dousing and drowning. The darkness hot as the coursing blood pulsing inside her ears, like a wasp¡¯s mad droning.

    Loud, louder yet loudest, overwhelming and overpowering. She spun again, no spot on her body unknown to the slick trace of blood. She looked at him, and his glazed eyes, now seeming so awfully awake. Madly leering. Desperately staring. Horribly accusatory.

    ¡°You killed me.¡± He gurgled. She had. Just look at the blood. Stained her red from toe to scalp. His body torn apart like a butchered carcass. The knife had made it easy enough. Easy to take a life so casually. No ceremony about it, no grand revelation, no heart.

    Cos laid there too, waxy pale and his blood pooled around him, blotching her hands crimson. She had killed him too. Just look at the blood. It was smeared on her hands.

    ¡°Brother.¡± Whispered Syn, but she could barely say the word for a strange feeling, beginning in her guts and creeping up and down her spine to set her hair to tingle and her knees to shake.

    She had killed them both. Just look at the blood.

    It was everywhere.

    -

    Syn lurched upright, heaving, wheezing, hands pulling at drenched clothing, wet with cold sweat stuck to her burning skin. Strands of hair pasted to her face; the darkness was suffocating. Syn cried and whined, fingers tangling in the blackness and snatched and yanked, roots torn painfully from her head.

    ¡°What are you doing!?¡± A shouting. She flinched and recoiled at the loudness of it, cowering and hiding in the cloth wrapped around her.

    ¡°No, no, no, no¡­¡± She was whimpering. Scared of the hurt. Scared of death. Scared of the blame. She had killed them. Just look ¨C

    ¡°Get a hold of yourself!¡± Syn felt strong hand holding her shoulders. Strong like the hand that had pulled her up. The knife leering in her face, gleaming madly.

    ¡°No!¡± She screeched, lashing out, felt her nails scrape against skin.

    ¡°Calm down!¡± The hoarse voice muttered, shaking her a bit. Her hand went again, but was held in a firm grip. There was a strange sensation, her hairs on end, skin pricking. Syn blinked, now staring in a pair of deep-set murky-brown eyes, staring back.

    ¡°Calm down.¡± Quieter, this time. Syn twitched as she felt alien fingers move the clutching hair from her wet face. Blackness made way for light and snow and forest. She remembered, now.

    ¡°Are you okay?¡± The Tyran asked worriedly, yet his face failing to really show it. So horridly carved up and gouged out and bludgeoned in, his nose bent at an odd angle, instead of a right ear there was just a hole, his skin showing a score of scars, each worse than the next. Fresh blood dripping slowly from the cut of her nails. She had killed them. All you need is to look.

    ¡°The blood.¡± She croaked, wanting to lift her hands to move him away but having neither the strength nor the will. The man paused for a spell, thinking, then closing those gazing eyes and shook his head.

    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± he said, releasing his grip and wiping the trail of red away. But Syn wondered how anything was okay. She felt far from it, for a nasty feeling trashing inside her guts.

    She gurgled, lurched over and wretched, thick chunks of food and sour bile spilling from her mouth and onto the frozen dirt. Her body trembled, vision blurry, a stinging in her nose. Syn heaved and out came another load spluttering down.

    ¡°Damn it!¡± She heard the man cursing in-between her gagging, throat feeling raw and swollen. Could hardly remember the last time she was able to hold down a meal. In it went, but it went out faster.

    The back of her hand wiped the barf from her chapped lips, dry and sore. They had been on the trail for three days, riding horseback until the animal was foaming and swaying. Now, only she was riding while the man walked alongside them, guiding the horse by its reins.

    She looked up at him, sighing and scratching his greasy and messy hair. Her savior looked nothing like was stated in the stories. Shining hair, pristine clothes, a gallant display and heroism coming naturally to them.

    The Tyran¡¯s clothes were worn through and through, blotched with grime and dried blood. He reeked worse than the gutters of Galean, his face more scarred than a butcher¡¯s block, the only thing that would appear to come naturally to him was violence.

    She should feel grateful to him, Syn knew. He had saved her from death and worse, yet she couldn¡¯t thank him for a tugging at the back of her mind. Because he hadn¡¯t saved Cos, and she felt an odd resentment for him because of that. She knew that was wrong, and ungrateful, and hated herself all the more for that. She felt dirty all over and wretched and mean. He may not be the hero from storybook, but she wasn¡¯t the innocent damsel in destress either. She was a murderer. Just look at the guilt.

    ¡°if you keep on going like that, at one point you¡¯ll grow so weak even riding will be too exhausting.¡± The man warned, sitting down on a fallen tree close to the smoldering fire. She didn¡¯t know what to say to that; so she chose to keep her silence.

    Syn pulled the soaked blankets from her clammy skin, though her clothes had been washed, most of the blood had remained in angry red smears. She retrieved them from the leathern bag, laying next to her make-shift bed. Nothing more than a spot cleared of the biting snow, some branches packed on top and a blanket to roll herself in to ward against the night¡¯s unceasing chill. Though it helped little since she always ended up sweating it through when the dreams came.

    ¡°Are you listening?¡± The man asked. She was, so she nodded ever so slightly, not daring to look. To look at the fresh wound on his warped face. She had killed them. But had there really been a choice?Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    He grumbled something and started packing everything together, stowing it all in the horse¡¯s travel bags. Syn didn¡¯t bother removing her wet clothes, the warmth of her body and her dry woolen coating would dry it after a time. She realized it was time to leave again, and there was no choice but to follow. Seemed these days she was given no choices at all. Wondered if she ever had any, from the day she was born.

    She hesitantly rose from the soil, slightly dizzy. Her head feeling faint and light. Carefully, she walked to the cold and tired mare, gazing about her vacantly. The Tyran turned to her, stretching out his hands, and she rose her arms.

    ¡°Up you go.¡± He breathed, placing her in the saddle. ¡°Let¡¯s get going.¡±

    Syn remembered the days she had spent riding with Cos. Seemed all so long ago now. Tought off their endless banter as they traveled. Cos talkative and knowledgeable as ever. Felt throat tighten, tears welling up. How strange the silence felt.

    He nudged the horse along and it started moving stiffly, hooves trudging in the snow. Syn swayed left and right, off balance.

    ¡°Ah,¡± couldn¡¯t hold on anymore. Her legs failing, arms terribly feeble. The world spun, and her head whipped sideways. ¡°Ah¡± She fell off the horse, limbs flopping. Arms caught her on the way down. Strong arms, used to hard work. Strong arms, used to dark work. ¡°Ah¡± She breathed again, and her eyes fell shut.

    Art looked down on the frail girl, her hair a dull black like aged ink. She felt dangerously light in his arms, had no weight to her. Little surprise when all she had been doing was barfing and springing awake in the middle of night, screaming and burning up. Why do I do this?

    A question he had asked himself quite often in the week he had hauled her around. He¡¯d tried his best to feed her. Pressed on when she refused, forced her at times to drink the broth he made. But she¡¯d cough it up later no matter what. Why do I do this?

    He could leave her at any time. He could leave her right now, even. Just drop her in the snow and be off. His blisters wouldn¡¯t be such a bother anymore. Food wouldn¡¯t go to waste, or what food he was left with, at least. And surely there would be a load off his mind as well. Why do I do this?

    But he hadn¡¯t left her. And he wouldn¡¯t leave her now. She was little more than a burden, a curse to carry. Something to punish him. I do this because I deserve no better.

    So, he shrugged the girl onto his back and continued, tugging the stubborn horse along the faint path through the snow. South. If he knew one thing, and one thing only, it¡¯s that his goal was south. Easy enough. Getting there¡¯s the hard part, though.

    It should be more populated as you move away from the northern cold. Seemed somewhat wasteful, though. Going all that way, only to go back again. Seems like I am fated to wander in endless cycles. Repeating the same mistakes again and again. He peeked at the girl, her head leaning on his shoulder, hoping for something else. But hope does little good, mostly.

    He needed to ask some questions, since the people of Blackshire didn¡¯t have much answering left in them after the Northmen were done with ¡®em. Saw the smoke trail for miles on end, looming dauntingly at the horizon. Memories flashing from when such sights were the norm. Hot, smoldering flames. Art¡¯s hand traced the disgusting burn along the side of his face, to where his right ear used to be, all the way down to his shoulder.

    It was getting around midday when he heard voices in the distance. Faint in the vastness of the northern forests, bouncing off trees and dampened by pines. Faint, but not faint enough for Art to miss them.

    He roped the horse to a tree seeming sturdy enough for the job. The animal would only do to give him away. The sleeping girl he propped up against another after clearing the ground of snow. Now, I am ready. His cold fingers curled around Silver¡¯s grip. Now, I am death.

    He slid through the underbrush, so scarcely dressed, and moved from shadow to deeper shadow, so used to it he felt secure in its darkness. Clutches of snow tumbled down and crunched underfoot as his target moved without any apparent caution. Fools, do you have nothing to hide? Or nothing to fear?

    Art eased around an ancient pine, sticking close enough to have the bark scrape his cheek. Slowly, carefully he peered around, Silver eager to be released like a mad hound. And there they were, milling about a small campsite, cutting into some venison.

    Five in total, far as Art could tell. Though more could be off scouting or patrolling or simply taking a piss. One was donned in aged armor, dented and damaged, chipped and cut, gleaming with that practical dull shine. Aged, but well taken care of. Something to keep in mind. Its wearer was a middle-aged man with a traveler¡¯s stubble, short hair and a tired look in his eyes. But an alert weapon dangling from the waist. Weapons are always ready.

    Next to him, squatting down and scraping curls from a branch onto a small pile, sat someone who looked the hunter¡¯s part. Bow flung across his back, with the quiver aside it. The deer had probably been killed by him, judging from the arrow sticking from behind its shoulder blade. A sharp shot. Should take him out first. Swords may be dangerous in the right hands, but an arrow in the back will kill me just as well.

    The wind turned, some wood-chips blew away, snow stirred, and now Art was upwind. Shit.

    The hunter¡¯s head whipped up as the smell reached him, the bow halfway drawn before the cold metal was pressed against his neck. Cold and sobering.

    ¡°Wait!¡± Art hesitated, eyes darting to the woman who had screamed it, to the armored man at his flank, sword hissing from its scabbard. Doubt in his eyes, doubt and resolution. Should¡¯ve killed him. Killed him and gone to the next.

    ¡°Wait!¡±

    But the momentum was gone, and another had risen to his right, a heavy knife half-way to a sword drawn and held firmly. Could¡¯ve killed all three in this span. Fuck.

    ¡°Wait!¡± The woman yelled again, loud enough to wake the dead this time. They all hesitated. Only the wind stirred. That, and a lick of cold sweat running down the archer¡¯s back, no doubt. Having metal kiss your neck for long enough does that to a man.

    ¡°Just wait and put down your weapons, damnit! Yorik, and Jubair too. Please, my husband¡¯s life is weighing on this matter.¡± Doubt, Art could see it. Now¡¯s the time. If I want to kill, I need to make it happen now. He licked at his lips. But do I want to kill? Why do I do this?

    The two looked at each other for a moment, then slowly, as if the sky would fall if they moved too fast, there weapons were stowed away. That just left Art, with Silver in one hand and the hunter¡¯s scuff in the other. He looked down at the blade¡¯s dull sheen; horrible, disgusting, tempered by blood and forever yearning for it. Made Art sick.

    The sword¡¯s tip moved away from the man¡¯s neck and with practiced ease it hissed back into its sheath. The hunter seemed mighty relieved, then. Breathed a great heavy sigh as he slumped onto the ground, all strength leaving him.

    They all gazed at each other, a fragile silence held between them. An awkward one, surely. The woman shifted nervously, fidgeting at her sheepskin poncho, trying to look him in the eye but failing and twitching away. She finally opened her mouth to speak, and a desolate shriek sounded.

    Art spun round, mail clattering, cloak clacking. The girl! He rushed through the undergrowth, lashing at him with cracking frost. Heard the horse¡¯s panicked whinnying too. He jumped through the stubborn briar and saw the girl writhing and squirming on the soil, ice clinging to her body.

    ¡°The blood!¡± She wailed. ¡°I¡¯m sorry¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­ I¡¯m sorry¡­¡±

    Art grabbed her, trying to hold her still, caught a fist or two but there was no force behind it.

    ¡°there was no other way!¡± He hugged her tight. ¡°I couldn¡¯t do anything!¡±

    And neither could he. Nothing but pressing her with his scarred arms. For all his skill in killing, ages spent wading from one fight to the next, he¡¯s got real good at it. None better.

    ¡°I killed them!¡± she sobbed. ¡°Just look at the blood!¡±

    It follows me wherever I go.

 Opia

    As a person of inquisitor Vindict¡¯s profession, he¡¯s had the profound pleasure of observing many kinds of corpses in his lifetime. Seen them chopped up, gutted through, burnt to sweating and smoldering crispy chunks of unrecognizable flesh.

    Watched them dangle and sway in the streets as the breeze set the hung into motion for a last time before some unlucky bastard was sent to cut them down. Stabbed bloody, ran-down, crushed into pasty pink and red mush.

    Ripped apart by strays or torn by man. Even seen the half-eaten carcass that one time when a particularly voracious and exotic animal escaped its enclose and happened upon its caretaker during the stroll. Never in his time had Vindict witnessed a human as shredded and mangled and mauled as then. Little left of the poor bugger, really.

    Seen so many of them, you wouldn¡¯t be mistaken in calling him an authority on the cold and unmoving. Could almost assume he¡¯d be immune to lifeless hunks of flesh and hair. Almost, but not quite. As before him laid a subject that made even him tingle with virgin revulsion.

    On a glance, little seemed off about the body, really. Squint your eyes, dim the lights, perhaps even crane your head sideways and nothing would appear out of the ordinary. Just your regular cold, blueish and stiff corpse.

    But you needn¡¯t open your eyes to feel that slow creeping up your spine, like a spider¡¯s legs palpating. Dim the lights, hell, just snuff them completely! But that churning of your guts as if you¡¯d eaten the single most diseased rat in the city gutters won¡¯t leave you be. And flop your head about all you want, shake it and turn it round. But nonetheless there will be a numbing fear sparking through your aching skull.

    Vindict has seen many corpses in his life, more than he was due, yet none felt as wrong as this one. He could understand the paleness of it. As the heart stops, blood flows no more and the body will lose its pinkish tint. But this one looked as if it never had any blood in it. Bloodlessly pale, Vindict thought in the hopes of settling his nerves with some grim humor.

    But where the white horror ended, the terror of blackness crawled across the skin both alive and unceasing. Veins, both thick and slim, snaked through flesh and left ink roots to frighten those who witness its vulgarity.

    But its eyes were what truly had him riled. More so than wading waist-deep through rotten mire for the study of a bloated corpse, tripping, and heaving a good lungful of the scum-water down his throat. More so than slipping in brothel gore left after the fetishized killings of the more gruesome sort. More so than the stench come wafting after the bodice¡¯s been dug up after a week of festering beneath the earth.

    The eyes were told by the scripts of Solis to mirror the soul. As you stare within one¡¯s gaze, they will gaze back and a connection between two is forged into one. Then, what does it mean if one¡¯s eyes are black as the hollow depths of hell?

    They lacked the glazed or dewy gleam the dead usually have, and missed the pitted, dried husks the unusual presented at times. No, the anomaly before him had two pits of captivating, repulsive, fascinating - empty as empty could be ¨C bottomless abys. Two wells of shadow to greedily devoured the very light. Even straining his eyes wouldn¡¯t reveal where the darkness ended, and the flesh began.

    ¡°Inquisitor!¡± He felt a hand grasp his shoulder firmly and almost jumped at the touch. He turned to see it was the guard captain, standing perfectly erect in his pristine garb. The very cost of his clothing could probably feed the common rabble for months. His silver gilded blade had been shaped to unusable heights of fashion. He looked down on Vindict with eyes that said ¡®I despise your profession, your person and your people, yet I will tolerate your presence for the sake of reaching my own shallow goals. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you answering? Have you even heard what I said?¡± No. He had not, for that matter.

    Vindict glanced back at the hollow pits and felt himself drawn in once again. Stare into one¡¯s eyes, and they will gaze back. Stare into the abys and¡­

    ¡°Inquisitor?¡± There was more than a little impatience intoned there, and, perhaps, some contempt? ¡°As I said, what can you tell us about the body?¡±

    Vindict opened his mouth to speak but was cut short by the raising of a very rumpled, very aged, very crooked hand belonging to this district¡¯s Superior. In every way that Captain Gethod radiated strength, vigor and pride, Superior Misgard oozed lethargy, apathy and indifference.

    ¡°We still require the presence of a representative of the church, need I remind you. I very well recall sending that messenger to fetch one for this very reason, you see.¡± With every word he uttered the Superior appeared to crumble a little more. The skin of his face seemed to be simply draped over his skull, rather than be attached. The man looked around at everyone with a stare that implied ¡®I have seen more years than you can count, I have witnessed much and have grown bored of it all. Though your petty issues don¡¯t interest me, my time is of no value anywhere else.¡¯

    As Vindict looked at the man¡¯s bald, dusty pate, he found himself wondering the strangeness in admiring the elderly for their knowledge while at the same time celebrating death and the loving embrace of Solis which is told to come after.

    Religion, he found, was very much a paradox of the most extreme kind. Yet, he didn¡¯t judge himself to be in a position for scrutiny on the subject as it would be most hypocritical. Although he made his livelihood through the study of corpses, he hasn¡¯t ever felt enjoyment in finding a one.

    ¡°Bah!¡± The Captain spat, ¡°No more than a petty tradition. A play, some foolish habit written down for no more than to stroke the church¡¯s feeling of importance. Their presence is of no use, no need. One of the buggers will just stand here, nod thoughtfully, and then leave to do¡­ Whatever it is they do these days.¡±

    The Captain¡¯s thoughts on political matters were most clear on the subject of the church. Quite a rarity to voice them when the general public was so fond of the ancient religion. Quite to the dismay of the crown, the nobles, the mercers and the military. Even if the years had divided the church¡¯s grasp on political power, their grip remained ever so firm on the hearts and minds of the little man. Their aid in the war against Brethon certainly didn¡¯t dwindle that flame.

    ¡°And still I must insist, Captain. It is writ in law, black on white. Very much like this corpse, here.¡± He nodded at the horror laying on the slab and his neck gave a loud click. ¡°Ah! Finally¡­ My spine¡¯s been killing me all day. I could almost sympathize with anyone to receive a dagger in the neck. Say, Vindict, wasn¡¯t there a fellow like that found not so long ago?¡±

    ¡°That would be him, your imminence.¡±

    ¡°ah, of course.¡± The Superior mumbled while staring thoughtfully at the corpse. ¡°Isn¡¯t something like that usually fatal, though?¡± Its pale arm jerked the chains with a metallic rattling.

    ¡°Yes, usually. But I must imagine this one to be far from usual, your imminence.¡± Vindict replied, forcing himself to remain still as the undead writhed on the stone slab.

    ¡°I suppose you are right at that,¡± he narrowed his eyes, ¡°they say you are never too old for the learning of something new, but I had though myself way past that point. Always be prepared for life to take you for a run, huh?¡± Three knocks resounded on the sturdy wooden door, clear as thunder. ¡°Arrived at last, has he? Wonder who showed up this time¡­ Perhaps Father Marth again? Oh, get that would you? I fear my bones won¡¯t allow me the prying of heavy doors anymore.¡±

    The uneasy guard posted next to the cobble frame nodded stiffly and opened it wide, immediately shocking the room¡¯s gathering with who it was standing before them. Even the Superior bothered raising what was left of his eyebrows.

    ¡°My, imagine that. I¡¯ve sent for the church and they lend me their very Hero.¡± A hand rubbed over his bald head with a hissing, joints creaking with every move. ¡°Welcome to our little gathering, Lord Radiance.¡±

    Vindict didn¡¯t reckon the Cain needed more describing him. The word ¡®Hero¡¯ was perfectly fit for that. Everything about the prodigy roared power. From the pristine armor in which he was clad, shining with a mirror polish. The helmet which dangled by his waist, crafted by the finest smith, the visored barbuta which was told to be an improvement over the other, classic head armor. And lastly, the item to which everyone¡¯s eyes were pulled, was his sword, always held in his hand by the base of the blade, clutching the beautifully ornamented sheath.

    ¡°My thanks, your imminence.¡± Radiance spoke with unrivaled confidence exuding from his every word. His heavy blue eyes moved over every person while lingering briefly on each of them as if saying ¡®I am mighty beyond your reasoning, yet your presence is not unimportant to me.¡¯ A rather cocky attitude, Vindict found, though you could hardly find fault as it were more than likely true.

    As Radiance¡¯s gaze finally set on the squirming vulgarity he fought down a scowl while quickly turning his head away, lips curling only briefly. Vindict posed that even the man to fight these monstrosities would find it hard to look upon them. He turned to the Superior, white tabard swaying with the motion.

    ¡°Whoever found this¡­ thing must be quarantined at once.¡± That brought a ripple through the room. A dangerous one.

    ¡°Hold on here!¡± Gethod¡¯s eyebrows were most severely knit together and Vindict wondered if the man could become any angrier if he were told his daughter had become a whore.

    ¡°MY men found it, fought it, defeated it, I will not have these brave men locked up under the presumptuous mumblings of a self-glorifying brat!¡± He took a hard step forward, holding his pointing finger mere inches from the Cain¡¯s armored chest. ¡°these men fought evil while you were playing with swords in that fancy castle of yours or uttering prayers to that God ¨C¡±If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    ¡°Captain!¡± Vindict sputtered, most confused he had.

    ¡°What!?¡± The man now turned to him as if he was no better in his eyes than the Cain.

    Vindict glanced sideways at Radiance, saw the Cain straining himself as if he were holding back a coiling ocean, boiling with the very fury of the Gods, and Vindict felt he was the only dam that could prevent dear Captain Gethod from sundering to less than ash.

    ¡°I believe we are most pressed into unraveling what has happened. Perhaps Lord Radiance could propose a suitable explanation as to why he desires the men who had contact with the undead to be held¡­ separate?¡± Vindict winced.

    The Captain worked his square jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists, debating within himself whether to listen to the Cain¡¯s opinion. But a voice behind Vindict made the decision for him.

    ¡°Why not just listen? Frankly, I would very much enjoy hearing whatever opinion the Hero holds.¡± Vindict didn¡¯t miss the mocking tone of the speaker, idly leaning back against the cobble wall. Her face was hidden behind an iron mast, two holes to allow for vision and numerous square openings along the mouth for ample air-flow, though it was all rather hard to see under the hood she had covering her.

    The Captain peered at Misgard for support, but the old man only shrugged tiredly.

    ¡°Why not?¡± He breathed like the sighing of the wind through an old cottage. ¡°Lord Radiance is partaking for a reason. Might as well allow him to shine some light upon the matters at hand.¡±

    Everyone turned to Radiance expectantly, and the Cain held himself as if nothing was wrong. As if no insults had befallen him. As if he hadn¡¯t been one breath away from decimating the young officer.

    ¡°Of course.¡± He said and set down the tip of his sheathed blade on the stone, resting his hands the lavish crosspiece. ¡°The great writings of Mother Leviath spoke of those things her brother Klustroll brought from hell, and of those who prayed to the things made from lies, and of the things which they created in return. Defiled by a hex, the body of man sees God¡¯s light no more and warps into something most fiendish and unholy.¡± He spoke the words as if they held poison while staring down on the undead.

    ¡°Any of those who come into contact will be defiled in return, unless their bond with God is strong and pure. So, it is written in the Third of the Seven books of Gospel. So let it be writ, so let it be done.¡± The Captain looked properly incredulous at the Cain, then at Vindict, at the Superior and then finally back at Lord Radiance.

    ¡°Are you mad!?¡± He roared, face reddening as hot metal. ¡°You expect me to not only lock my men away, but to execute them as well? To kill? Based on what? Some aged books locked from anyone but you to see? To act punishment upon my men for no more than the blabbering of some ignorant youth!?¡± And Vindict had thought the man was angry before. But the Cain didn¡¯t as much as flinch at the man¡¯s insults. He simply stood there with his chin held high, slightly leaning on his legendary weapon.

    ¡°A defiled, is it?¡± Vindict heard Ferila muse behind him, breaking through Gethod¡¯s ranting. And Vindict was glad she had. Though he disliked most properties of corpses, you could never condemn them as deafening, bolstering buffoons. The very qualities which Gethod took pride in presenting.

    ¡°You know of this creature?¡± Misgard asked with a smidge of curiously. The cloaked woman pushed herself off the wall and walked forward with movement akin to skilled fighters. Two blades dangled by her hips. One long steel. One short steel. Neither flashing with more beauty then needed, just two lengths of practical metal. They belonged to Felina The Peace-Keeper, Fourth of The Ten.

    ¡°Do I know of it? No. Have I heard of it?¡± She tapped a gloved finger against the chin of her mask with a metallic ringing. ¡°Zaphiros spoke of it once. Creatures who broke one of the laws. Which one, he did not know for certain. He was speculating them to be involved with hexes, though. Just as our young Cain just said.¡±

    ¡°Hmmm.¡± The Superior hummed thoughtfully. ¡°Seems like our Hero¡¯s claims aren¡¯t completely unfound, huh? Or will you defy the knowledge of Zaphiros The Knowing, Sixth of The Ten?¡± He craned his head at the captain, had it click again.

    Vindict waited with teetering tension for the situation to deescalate. He didn¡¯t like being in a room with some of the most dangerous fighters in the empire. Would rather be anywhere else, really. Well, perhaps not anywhere else. The All-King¡¯s dungeons didn¡¯t quite suit his fancy.

    Much to Vindict¡¯s pleasure, the guard captain abided with a great, frustrated sigh.

    ¡°I suppose denying the Sixth¡¯s knowledge would be unwise.¡± He muttered reluctantly, and Wisgard nodded with content.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s decided. The guards must be placed under house arrest, somewhere away from the rabble and other. They are to be put under strict surveillance by doctor Willic ¨C day and night. I would also argue it to be most wise as to keep this knowledge separate from the general public. I will conduct a ledger with this case¡¯s information where all those who partake will seclude their findings to. That goes for the everyone, you too, Felina. I will not have you pass this to any higher-ups before leaks will no longer interfere with this case. Am I clear?¡±

    ¡°Clear as day.¡± She piped, feet dragging along the dust as she pivoted around with a playful twirl.

    ¡°Then, Vindict, can you inform everyone of what you have found yet?¡± The Superior turned his droopy eyes to him.

    ¡°Yes, Superior.¡± Vindict tore at the hem with his finger, seemed so awfully tight now with everyone looking at him. ¡°The victim¡¯s name is Damien Kolf, a civilian living in the Lower City, the Old Sage district. Though there are no actual accusations on his person, he has been rumored to be involved with the Roots, more particularly, the Root of remedies.¡± The guard Captain gave a distasteful snort.

    ¡°Damn filthy dealers.¡± He grumbled. Vindict cleared his throat, wishing he had brought something to drink. The room felt suddenly so very warm.

    ¡°His living quarters have been searched but nothing of value to us has been discovered.¡± Vindict had been there himself. The house had been like the others of those parts. A proper rotting hovel, though with even less then the rest inside. He doubted Damien to actually be living there.

    ¡°He himself has been found in the group of alleys dubbed by the people: ¡®Gutter¡¯s Grime¡¯, as the water seems to flood there whenever there is heavy rainfall¡± Radiance¡¯s eyes kept narrowing. Eyebrows knitting together. Hands trembling. Pupils flitting from Vindict to the corpse in a feverish spasm. Seemed to find it harder then Vindict to be near it. Hard to believe, though.

    ¡°Can you get on with it?¡± Gethod barked, crossing his arms. Golden cords swaying across red fabric. Vindict rasped his throat again. His lips felt dry like leather, his tongue a piece of wood, badly carved. The room was shimmering with suffocating heat. Was it just him? A trail of sweat tickled Gethod¡¯s eyebrow. The Superior waved at his face, hand dangling limply. The guards posted shuffled uncomfortably in their heavy suits of armor. Even Felina pulled at her dark-green garb, working some wind underneath the cloth. And Radiance seemed worse of them all. Only he wasn¡¯t sweating, or reddening. Just stood there twitching and cringing, trying to hide it but failing. The air around him distorting as if ablaze.

    ¡°There was also a sighting by a passing woman in another alley further away. Though she was somewhat¡­¡± Every word grating along his sore mouth took effort. ¡°Somewhat intoxicated. She claimed, quite frantically to have seen another ¡®defiled¡¯ being killed by, well, she called it The Great Leveler.¡±

    The heat dimmed somewhat as Radiance¡¯s eyes widened.

    ¡°The Great Leveler? What¡¯s that?¡± Gethod breathed, trying to mask his misery. Misgard was waving his hand faster, creaking and groaning. Vindict feared it would snap off.

    ¡°A word the people of Hofrith give the Reaper, the Undertaker, the Grave tender. You know ¨C death.¡±

    ¡°A Heinous word used by barbaric people of the North.¡± Radiance growled. The cindering room became a bit more manageable. Vindict could almost breathe comfortably. ¡°Why did she use that to describe what she saw?¡± Vindict didn¡¯t really want to say it. Hell, he didn¡¯t want to be in this room any longer. He felt his age peeling off with every second¡¯s passing.

    ¡°she told it to be a thing made of the emptiest of shadows with a white skull for a head. Said it killed the ¡®defiled¡¯ by calling fire and lightning on it using a short staff¡±

    The guard captain¡¯s face darkened. ¡°A lich? In this day and age, in the great city of Alverion?¡± He glanced venomously at Radiance. ¡°What are you Cain even doing?¡±

    There were no words of power. No incantation. No grand speech. Radiance simply snapped his fingers and white flames roared to life. Not even dust remained of the writhing corpse. Gethod was pale now. Waxy pale. Pale as the vanished corpse and cold sweat trickled off his chin in thick, steady drops.

    And the room was quiet now. Dust twirled through the flickering torchlight, weaving towards the smooth stone to join the rest. Vindict eyes shot left and saw Felina gripping her sheathed blade, hunched and staring hard at the Cain.

    ¡°May you find peace in Solis¡¯s embrace, for she will cleanse any evil and accept all suffering.¡± He spoke to the slab of rock, now bare except for the rusted manacles holding no longer. He angled his head to the captain, voice calm yet carrying a dangerously clear tone. Like a man who had prepared himself for an unpleasant task.

    ¡°Be careful of what you say, Captain. The flame is equal to all. Smaller evil, greater evil, meddling ¨C it makes no difference. Not to God¡¯s clearing light.¡± He spoke the words one by one, like to a slow-witted child. ¡°This is my duty, Captain. I will not allow you to tarnish it. Am I clear?¡± He stood before him, now. And the proud Captain seemed so small in front that mirror bright armor, the towering sword, the Cain¡¯s heavy gaze.

    ¡°Yes, Lord Radiance¡± He croaked, edging away.

    ¡°It is Lord Cain, for you, Captain. Only those guided by God¡¯s light may call me by my Earned Name.¡± But the tyran didn¡¯t wait for an answer. ¡°Whether it be a lich or a figment of the woman¡¯s delirious state, I hope you will yet look into the matter, Inquisitor. As for the area around where both defiled have been found, I wish for them to be under surveillance as well. Just to be sure.¡± Vindict could only nod under the pressure.

    ¡°I will look into it, Lord Cain.¡± Radiance waved him off, seeming all too eager to leave, and did just that.

    ¡°If my presence is required again, do not hesitate to call upon me, Superior. Until then, farewell.¡± He turned sharply on his heels and left through the door, not bothering to wait for the petrified guard to open it. He flung it shut behind him and the sound of his steps hammering up the stairs was cut off with that.

    Misgard stared hazily at the stone slab. ¡°Doctor Willic will be disappointed being unable to study the undead.¡± He mumbled. Vindict saw the guard captain wave his men over and make for the exit.

    ¡°I will bring you the documents when they are finished, Superior.¡± He said over his shoulder. Forgetting to salute but the Superior was way past caring.

    ¡°Sure, till then.¡± And the man was gone.

    That just left the three of them. Pondering about what had happened. What will happen.

    ¡°Keep an eye on Lord Radiance, Ferina.¡± Misgard frowned. ¡°He seems most¡­ unstable. I don¡¯t know what it is, but he didn¡¯t like looking at the body. He attempted to hide it by acting on what the fool Gethod said, but there was something about the corpse he found most disturbing. Just¡­ keep this under covers. You hear?¡±

    ¡°I do, Your imminence.¡± She said grimly. ¡°He¡¯ll just have an extra shadow following him, keeping the peace.¡± And she walked away with strides that said ¡®I have an Earned Name. Winner of the contest and one of The Ten Hands of the emperor. I am fearless even under the wrath of God¡¯s only child.¡¯ But she couldn¡¯t hide the doubt in her feet from Vindict. They treaded light as if walking on brittle glass.

    ¡°And inquisitor.¡± Misgard smiled tiredly.

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Find out what you can about these walking corpses, will you? The balance is swaying, wars are brewing, costly reasons are being sought like cheap excuses. I don¡¯t need unrest in the Great Capital of Ansein right now. I am old and drained, but do not yet wish the ¨C¡± and he glanced at where the corpse had been ravaged by searing clouds of fire. ¡°warm embrace of our beloved Goddess. Do you have me covered, inquisitor?¡±

    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t worry, your eminence.¡± He worked his cracked lips into a forced smile. ¡°I¡¯ve had the profound pleasure of observing many kinds of corpses in my lifetime. You wouldn¡¯t be mistaken in calling me an authority on the cold and unmoving.¡± Misgard showed his leering, toothless grin.

    ¡°But these move about, though. Do they not?¡± He cracked and Vindict swallowed painfully.

    ¡°Yes,¡± he wheezed. ¡°Yes, they do.¡±

 Somewhere In The North

    The old knight¡¯s eyes sparked with that strange shine again as they sat themselves on Syn before darting away in a ritual he had been repeating ever since she had come to. Syn remembered of times where she had read of knights in storybook, with a gallant display of honor and righteousness, but again reality seemed to betray her expectations by denting his armor and tearing his tabard, aging his visage and greying his hair.

    The woman was scantly any better; feverish eyes darting from her to the Tyran, back to the archer and then resting on the cloth she was stitching together as if it made her small and unnoticeable.

    The coals hissed idly with the venison¡¯s fat dripping down, steady as the creeping frost coiling around them come from between tired trees and naked shrubs, come from the mountains and the fields and forest.

    Her head lolled sideways and thumped against the Tyran¡¯s leathern armor, had his warm cloak brush her cheek with a woolen prickling. She was sat on his lap as they had found she couldn¡¯t sit by herself without tipping over.

    His hard arm moved and nudged her head up, guiding a spoon of warm mush towards her cracked lips. She barely managed to swallow down half as the rest trailed down her chin to tap onto her worn furs.

    Through the blur of exhaustion, she caught Bald exchanging a glance with the knight, then nodding and turning to the Tyran, eyes spelling determination and caution. He shifted on the soil cleared of snow and the handle of his knife poked from between the folds of his battered coat, just short from his squirming hand, clenching and unclenching.

    ¡°Now, though I said you¡¯re right welcome at our fire ¨C¡± and he stared hard at the medallion, dangling from the Tyran¡¯s neck and gleaming with a dull sheen. ¡°But you have to explain¡­¡±

    ¡°What my friend is trying to say,¡± the knight smiled jubilantly, ¡°is that an exchange of names and courtesies, things such as those, could lessen the tension now chocking this friendly gathering.¡± And his smile grew wider still, stretching an old scar along his cheek ¨C white and arcing. ¡°Is that a fair request from the likes of us, Master Tyran?¡±

    Syn felt the Tyran¡¯s muscles tense and twitch underneath his armor, had her frame shift somewhat. Now his hand was close to a mean looking blade, too. Her tired eyes fleeted across the savage metal, howling with mute delight at the prospect of violence. She felt bile rushing forth before suppressing it with a gurgle and a sputter.

    The tyran patted her back gently as she choked her food down again, grasping a handful of his furs.

    ¡°My name is Art; a Tyran, as you already know.¡± She looked up from between his furs at the tyran¡¯s face. No, at Art¡¯s face. She hadn¡¯t expected a man tempered by violence to keep one at all, and she found it oddly pleasant to know it. ¡°And this¡­¡± He looked down at her and their eyes met. Brown eyes, like mud, but hard-set inside sunken sockets, the left bigger than the other for a scar that split one of his brows.

    ¡°I¡¯m Syn.¡± Her voice weak as the uncertain buzz of a fly. The knight¡¯s smile now cracked to show a set of worn teeth.

    ¡°Well, Syn, nice of you to join us. You¡¯re right welcome at our fire.¡± But her lashes had already sunken into slumber, and the Seven knew she needed it. Though there was no telling when her dreams would rip her awake. ¡°Ah.¡± The man breathed, then sighed and sagged back against the fallen tree, wrapped himself tight in skins and hides. ¡°And just as I was going to introduce myself.¡± He murmured, eyes staring vacantly at the sky - cast over by iron clouds. Art straightened himself and angled to the hunter ¨C the man who had felt the eager breath of Silver barely an hour past.

    ¡°I¡¯ve yet to thank you for the thornwart.¡± Art raised the wooden bowl with some stubborn brown and red muck still clinging to the dark grains. ¡°I had been searching, along the North road, but finding proved difficult.¡± He tried smiling, but it only seemed to distress the man more.

    ¡°No, I hardly deserve your thanks, Master Tyran.¡± He raised his palms and cringed. ¡°My wife, Senma, is who picked the growth, knowing it could come in handy.¡± Art nodded at the skittish woman sitting next to the hunter, close, choosing to remain silent.

    ¡°Now we¡¯ve got all things such as these covered,¡± grinned the knight. ¡°They call me Sir Yorik of Vesmire, winner of duels, challenger of beasts, claimer of prizes, seer of many.¡± The creases round his steel eyes spread, showing a face used to laughter.

    ¡°You travel in diverse company, Sir Yorik.¡± Art pointed out, nodding at the tanned hunter and his darker spouse. Yorik thumbed his chest proudly with a metallic clang, then gestured at the others.

    ¡°Indeed! A knight of my status has seen many things, been to many places. A knight such as myself finds it coming naturally to gather company along the roads and travels.¡± He waved his metal-clad hand to the Bald one; scalp riddled with angry white and burning red scars, blotched and stretching as the patches of a cow. ¡°This fellow I¡¯ve picked up years back, when I passed through Herbly, when such a place still existed, that is.¡± Art flinched at the name of the place, but the others didn¡¯t notice. Or ignored it. Or took note.

    ¡°Name¡¯s Jubail.¡± The man grunted in a broken voice, frowning though he had no eyebrows. And that was all introduction from him. Can¡¯t say I mind it. Doesn¡¯t seem like a man that likes talking. Doesn¡¯t seem like the kind of man I wanna hear talk, too.

    But the knight either didn¡¯t see or care about the exchange of hard looks and simply went on, caught in his own booming voice.

    ¡°And these two birds I caught along the road from Orsen, just a moon ago or so.¡± He rubbed along his rough blond beard, thinking, then shrugged and had his plated shoulders groan. ¡°been a huge help, really. Lass¡¯s knowing of herbs has helped out plenty before, you see.¡± And he nodded at Syn, sleeping with a gentle heaving of the chest. ¡°Your girlie isn¡¯t the first to enjoy her expertise.¡± He then winked at the dark girl, still close to her companion.

    ¡°I¡¯m Roag, of Acrea.¡± He said in a rich voice, chipped slightly by an odd accent, then lightly pushed the woman forward. ¡°come on, be polite.¡± He whispered, and she looked at Art with round eyes. ¡°Senma.¡± She uttered barely louder than the crackling of their fire, flames still licking the meat hung above.

    ¡°From over the Nameless Sands! Can you believe it?¡± The knight droned and shook his head, helm swiveling along. ¡°Can hardly imagine that to have been an easy journey.¡± Art eyed the girl again; her sharp face used to hard weather, quick eyes flitting about, nervously shifting along the soil.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    ¡°Aye.¡± Art mumbled. One must be harder than bedrock to make it across there; the Black Desert. Perhaps she is more than she seems.

    ¡°You too, Master Tyran, must have seen quite the journey, ey?¡± The knight beamed before a gurgling voice sounded.

    ¡°Where¡¯d ye get the girl, anyway?¡± Jubail rumbled, hands dangling along his knees. Of course.

    ¡°Hey, now.¡± The knight raised his palms to beg for Son Peace. ¡°I¡¯m sure there¡¯s a suitable explanation¡­¡±

    ¡°There¡¯d better be.¡± Spat Jubail. ¡°Tyran can¡¯t have no children, even backstreet scum knows that. So, where¡¯d you get her?¡±

    Art¡¯s eyebrows knit together to form a dark expression; dark as the wings of Grandmother Destruction.

    ¡°Blackshire.¡± He said, speaking the truth. One of those rare cases where the truth does just as well. Better even, perhaps. ¡°There was a Northman raid, town went up in flames, as is their way. Syn¡¯s brother was killed, and I took her with.¡± Jubail snorted, crossing his arms.

    ¡°And why¡¯d ya do it? Out ¡®o the kindness of yer heart?¡± He snorted again and spat phlegm on the frozen duff. ¡°Not a Fuckin¡¯ chance.¡± Yorik grimaced, but otherwise held his silence; silent as Father Earth and just as unmoving.

    ¡°And what if that¡¯s just how it is?¡± Art growled. ¡°And even if it aint¡­¡± And he brandished his teeth, slick with drool. ¡°What are you going to do ¡®bout it?¡± His shoulders trembled, still aching from his past fight, but ignored it.

    Jubail worked his mouth and the knight leaned left, freeing his scabbard from the log, the hunter pulledSenmacloser and eased his knife free. Then the bush ripped open.

    ¡°Hoy!¡± The jagged man said while branches grabbed at his clothing, greasy hair plastered to his face. ¡°How¡¯s it¡­¡±

    He stopped in his tracks to greet the heavy silence wreathing throughout before frowning himself.

    ¡°Now,¡± he started ¡°I know yer all hungry, but.¡± And he trudged to the fire with heavy steps, strolling right in-between Art and the rest. ¡°that don¡¯t mean you¡¯ve got to fight over the first piece, does it?¡±

    He poked the meat with a dirty finger before quickly pulling it away. ¡°Ah! Hot!¡± and he put the finger in his mouth with a pained expression. ¡°Can never trust those you love, huh?¡± he said, staring at the sweating flesh. He¡¯s a loon.

    Art blew out his cheeks, knowing full and well he¡¯d regret it. But so is life; full of past regrets. All you can really do is make the best of what you¡¯re left with.

    ¡°I took her because I¡¯m tired.¡± Art sighed heavily, shoulders sagging, curled fingers leaving the solid knife. ¡°Tired ¡®o running, of ignoring, of regretting.¡± He looked down on the frail girl. Looked at her hair, long as the reign of Daughter War, black as the soot kicking up from the flames.

    He shrugged again, getting real comfortable at doing it, and looked Jubail straight in his eyes. ¡°I took Syn because leaving her would¡¯ve been harder.¡± And that was that.

    The bald, and scarred man seemed to think that over for a spell, then had a shrug of his own and a sight, too, as he might just as well. ¡°Then I can¡¯t hold that against ya.¡± He finally said, allowing room for Sister night to steal the forest from Brother Day.

    --

    Syn¡¯s eyes fluttered open, dazed by a deep, dreamless sleep. Took her a moment to adapt to the darkness, warping between the trees and briars, clawing at their warm fire.

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t feel bad about it, Art.¡± She heard the knight say.

    ¡°I scant feel much. You won¡¯t find me weeping all too soon over a couple of harsh words.¡± The knight showed a sorry smile.

    ¡°Even so¡­ The hate for Tyran is strong in most; fear for the unknown, for the strong, for one¡¯s neighbor.¡± He shook his head solemnly. ¡°He was different before, before the scars, before the war.¡±

    There was a pause before the silence was broken.

    ¡°He fought in a war?¡± The dark man asked, wide eyes shining in the fire¡¯s glow.

    ¡°Indeed, Son. Or do you suppose he got those scars from being mighty careless with a razor?¡±

    ¡°No, of course not.¡± The man responded sheepishly.

    ¡°No, of course not.¡± The knight puffed at his pipe and blew out a great plume of smoke, eyes following its coiling trail before setting on Art. ¡°Ever heard of The Blight?¡±

    She felt Art twitch. ¡°Aye. I¡¯ve heard of him.¡±

    ¡°Suppose everyone has, by now; Anyone who¡¯s fought in any given war back then.¡± The knight hummed, tapping on the shaft; had ash leak out. Then he looked at Syn. ¡°You ever heard of him, missy?¡±

    Now all eyes were on her.

    ¡°your awake.¡± Art mumbled. ¡°Slept well?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡± She whispered, quiet as a flower¡¯s growing.

    ¡°Good.¡± He answered simply.

    ¡°You see,¡± the knight followed, talking over them. ¡°This Blight is no ordinary Tyran, such as Master Art over here.¡± And he poked his pipe at him.

    ¡°The Blight doesn¡¯t use a blade or other like weapon for his fighting. Don¡¯t ask me how, but he figured a way to mix magic in his cunning. A most vile magic, leaving the opponent no chance for things such as those, or even these. No moment to fight back, or even to flee. He¡¯d simply draw close, and that¡¯s the end of it. People just drop down, squirming and drooling foam, horribly pale except for those sickening rashes looking like burns¡­¡±

    ¡°Aye.¡± Art said, scratching at his own scar, ugly as Mother Sea¡¯s wrath, running from his scalp to his neck.

    ¡°Then¡­¡± The hunter fumbled, gripping his arrow half-past fletching. ¡°How do you win? How is it possible to fight someone you can¡¯t touch?¡± The woman huddled closer, warding against the cold, or the fear, or both.

    ¡°You don¡¯t.¡± Yorik hacked. ¡°You make sure to look for the signs and run while you can. While you still can.¡±

    ¡°Signs?¡± Syn breathed, light as a leaf¡¯s falling; curiosity drawn by the all familiar rhythm of a story.

    ¡°Yes, the three signs to tell of his dawning.¡± The Knight explained.

    ¡°Three signs.¡± Art repeated.

    ¡°As every story likes.¡± Syn remarked, wriggling some comfort in Art¡¯s lap.

    ¡°Indeed.¡± The knight droned. ¡°Three gifts, three curses, three heroes¡­ Things tend to come in sums of three.¡± He had another breath of his gogh before passing it to Art.

    ¡°Fire,¡± he said, ¡°fire is a great sign to look for in a battle.¡±

    ¡°Daughter War likes her flames¡­¡± Art muttered while blowing a cloud of grey.

    ¡°Indeed, so she does. Always enough flames to go about¡­¡±

    ¡°So, what do you look for in them?¡± Roag sounded very much frightened, as if knowing it sooner would be the difference between life and death. Getting real drawn into the story.

    ¡°You see, Son: She Who Makes The Open Hand A Fist likes her fires red or orange,¡± and he raised his iron finger, mirroring the light. ¡°At the first sign they turn blue.¡±

    ¡°Blue?¡± Asked Roag, eyebrows raising.

    ¡°Aye.¡± Said Art. ¡°Blue as azure.¡±

    ¡°When they change, there¡¯s still time. The reason why they know the flames warp their dress is because those who bore witness were able to flee in time.¡± He looked at the sundering fire, watched the air shimmer for the surging heat. ¡°Then comes the second omen.¡±

    ¡°What is it?¡± Syn whispered, eyes wide and glowing, watched the knight frown at the reaching tongues of flame.

    ¡°The air will wreath though there is no wind.¡± He explained, eyes glazed. ¡°You¡¯ll feel it against your skin, prickling, tickling. When the second sign shows, you will know; Just doesn¡¯t feel right.¡±

    ¡°Foul.¡± Art hissed.

    ¡°Vile.¡± The knight growled.

    The hunter was cowering something fierce, and so was the woman, before the terror that a story can breathe. Syn knew it well, the sensation of being drawn in fully; enveloped whole. But it didn¡¯t happen now. She remained rooted in the sobering roots of her empty reality.

    ¡°The third sign quickly follows the second, and by then it¡¯s too late for most.¡± The knight said, and Art wrinkled his nose in a half-snarl. ¡°A strange smell to burn your nose and sting your eyes.¡±

    ¡°A foul smell?¡± The hunter asked breathlessly.

    ¡°No.¡± Said the knight, grasping at the night as if searching, seeking far and deep buried between crumbling memories. ¡°It¡¯s an odd smell, one you don¡¯t expect on the battlefield¡­¡±

    ¡°A spice.¡± Jubail rumbled in his torn voice while leaving the frozen pine and entering the waving light. ¡°Something I smelled once or twice in some noble¡¯s kitchen, never quite knew what it was though.¡± He shrugged and glanced at the bony woman, but she shook her head.

    ¡°Never met him.¡± She hummed, ever so slight.

    ¡°And after the third sign?¡± Asked Roag in a shaky voice, and Jubail looked upon him with dewy eyes, trembling in deep sockets, haunted by livid flashes and dark shadows.

    ¡°You lose everything.¡±

 The Nihilist

    ¡°Yeah, get ¡®em!¡± Came a shrieking to join the overwhelming thundering crowd under the bright sun. ¡°Give ¡®em hell!¡±

    Hell was exactly what Yerens liked throwing at his opponents, and this one was no exception. He pranced and prowled, danced and swaggered, nimble as a weasel, quick as a viper, and vicious as a bloodhound drowned in the stench of blood.

    ¡°Stab!¡± came a cry, so sharp it hurt Radiance¡¯s ears, his headache only growing worse. ¡°Stab ¡®em through!¡±

    And the poor fool lumbered helplessly after Yerens like a beggar grabbing for spilled crumbs. But every opening was a trap, every stagger a counter, and the next falter Yerens turned into a parry, a blinding flash of blunt steel whipped out and the flat of the blade thwacked the stumbling boy on his behind; had him sprawl face-first into the sand. The lambs fall resonated in Radiance¡¯s head, too. Hurting, aching.

    He was good, Radiance had to admit, but he was a right bastard as well as he spread his arms and drank in the audience¡¯s sporadic cheers and peels of laughter at the one-sided beatdown.

    ¡°Come on.¡± Grunted Radiance under his hissing breath, hands bunched to fists to ignore the pain. ¡°Get up and fight.¡±

    ¡°Do come on!¡± Mocked Yerens in his cocky voice, smirking disdainfully at his coughing opponent. ¡°Get up and give me a proper fight!¡± All to the joy of the crowd, drunk on their own deafening volume.

    The boy rose with a wobble to his knees, spit and sand clinging to his reddened face ¨C breathing hard, and Yerens grinned that bastard of a grin he liked so much while he twirled his steels around.

    ¡°That¡¯s more like it! Would be boring if you surrendered so soon.¡± The boy steadied himself, short steel in one hand, long steel in the other. ¡°Now, lose graciously for the joy of the people!¡±

    It had become popular to use two blades ever since Ferina the Peace-Keeper won the contest three years back. The shorter blade was used to parry and keep the opponent at bay with pokes and jabs. The longer blade coming into play for more definitive attacks ¨C slashes, stabbing, hacking. They flow into each other to form a perfect balance.

    The metal flashed over and the boy¡¯s short steel was sent flying, spun and stabbed into the square¡¯s soil. He stumbled back, hacking away with his remaining sword, pointless as Yerens dodged and weaved through the panicked swings with gracious ease, stalking forward and driving the other back.

    Radiance reckoned it fine for sparring, but he doubted their effectiveness on the battlefield; light blades tend to fail when they meet heavy armor. There was another vigorous roar from the ecstatic crowd as Yerens barraged the boy¡¯s defenses with well-timed jabs in perfect harmony with devastating lashes ¨C had the steel ringing, hissing with metallic scrapes and sparking licks. Left, right, circling round one another as the blades kissed and the cross-guards met.

    He was good, this Yerens, and well known and backed by the noble factions as he was of high blood himself. Feared in the square and loved at the banquet. Touched by iron and known to gold. But he was a right bastard, and it showed clearly now he bullied the unprepared lamb into a bruised submission.

    There was a shrill cry as Yerens¡¯ edge crushed into the child¡¯s curled fingers, but the pained groans that followed were lost in the audiences thunderous rumbling cheers and applause. Yerens¡¯ face was split into his most beautiful, ugly, self-indulging grin as he drank up the crowd¡¯s praise while the boy clasped his darkening, swelling hand behind him, biting through the tears.

    Yerens swaggered round the square, breezing through pompous conversation with bloated nobles, smirking past biting commentary from frowning merchants, blowing flirtatious kisses at blushing ladies. He was an excellent swordsman. An outstanding conversationalist. A skillful suitor. But most of all, a real bastard of a man.

    ¡°Is there anyone that can offer a proper challenge?¡± He called, arms outstretched. ¡°Anyone?¡±

    Radiance was hot, sundering and his clashing skull hammered by hard surging pain, wondering when this torture would end.

    He turned to a soldier standing post at the tribune¡¯s pole. ¡°What about you, fair man of the city¡¯s watch?¡± But the guard only shook his head, staying still and silent. Yerens smiled, shrugged, and the audience laughed.

    ¡°Perhaps you would like a try?¡± He posed, turning to the man who was sat next to Radiance. ¡°I¡¯m sure that Verkath blade of yours can dance in those nimble fingers?¡± He cracked, pointing at the sword with his own.

    Radiance eyed the blade, hanging from the man¡¯s hip. A slim sheath, hiding a slimmer blade, no doubt, and a fine crafted cross guard atop of it, iron wrapped around it and the grip looking like a blooming rose to protect the hand and wrist.

    ¡°Oh, no no.¡± The greying man protested, smiling awkwardly. ¡°This is more fashion than anything else, really¡­ And I¡¯m old, too.¡± He laughed sheepishly and the wrinkles etching his face deepened, showing a mask of age. Yerens frowned.

    ¡°Now, though Verkath is unknown to the sea, is it not north of the silver teeth? Surely the mountains must¡¯ve trained you well past vigor?¡± He mocked.

    ¡°Oh, no no.¡± The man said again, the robe made of many pieces of swaying cloth, blue and white and grey wacked as the wind woke to the glory of day. ¡°The square belongs to the young, an old man like myself has his own place.¡± Yerens¡¯ eyes narrowed in a sneer.

    ¡°Looking at your years that would be close to the grave, is it not?¡± And the crowd erupted into dumb laughter; had Radiance grit his teeth for the mocking of age was the mocking of God. He would know of no disrespect towards the Almighty.

    ¡°Oh, my.¡± Yerens grinned in surprise. ¡°The very hero of the church has joined to watch my spar. Very honored.¡± But he looked nothing like it, eyes teeming with jealousy and spite. ¡°Here¡¯s an idea.¡± He beamed.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you come into the square? You¡¯re a victor of the competition, are you not? And at he young age of twelve, none the less, after which you joined the Battle of Right and led the country to victory, so I¡¯ve heard!¡± Mocking, sneering, joking. he felt hot; boiling. A headache like the smith¡¯s pounding on the anvil.

    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t.¡± Radiance managed to hiss, though he wanted. Desired nothing more than to wipe that shit-eating grin off Yerens¡¯ face. But he was the Hero, and the Hero does not fight out of spite. He is righteous, courteous, chivalrous.

    ¡°Perhaps you shouldn¡¯t.¡± Yerens nodded understandably, crossing his arms. ¡°The square is other than the field of battle.¡± And he flashed his blade with the speed of lightning, had it pas right in front of Radiance¡¯s nose. ¡°You might get hurt.¡±

    There was no stopping the tide, nor was there a stopping to Radiance¡¯s wrath and he rose from his seat to block the sun and cast a long shadow to warp Yerens¡¯ frame. He was the Son of the Flame, and to mock him was to mock Solis. He was the Hero, and it was his duty to protect his Mother¡¯s honor. He was righteous, courteous, chivalrous and would cast judgement down on the unbelieving.

    Yerens¡¯ grin grew wider as he got what he desired, but what man desires and what he wants are two very different things. A thing Yerens is yet to learn. But Radiance was ready to teach him such a lesson that he would never need another. After Radiance was done with him, he would have no want for God¡¯s wrath.

    Yerens stepped aside as Radiance trudged by, heavy boots stamping and sinking in the square¡¯s sand.

    ¡°Are you going to fight me with your virtuous blade of legend?¡± He asked, pointing at the huge sword in Radiance¡¯s hand.

    ¡°No.¡± He buried the sheath in the soft ground at the area¡¯s edge. The crowd was quiet, now. Full of anticipation at the prospect of two masters from different styles to test their mettle. ¡°The might of this blade is wasted upon the likes of you.¡±

    Yerens scowled. ¡°Oh really?¡± He fingered his blade. ¡°Be careful, Cain, Your goddess¡¯ power ends at the square¡¯s edging.¡±

    ¡°Her Power knows no boundaries.¡± Radiance responded as he neared the fallen Boy, offering his hand. ¡°Your blade, if you please.¡± They locked eyes for a moment, and through them Radiance saw all thousand emotions swimming behind them, for the eyes are the mirror to the soul; its voice. And its language was clear to he who was touched by Flame ¨C they called for revenge. And the boy was in luck, for his desire aligned with that of Solis, and so it would happen, so it would happen.

    God¡¯s lamb raised his sword and handed it to Radiance ¨C grip first, and was received in steady hands belonging to a trembling mind. The hurt was booming through his skull like the calling of Tijd - The Great Bell Tower.

    He took his place opposite to Yerens at the inner circle¡¯s edge, the judge eyeing them both with a nervous shiver. ¡°Three touches or surrender decide the victor.¡± He called, and they nodded; Yerens eager for his petty fight, Radiance keen to pass God¡¯s judgement.

    The rules were simple, but all in Yerens¡¯ favor as two blades were quicker to touch than one. But there was a stark difference between them. Yerens had only the best of sword masters to train him for years, but Radiance had more than that as there be no better mentor than the indifferent crush of war.

    ¡°It¡¯s still not too late to forfeit and protect what¡¯s left of your God¡¯s honor.¡± Yerens called, readying himself in a Cross Stance. He who lacks fate is no more than an animal, less even. And like an animal he would be butchered. Radiance would see to it.

    He set his helm atop his head, now peering through its visage. And the pain was gone. He now viewed the world through iron eyes, small windows into the mortal realm. Everything was clear-cut as a river-smooth stone and a strange calm that was no stranger to Radiance settled on him. He was ready to do gods work.

    ¡°Mind your own protection, child.¡± Radiance spoke as clapping thunder. ¡°For it is in God¡¯s design to guide the lost.¡±

    ¡°Bastard child.¡± Yerens spat and lurched forward as Radiance took the Window Stance.

    The metal hissed as the blades met under the sun¡¯s glint before parting, spinning and meeting again, singing the battles ballet. Yerens¡¯ short steel darted forward, fast as anything, but Radiance was faster still, and he angled his wrists so his blade caught it.

    He rolled his massive shoulders, torqued his elbows and had the metal shrieking as they scraped against one-another; spinning, turning, both looking for an opening to push but finding none.

    Yerens had the upper hand in rate of attack, and knew it, had his short steel jab and Radiance twitched aside. They circled round each other, feet dragging along the earth.

    Yerens had a greater radius of defense, and knew it, smugly grinning as his long steel blocked Radiance¡¯s borrowed blade, strangely light in his hands. Light as a feather.

    But Radiance held his sword in two hands and had the greater speed, and he knew of it as did God. As a feather it drifted and weaved between Yerens¡¯ two blades, forced him to awkwardly retreat, the grin slowly leaving his face to be replaced by a hard frown.

    But Radiance held his sword firm and had the greater strength, and he knew of it as did his God. Like a tumbling mountain it clashed down onto the two clumsy steels, and Radiance bulged the muscles lining his arms, and his sword tore the short steel right from Yerens¡¯ hand as he tried to fumblingly parry the attack.

    Radiance¡¯s boots moved along the coarse sand - legs steady as Werk¡¯s pillars, raining a storm of lashes onto Yerens¡¯ hammered steel. He tried fending them off best he could but was little more than a stranger to the two-handed technique. His back-leg was wonky and uncertain as he searched for footing all the while maneuvering the long steel as sweat trailed down his face, strained with focus.

    Radiance was not sweating even under all his armor, barely felt the weight of it. Yerens might be a decent swordsman, but Radiance was a blade of steel, sharpened by countless years of training, tempered by the blood of battle, honed by his devotion to the Almighty.

    Yerens may have been favored by the nobles, but¡­

    Radiance held the might of God, and he knew it as did Solis. He entered the Guard of the Bastard Cross mid-swing and swatted Yerens¡¯ blade aside in a wide arch. But his blade didn¡¯t stop there and kept flowing, passing the Left Guard of the Lady before cleaving through the air, roaring with the God¡¯s rage in a downward arc as unstoppable and terrible as the Almighty¡¯s ire.

    There was only silence now as tranquility settled onto the square. No sound came from the audience, not a peep. Radiance¡¯s blade was buried deep into the square¡¯s sand after it had roared over Yerens¡¯ head, hadn¡¯t harmed the lamb. Hadn¡¯t even grazed a hair.

    But they both stood perfectly still. No motion other than the dark stain spreading round Yerens¡¯ crotch. You could hear a pin drop. And everyone, from the nobles in front, to the peasants in the furthest row, could hear Yerens¡¯ whisper of a voice.

    ¡°I submit.¡± It was a chipped line from a broken tone, befitting of a lamb lost as he. Radiance slid the blade from the soil and handed it back to the boy come running.

    ¡°Believe in God¡¯s grace.¡± He said to Yerens in even tone, befitting of a Hero. ¡°For you do not know what you are doing.¡± And he took his own blade to leave the mute square with wide strides. Heard Yerens¡¯ sick retching behind him, dampened splattering on the sand.

    Only when he entered the quiet shadows of stretching buildings did he remove the helmet. Only when he was the only soul around could he reflect on how close he had been.

    Radiance. She had called for him, mid-swing. Radiance, believe in my grace. He had been just short of showering the Practice Square in blobs of brain and shards of skull.

    The Hero is Righteous, courteous, chivalrous and would fell God¡¯s judgement.

    What was he doing?

    It had not been God¡¯s design.

    So, what did that make him?

    My son.

 What Compels Us

    Throughout Inquisitor Vindict¡¯s looming career, he¡¯s had the sorry pleasure of finding himself among a diverse selection of dead. Watched them hiss and smolder on red-hot coals, puffing smoke and ash. Seen them dragged from the lake under Winter¡¯s grace, packed in ice with skin pale white or dark blue.

    Chopped up into meaty chunks, slobbering blood onto the spilling floor to pool a puddle like the setting sun. Seen unburied meat sown together with needle and twine, longer pieces and shorter parts to form a dangling freak in a vague image of man.

    Yet, though he makes his living through the study and find of the dead, he has not ever found joy in finding a one. So, he grimaced along with the lugubrious corpses of man, and less than man; of animal, and less than even that, all stuffed into bitter bottles and arranged along the scattered shelves into a symphony singing every note of death.

    And Doctor Willic was its great director, moving from one crumbled book to the next aged scroll with a wood-like grace; meaning a profound lack of it. The man seemed scant a thing made of flesh and bone but rather one forged from oak and stone; intrinsically crafted by a master to serve as a machine for a singular purpose.

    ¡°Hmmm, no this isn¡¯t it either.¡± He mumbled in even tune, one eyelid slack and his thin lips etched into an eternal grin.

    His reaching arm flicked out and plucked another document from its rack, had it cough a puff of dust to twirl in the lamp¡¯s light. His assistant, a young man dressed in opal blue cloth, followed his master diligently, cleaning the mess as it was made. Vindict swallowed, his throat raw in the dry room.

    The Doctor¡¯s fingers flicked the pages nimbly, hollow eyes scanning the aged ink, endless lines written by long dead men and women almost forgotten in the passing of time. How many books were kept here, down below Heaven¡¯s Pillar? How many thousand thousand scriptures, tomes, theses, encyclopedia, stacked and stuffed, bound and wrapped, cloaked and studded, uncovered or yet hidden within the black bowels of Tijd?

    ¡°This isn¡¯t it either.¡± And Vindict wondered how many of those the Doctor had glanced at, read, studied, learned by heart. No doubt most if not all of them, for the Doctor was a learned man.

    He turned on his heels and slid the book back with a hissing before snatching another just as ancient and worn as the rest. The doctor¡¯s pace reminded Vindict of a skeletal puppet swaying to the whims of the most nitpicking puppeteer. Everything about him was sharp as a razor.

    His legs trot sharply along the polished tiles, click, clack, stabbing the floor. His arms were sharp and they snatched one record after the other, swish, swoosh, cleaving the air to shreds. His sharp frame stood in sharp contrast against the sharp Faux-light spilling from a lamp in bright rays, glowing, brimming, cutting shadow to shard.

    ¡°Have you found anything about the defiled within the records?¡± Vindict asked, waving some stubborn dust away. He hated the filth. Though the room was otherwise clean, dust cursed the racks none the less.

    Willic peered up from his books, eyes bright and sharp, slicing into Vindict as if to reveal all his dark secrets to the clearing light of day with nothing but a studying glance. Vindict had no doubt in him that he could do just that, for the Doctor was a deep-cunning man.

    ¡°The defiled?¡± He mumbled, moving his hands as he spoke; each twitch accentuating his wording. ¡°Oh, I must¡¯ve gotten side-tracked.¡± And the wrapped ledger was stacked upon a pile so now there was more book than desk. Had the assistant hurry before it tipped over and spilled on the floor ¨C priceless pages of near-crumbling parchment. ¡°Thrilling studies, you see.¡±

    ¡°No doubt.¡± Vindict whispered, ogling a floating tongue in distilled water as Willic set it on the table among dozens of tools and papers and whiskers and bottles. Bony fingers wrapped in white gloves popped the lid from the glass, and with tweezers he stole the meat from within, had it plop onto oiled leather.

    ¡°You see,¡± He started, grabbing a bidet from the side. ¡°Just because something moves ¨C¡± and he let a drop fall onto the flesh after which it started squirming. ¡°Doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s alive.¡± And then showed a smile as a blade¡¯s edge, proud as if he just fooled God. Vindict didn¡¯t think he was unable of even that, for Willic was a knowing man, looking at the Inquisitor with an empty stare that implied: ¡®I have no home within my heart for the Almighty, for it already houses the terrible might of science.¡¯

    ¡°Still.¡± Vindict said, stubbornly. ¡°I¡¯ve seen the thing writhe before my own eyes, what I¡¯m telling you is not a story bleared by some delirious wench.¡± Indeed, the sole memory of it still haunted him. Saw the thing come staggering from the shadows where the Fauxlight could not reach, from the corner of his eye; just out of sight. Had him suppress a tremble.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°The Great leveler was, though.¡± The doctor remarked, pocking the limp meat with a tweezer, and Vindict swallowed, almost embarrassed. He had looked into the matter, indeed, for such was his task ¨C his duty. But as one might expect from a folk-tale, the searching had him find only faded lore. Felt like grasping mist, oozing through his reaching fingers.

    ¡°Yes, but I¡¯ve not brought that issue to your attention. I request your guidance on the subject of the defiled, and how it could spread to others.¡± Which was the Superior¡¯s main concern, obviously. One of those things was enough the rile the entire Watch. Imagine it spreading¡­But the doctor only waved him away without a care.

    ¡°You know what spreads?¡± He asked, and Vindict frowned.

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t either.¡± He responded, shrugging his sharp shoulders. ¡°but my guess is the flue. Very fast, people catching it everywhere. Maybe even a new strand, though people love saying it¡¯s ghosts and such.¡± And he shrugged again. ¡°Little to be done about it, though. Such things simply pass. It¡¯s Winter, after all.¡± There was a clap of thunder, the blue flash of lightning and the sky crackled with white veins. Yet the room did not tremble, it stood unmoving as Father Earth, as the people of Verkath would say.

    ¡°Ferina told me you knew about it, though.¡± Vindict continued his query. Digging, digging, always uncovering the truth. Or trying to, at least. ¡°Are you not Zaphiros - the knowing, Sixth of The Ten?¡±

    Willic turned his head and the light caught his slack eye, had the embedded crystal flash orange like molten iron.

    ¡°That I am.¡± Husky voice sounding like old paper rubbed together, pulling another book from another shelf among many others more, how he knew where they were all stacked was a mystery to even Vindict. ¡°Though the position I only took as it gave me access to more material.¡±

    Pages cracked and fluttered as he thumbed through the thing, bound in old skin with a single glyph stamped onto the spine. A very simple rune, and though its meaning was lost to Vindict, it appeared threatening none the less.

    ¡°What¡¯s that book?¡± He asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

    ¡°A copy of a copy from a torn page of a sketch passed from man to brother for hundreds of years.¡± He said, saying much yet explaining none. Something Vindict came across often in his line of work. Something he despised.

    ¡°Then, where is it from?¡± But he only shrugged.

    ¡°Supposedly it comes from The Spine of The World, but I have my doubts such a book even exists. Otherwise, I, Zaphiros the Knowing-¡± and he gestured at the endless rows of shelfs and bookcases secluded underneath Tijd. ¡°Would have already found it.¡±

    ¡°Then, what do you think it is?¡± Vindict asked, Willic¡¯s prattle slowly withering his patience.

    ¡°A book containing fairytales precariously based onto crumbing pillars of truth. Storybook.¡±

    ¡°Then why do you, a scientist, keep such a thing, let alone draw assumptions based on it?¡± Vindict asked, incredulously.

    ¡°Because every tale holds some truth, no matter how small. I¡¯m sure even the following of Solis is based on some ancient fact, though I have yet to find on what exactly.¡± A dangerous proclamation. One that could prove fatal. Tarnishing the church does poorly for one¡¯s health; Vindict had seen it before.

    ¡°Here,¡± Willic mumbled, and pressed down his long fingers onto a page. ¡°Taken from the inscriptions of the churches¡¯ gospel: ¡®But the defiled is no more than man who lost the guidance of light; a lamb unknown to the ways others ¨C forever searching meaning in a life without God¡¯s acceptance and spreading naught but terror upon the land and its righteous people by sharing their Black Blood.¡¯ Then it talks some more about how Vail crushed them with God¡¯s might.¡± And Willic shook his head, flitting some pages.

    ¡°The only other thing about them is here: ¡®But the hex is envious of God¡¯s bond with man and seeks to forge them as well by forming pacts of Blood that have them stray from The Almighty¡¯s embrace.¡¯ As you see, there is no direct correlation found here, other than they are both told to have lost their way.¡± Vindict bit at his nail, thinking.

    ¡°And why do you even consider these to hold the faintest shred of truth?¡± He felt himself getting angry. A week had been what it took for an audience with the Doctor, but he had yet to reap any benefit of it. But the Sixth wasn¡¯t taken aback; his fine smile still present.

    ¡°Blood.¡± He said it slowly, wording each letter precisely.

    ¡°Blood?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Vindict didn¡¯t think it possible for the man¡¯s smile to grow any wider, but it could, and it did.

    ¡°Just as power dwells in the earth, and the sky, and the sea, so does it swim in man and beast alike.¡± His fingers moved along his words as if they had a mind of their own.

    ¡°Blood?¡± And Zaphiros nodded, one eye dull and one smoldering with a dangerously eager gleam.

    ¡°I¡¯ve read it being used in times long past and near forgotten, for many needs and purposes. Blood, my curious inquisitor, holds most Will of man. Have it spill from them and they will wither. It compels us. Drives us. Binds us. How many secrets could I uncover? Coax free with the use of Blood?¡±

    Vindict knew the church had forbidden the use of man¡¯s blood in magic, as they forbade many things without explanation. He didn¡¯t think the opinions of Solis were of concern to the Doctor though.

    ¡°Then why not try it?¡± Willic¡¯s head swiveled to him in a spasm, one hollow eye ¨C wide and round, one coiling eye ¨C half-hidden ¨C radiant threads brimming within. Looking like he wanted nothing more.

    ¡°It is forbidden!¡± The assistant gasped breathlessly, gripped by a sudden fear. It had Vindict fear too. For fright comes from ignorance. What could a man who knew so much possibly fear?

    ¡°What¡¯s forbidden?¡± Vindict asked quietly, afraid to wake the horrors of old, who are told to now dwell the Other Side.

    The assistant¡¯s eyes peered at the blackness shrouding the endless rows of books. The eternal spiral of knowledge. Afraid of the dark. Or perhaps not staring at shadow, but the tomes hidden within. Endless rows of heinous writing. The eternal spiral of mad knowledge. Stared as if they would come lashing out; clawing at him for revealing their secrets.

    ¡°It is forbidden to eat the flesh of man.¡±