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Friday 29 December 2017

Episode II - II Lessons of Duty



A Cliff-top Duel


II
Lessons of Duty
(Full Chapter)


The sweet and rich smell of burning tolsen weed flowed on the soft breezes wafting their way through the winding streets of the canyon city. The smell made its way through the gaps in the wooden walls of the small hovel to slowly fill it up with a comforting feeling. Today was the day of Tegall’s Rapture and most families in Alsira Thaenat were at home burning incense, praying to the gods, and partaking of feasts.

It was a day of celebration, as many families had managed to survive the bitter winter season and everyone wished to celebrate the hopes for the new year that was upon them. Those children who survived the harsh and bitter winters, where food was the scarcest, were given gifts to celebrate their continued lives. Couples celebrated each other’s lives with gifts as well and renewed their vows for the coming year. Those who lost loved ones during the winter were given alms and respite in the homes of their families or in public houses owned by the community so that they might continue on despite their loss.

Ghelta sat upon her straw-filled bed covered in threadbare and blood-stained linens she had managed to steal from the infirmary building nearby. She drummed her small and wiry legs against the creaking wooden frame of the bed as she chewed on a braid in her long, crimson hair. Papa Ylethus had just come home from early morning training with his warriors and was in the living area talking with some old man covered from head-to-toe in draping robes.

Ghelta grasped the wooden frame of the bed with her hands and leaned forward to stare beyond the bedroom door into the living area. She could see Papa Ylethus standing beside their dining table. She couldn’t see the robed man, but she could hear his calm and light voice coming from another corner of the room.

“I know you couldn’t be there. Please know that she holds no ill feelings for you.” The sound of the wooden floors creaked as the unseen man shifted his weight. “She knows you love her and her child in your own ways, Ylethus.”

“It still pains me.” Papa Ylethus leaned hard on the table, causing the furthest legs to lift slightly under his giant frame. He sighed hard and swiveled his leg up to sit upon a stool near the head of the table. “You know that I don’t mean any disrespect to you in my decision. Her path and my own weren’t to be.” He let both of his elbows drop to the table as he leaned forward. His hands were held with their palms up towards the unseen man. “Besides, as you mentioned, my hands are full with Ghelta.”

“Yes, they are.” The unseen man stepped forward and sat at the table across from Papa Ylethus. The tip of the robed man’s hood could be seen past the door-frame. “She is my daughter, and thanks to you I have a grand-daughter.” The robed man gave a half-hearted chuckle as he reached a skeletal hand towards Ylethus’ own and grabbed it up. “The heart wants what it wants. I know in your heart you still love her and her child. They are safe in Haaken Vaulthaen and you can visit them anytime you wish.”

“Were you able to give Eranii the gift I bought?” Papa Ylethus slowly pulled away from the robed man’s grasp and straightened his back at the table.

“Yes, I did. You know how Eranii is with tradition.” The robed man gave another chuckle, this one more warm than the last. “She gave the gift to Scythana as soon as I got it out of my pack.” He drummed his skeletal fingers on the wood of the table in a dance and lifted his index finger up sharply. “She loved it, Ylethus.”

“Good.” Ylethus lightly pounded a fist on the table and lifted himself up from the stool. “You’re right that Eranii could never really get the hang of tradition.” Papa Ylethus smiled and reached over the table to give a slap to the shoulder of the robed man.

“About tradition-” The robed man started and then paused in his words for a moment. The tip of his hood shot up to look Ylethus in the face. “You remembered her gift as well, correct?” The robed man bent his arm slightly to point at the door-frame. “She deserves just as much of your love as the child born of your blood.”

“Yes.” Ylethus gave a nervous laugh as he ran his meaty fingers through his long, brown hair. “What do you take me for?” He let his laugh continue into a roar.

“Scythana is being taken care of. Ghelta needs your full attention now.” The robed man lifted himself up and stepped out of view. “You are as much her savior as her father. Love her as you would Scythana.” The robed man made several floorboard creaks as he moved further out of view. The sound of the battered front door groaned open as the robed man said his last words. “I’m always here for you, Ylethus, as a father and as a friend. Remember that.” The door groaned and popped again as he shut it behind him.

Ghelta felt a growling in her stomach and clutched it for a moment, hoping to silence it before Papa Ylethus could hear. The richness of the tolsen weed smoke and the smells of cooking meats coming in from outside made her hungry. She knew she would have to wait until Papa Ylethus had finished the afternoon training drill before he could come home and start cooking their meal. She was too young to handle the knives and fires herself.

She looked up from her hands upon her stomach to the light filtering in from the window above Papa Ylethus’ bed. The light from the two suns climbing into the sky were given a soft orange glow as the smoke from all the houses rose up like a ceiling above the canyon city of Alsira Thaenat. Her home was upon one of the upper layers of the city, next to the Vhulkovyr barracks, the infirmary, and the quarters for visiting dignitaries. She could see streams of smoke rising up from the lower layers of the city like tendrils to the heavens above. Within each of those streams of smoke rising heavenward were the hopes, prayers, joys, and sorrows of every member of the Alsira tribe.

As she took in the sight through the small window, she could hear Papa Ylethus rummaging around in a pack he had dropped upon the dining table. She turned her head to see him lift an item wrapped in twigs and twine and set upon the table. He threw the empty pack over his shoulder and snatched up the item in one of his immense hands.

Ghelta pushed herself up further on the bed and crossed her legs in anticipation of Ylethus entering the room. She could hear his thunderous footsteps coming closer to the door. She grabbed one of her old blankets to drape over her knee and ruffled up the threadbare linens of her bed to make it seem like she had just woken up. She looked up to see one of Ylethus’ hands pressing the door a few inches further open.

“Ghelta.” His voice was soft as he entered the bedroom. He leaned in and saw her deceptively rubbing her eyes with two small fists. “Are you awake?”

Ghelta nodded and lowered her hands from her eyes, she looked up at him with a smile which melted Ylethus’ hardened heart within a moment. He stepped further into the room and crossed in front of Ghelta’s bed to sit on his own. The mass of old straw and broken wood groaned and snapped under his immense frame. He placed the bundle of twigs and twine on his lap while leaning toward Ghelta with a few more complaints from the bed.

“It’s the day of Tegall’s Rapture. Do you remember what that means?” Papa Ylethus leaned forward some more as Ghelta leaned the rest of the distance. She gave a nod and held her smile as he continued on. “You’ve survived another year and this is to be celebrated.” Papa Ylethus pulled the bundle from his lap and held it in one of his palms toward Ghelta. “You know that we don’t receive much to live off of. Most of the spoils of war go to my warriors or to the tributes we give to the Chieftain.”

Papa Ylethus swallowed hard and lowered his gaze from Ghelta’s eyes. He examined the dirty floor beneath his heavily booted feet. He looked over Ghelta’s ruined bed and saw her sitting in her favorite threadbare tunic that was far too large for her frame. He felt a twinge pulling at the edges of his eyes and quickly wiped a tear before it could be seen.

“I know most children want toys on this day or some kind of bauble to gather dust on a shelf.” Papa Ylethus gave a sniff and returned his eyes to Ghelta’s. “This gift is a commitment to you. It is a commitment to ensure your future so that you might survive many years to come.” He lifted himself up to his feet and stepped forward to place the bundle on the bed beside Ghelta. He turned and sat down on his bed. “I had it commissioned as soon as I took you in. I was just now finally able to pay it off.”

Ghelta looked at the bundle and then up to Ylethus, she held the same innocent smile upon her lips as she spoke to him in a hushed tone. “You don’t need to give me gifts.” She watched him wipe another tear from the side of his dusty eye. She reached beside her and lifted the hefty bundle to her lap. “Thank you, Papa.”

She looked from the bundle back up to Ylethus to see him nod permission to open the gift. Her tiny fingers flowed over the twine and grasped the knots on either end. With a flurry of activity, she undid the knots and began unrolling the twig packaging of her item. She stood on her bed and began rolling the twigs towards her feet as she took tiny steps backward to unfurl it more.

Within a few moments, she had revealed a fine leather scabbard adorned with polished iron designs. The black leather of the scabbard and attached belt reflected the light along its edges. She ran her hands across the supple leather and the cool metal until she grasped the leather-covered hilt of a blade sheathed within.

“Thank you, Papa. My very own sword.” Ghelta looked it over once more and then raised her face up to smile again at Ylethus. She looked back down to it and reverently placed it on her straw-filled pillow. She began to roll up the twigs and retie the knots on the bundle.

“Be careful with it. Remember what I taught you about blades.” Ylethus got up to his feet and wiped some of the sand from the fur-trimmed armor covering his shoulders. “I have two more drills to do and then I’ll be home. I’ll make you some sarkrass stew for dinner and then I’ll show you how to use it.”

Ylethus reached forward, leaning with one hand on the frame of Ghelta’s bed and grabbing her head with his other. He messed up her crimson hair beneath his immense hand and then pulled back to stand up straight in the center of the room. He stepped forward and grasped the door as he walked out.

He leaned back into the room with just his head being visible. “Remember, Ghelta. You are loved and you are wanted.” He waited for her to return his gaze and nod at him. He smiled down at her and closed the door slightly.

She could hear his heavy footsteps as he made his way to the front door. Behind the creaking and another pop, she could hear him secure the lock and then walk away. She sat on her bed and stared at the sword upon her pillow for a moment. The smells of tolsen weed and cooked food wafted in all the more, making her feel a strange sense of comfort and longing.

Ghelta pushed herself off of the bed and onto the wooden floor with almost no sound at all. She looked around the room quickly and stepped toward the doorway to peer past at the front door beyond. Feeling secure that Papa Ylethus was actually gone, she returned to her bed and began reaching under the wooden frame.

In a few short moments, she grasped onto a small and well-hidden wooden box she had stolen from a visiting courtier’s luggage a few months previous. She lifted it from a small separation she made between the bed’s frame and one of the wooden slats holding up the straw mattress. With some flexing of her small arms, she raised it up and set it down on her bed.

With one more look around her and a silent moment to hear that the house remained silent, she lifted herself back up onto her bed and pulled the box towards herself. Her small fingers ran over the exotic wood covered in rich lacquer. She reached for the metal clasp at the front of the box and opened the lid slowly.

Within the box were several dolls she had made out of scrap linen, straw, and numerous baubles she had stolen over her short life. She tugged on one of her long and crimson braids and began to chew on it idly as she lifted each of the dolls from the box and placed them in a row beside her pillow.

Ghelta had seen many of the young girls of the city collecting dolls as they grew up. She enjoyed playing out little dramas with the dolls when Papa Ylethus was away for long stretches of time. The first doll she had was a wooden figurine of a goddess she stole from Grandmaster Toulam who watched over her once when Papa Ylethus was on a campaign for several months. She had dressed the goddess, whose name she didn’t know, in a small dress she had made from scraps of her swaddling clothes.

The other dolls were a mismatch of found objects with only the vaguest hint of a humanoid form. Some of the dolls had names while others would change names as she willed it for each of the dramas she thought up while being stuck in the house alone. She pretended that she was one of the skaldten she had seen when Ylethus took her to the leiggenskappf to hear tales from distant lands. It was her job to recite the epic tales of heroes and villains.

She always enjoyed those times Papa Ylethus let her go to the Hall of Heroes to hear the stories of the traveling skadlts. Being in the presence of the joys, and sorrows of warriors filled her heart with purpose. She did her best to remember the tales told and keep them going with her dolls. More than any of the tales she recited regularly, she tried her hands at making new tales that only she and her imaginary family would ever hear.

There was a juvenile pain that crept through her as she surveyed her makeshift family of dolls on her bed now that she’d brought them all out. Somewhere out in the city, there were numerous young girls getting gifts from their parents. Those children with loving mothers and fathers related to them by blood who cared and gave their all to their children. Those young girls getting new dolls to play with for the next year.

It was envy that began to boil up from within her for a brief moment. Those other children didn’t understand hardship like she had seen. Those other children were loved by those that brought them into this cruel world of pain and murder. Those other children received gifts that they wanted and would soon discard once new gifts presented themselves the next year. It was children like Ghelta who would pick up the pieces of the forgotten toys and dolls to make her own out of. It was children like Ghelta who lived in their shadows and made a life out of the detritus they threw away.

Ghelta caught herself as her face grew red and she stared up at her pillow beyond the dolls she had lined up. There the gift that Papa Ylethus had given her sat alone and abandoned. As she reached a hand toward the scabbard her eyes swelled with tears. As her hand seized upon the leather and lifted it to her lap she began to sob openly.

She knew how much it meant to him to give her this gift and knowing it at this moment made all of her envy drain away. The metalwork of the scabbard was a work of art that a skilled smith had spent months working on. Papa Ylethus had said how long it took for him to pay off the commission for this one-of-a-kind gift.

It may not be what she had wanted or expected, but even as a small child she could understand the importance of what she held in her hands. She held the scabbard close to her chest and finished her sobs. As hard as she sometimes thought her life was, she knew she was blessed. Many children died in this cruel world and others suffered as slaves to be trafficked by corrupt lords.

She may be an orphan, but she had a guardian that worked tirelessly to protect and keep her safe. Papa Ylethus may not be of her same blood, but he knew her soul far better than even her dead parents might have ever known her. She may not have full meals growing up like other children, but her stomach was always filled at the end of the day. She had a roof over her head and the chance to face the next day with hope rather than fear.

Ghelta looked down at the scabbard in her hands and realized at this moment that what she held wasn’t just a sheathed sword but a tool to ensure that her future would be filled with hope and not fear. She realized that it was by this tool in her hands that she could protect not only herself but others and put the villains of the world to justice. In her hands she held the ability to tell more than any drama or story could ever tell; she could live her own epic tale of heroism and adventure.

As cool tears continued to stream down her face, Ghelta pushed herself from the bed and dropped her feet to the floor below. She held the scabbard in her hands and turned to stare back at her doll family on her bed. She tucked in her threadbare shirt-tail around her tiny waist and pulled the leather belt around her. She notched the buckle to the very last hole in the belt and tied it tightly around her, letting the sheathed sword fall to her hip.

Her tears began to stop as she felt the weight of the sword around her, like the weight of duty that a warrior must have to their tribe. There was something about the sword that made her feel like a grown-up as it dangled beside her exposed leg. She reached down with her left hand to feel the warm leather bindings on the hilt in her hand.

Papa Ylethus had told her often that a warrior’s chosen weapons must be consecrated with blood the first time they are drawn. In the blood is the oath to the spirit of the weapon that it will only be used for honorable means. By tasting the wielder’s blood, the blade and the warrior become one entity, with one will, and one celestial purpose. She didn’t remember all of the other things he had spoken about warriors and weapons, but this she remembered well.

With a flick of a leather snap, which held her guard in place, Ghelta grabbed the hilt of her blade and drew it forth. The klaive lifted quietly and easily as it slid on the fur inside the scabbard. She lifted the heavy weapon up to her face and stared at herself in the polished metal of the blade. Inside the weapon, she could see her wild, crimson hair and ice-blue eyes staring back at her. She held the blade with her left hand and wiped away the tears from her pale cheeks with the other.

Ghelta held up the blade still and once her cheeks felt dry enough, she held her right hand with her palm upturned in front of her. She lowered the blade towards her hand and with a wince, she drew the edge of the blade against her palm. Tears of pain rushed forth, but she blinked them away with her renewed focus. She finished dragging the blade across and raised it up as she clenched her sore hand into a fist.

Once the blood began to flow from her wound, she spread the blood across the flat of the blade with her hand. Once anointed with her blood, she lifted up the blade to her forehead and closed her eyes. She remembered that Papa Ylethus had said that every great blade must have a name. All the ancient hero's blades had names that skaldts remembered throughout the centuries. Even if only the wielder of the blade knew the name, every one must have something to attach its spirit to.

Ghelta opened her eyes and spoke softly to the blade she held against her small head. “I name you, Scythana.” She remembered the name from when Papa Ylethus had spoken to the robed man earlier. The name seemed important to Papa Ylethus and sounded pretty. This would be the blade’s name and she would keep that name to herself.

She lowered her blade and stared up at the row of dolls lined up against her pillow. Thoughts began to bubble up in her imagination that the dolls were her family and she was a warrior who had to protect them from some ancient monster like in the stories she had heard. She swung the klaive in her hand and lowered it towards the door of the bedroom. She could feel the weight of the blade in her hand and the power that flowed into her from it. She was a warrior now.


* * *


“-That is why we of the Vhulkhovyr caste must always be ready to lay down our lives.” Ylethus continued his speech as he reeled back from Ghelta’s earlier attack. He allowed the momentum she had imparted to his great sword to pull him down into an upturned swing.

Ghelta swiveled her klaive in her hand and pointed the tip upward. She caught her reflection in the worn and notched blade. She remembered the day that Ylethus had given it to her as a gift. She smiled as she caught her same crimson hair and ice-blue eyes in the reflection. The moment seemed to stretch on, but she soon saw Ylethus’ sword crashing down on her. She ducked into a backward roll avoiding the strike and not needing to parry.

“Well, I take that to mean you understand this lesson.” Ylethus lifted the heavy sword up from the ground and leveled it across his body. He took several deep breaths and shook out the strain from his arms. “Now onto the next one.”

Ghelta caught herself in mid-roll and sprung back to her feet. She flourished her klaive in front of her, trailing it from side to side like a snake about to strike. She analyzed Ylethus’ stance and prepared herself for his next thrust. Her smile turned into the grin of a predator who had the upper hand on their prey.

“Yeah. Sure. Keep the lessons coming.”


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Friday 22 December 2017

Episode II - I Cliffs of Alsira



A Cliff-top Duel


I
Cliffs of Alsira
(Full Chapter)


The warm winds flowing in from the sandy deserts in the south were beginning to pick up in ferocity, from gentle breezes to hard gusts. The brightest of the twin suns had arisen to rest atop the horizon creating a rich glow as the second, dimmer sun, languished after. Grains of white-gold sand peppered against the rocky cliff-side while even more flowed like dry waves over the rocky plateau below.

A young woman stood at the cliff’s edge staring out at the desolate landscape before her. She took in the sight of the flat, rocky plateau stretching to the extents of her sight, broken only by the occasional mountain, gorge, or mesa. A thick line of turquoise waters surrounded by a dim green set of streaks snaked its way through the left-most side of her vision. Past that blue slash across the landscape, large dunes of white sand stretched further beyond. She stretched out her arms embracing the land she grew up in and swelled up her chest to drink in the cooling air.

She closed her eyes for a moment and could feel the wind tugging at her blood-stained hair; sending loose rivulets, those not constrained into tight braids, into a dance around her head. Her left hand held a long-handled klaive loosely outward while her right hand lowered down into an open palm. The wind felt comforting on her bare arms, mid-riff, and legs as beads of sweat began to dry away. The gray wolf’s fur trim around the collar of her leather armor teased at her neck as the wind blew through it.

Slowly, the young woman broke the tranquil and inviting peace of her stance to arch her back and bend her legs. She relaxed her thighs allowing herself to drop backward for a moment. As she did she strained them hard to lift herself back up ever-so-slightly. She held her chin outward as her neck extended backward and her eyes shot open.

Roughly forged metal passed by her face within a scant hair’s width from the tip of her nose. The blade of the heavy sword managed to snip a few errant strands of her hair. Her bangs caressed the reflective parts of the metal with a sanguine hue. She could see a flash of her ice-blue eyes as she saw her face reflected upon the long blade. Small flecks of sand left the pockmarked surface of the weapon to sprinkle lightly upon her freckled cheeks.

As soon as the main thrust of the sword passed by her head with a faint whistle, she allowed the muscles in her thighs to strain harder. The open palm of her right hand hit the ground and with some force, she flexed herself from a falling position back up into a crouching stance. As she pushed with her legs and hand, she swiveled her hips under her to face the wielder of the blade.

“Damn you, girl. I almost had you!” The voice was gruff and deep, containing as much annoyance as mirth. The source of the curse was a giant bearded man in full armor just an arm’s length from her. “I could have finally been done with you.” The man’s heavily muscled and tattooed arms took hold of the sword’s hilt and flipped it up from a sideways swing to a high arc as he lifted it above his head.

“You’re not done with me yet.” The young woman quickly grabbed a handful of white sand in her right hand while swiveling the hilt of her klaive in the other to point backward. She was ready for any further attacks now that she held the flat of her blade against her forearm. The lean muscles in her legs tightened as she readied to spring forth.

“A pity.” The much older man gave a slight shrug as he lifted the man-sized sword above his head and then let it crash down to earth in front of him. The blade whistled through the air as he gave a hard groan that soon erupted into a frothing howl.

The young woman’s eyes grew large as she realized the immense weight crashing down on her. She twisted her left arm upwards at an uncomfortably steep angle. She punched her left wrist with her sand-filled fist to steady her arm as the man-cleaving blade struck the flat of her klaive. Sparks erupted as metal battered metal and thunder erupted over the quietly blowing desert winds. The steep angle of her blade barely deflected the impact of the sword and pulled her downward behind it’s swinging force. Both blades slid against each other as squeals of metal-on-metal followed the impact.

Taking advantage of downward momentum, she kicked her legs up to the right allowing her left elbow to impact the dusty rock beneath her. With her legs now free of the ground she slid forward on her side while managing to wrap one of her long legs around the thick ankle of the warrior before her. With a pivot of her body, she brought her other leg up with her knee against her chest and the top of her foot pressing beneath the warrior’s inner thigh.

The large warrior narrowed his eyes as he looked down at what the young woman was attempting. His reaction was sour, reflecting his reaction towards the young woman having just entered close enough that he could not cut her down with his sword. He let the momentum carry through on his swing as his sword skipped off the stone ground.

The young woman continued to slide closer to the warrior’s feet. With her lifted leg she tightened in on the man’s immense thigh and pushing with the downward-pointed tip of her klaive, she sprung up a few inches and swung in the air. Both of her legs tightened around the man’s leg as she lifted herself up, using only the muscles in her abdomen, and flicking her head forward in a serpentine flourish. She gave a wicked smile as she punched her left arm past the man’s face.

The backward-held blade shot past the man’s face and severed a braid from his beard. His eyes grew wide with rage even before his hands could reclaim control over his sword. The young woman continued to lean against him, with her gleeful face staring up from beneath his chest. Slowly she raised her right hand, palm upturned, to her chin and as she pouted her full lips she blew the white sand she had seized into his eyes.

The large warrior coughed and took a step backward as the coarse sand blinded him. He dropped his sword and the young woman let go of her leg’s grip to drop to the ground and scurry on all fours away. The warrior wiped at his eyes with large and leather-covered hands while taking one more step backward and kneeling over while shaking his head.

“You uncouth, little runt!” The large warrior pressed his meaty thumbs into his sockets in hopes of liberating the sand from his tearing eyes. He gave one more hard cough while kneeling forward and tried to snort the sand from his nose.

The young woman remained in a crouched stance near the edge of the cliff. She stretched one of her long legs forward, aimed at the warrior. With a skittering leap, she cautiously reached to the ground to snatch up her prize. She pivoted back on her heel to restore the distance between her and the snorting man. She held up the braid of beard-hair in her right hand and waggled it slowly in front of her. The grin remained on her lips as she waited for the man to turn and stare at her.

“You’re getting slow, old man.” The young woman flipped the hilt of the klaive in her left hand as she idly spun it around in her palm. She kept the muscles of her legs tensed and ready to leap at a moment’s notice.

“Old man?” The warrior erupted with a deep laughter. “If I’ve grown old, it is only from having to put up with the likes of you.” After wiping away enough sand to see through red and bleary eyes, the warrior stepped forward and stuck the enormous toe of his leather boot beneath the hilt of his abandoned sword. With a kick, he lifted the sword up and seized upon the leather-wrapped hilt once more.

“If I’m such a burden on the great Ylethus — esteemed Vhollen of the Alsira — then why not be done with me once and for all?” The young woman ceased spinning her klaive and leveled its tip at the warrior before her. “Enough of these flirtations with death, old man. I know how it pains you to be responsible for an unwanted orphan, the cursed one that you hide away like some hidden sin.”

Ylethus lunged forward and hit his fist against his chest while making a grunt of challenge at the young woman. As soon as his feet hit the ground, she jumped away from him into a back-flip, coming dangerously within reach of the edge of the cliff. With her feet on the ground, she slowly raised herself up to standing and flourished her blade before her.

The grizzled warrior ran his free hand through the thinning and graying hair on his head while giving a short chuckle. “You’re not a hidden sin, dumb girl. You may be an orphan, and I cannot control the reactions of the other Alsira towards you, but I see you as mine. I took you in, and with me, you are wanted.” Ylethus idly let his sword slip from his hand and then seized it with a better grip. “You are correct about one thing in all your self-pity, however. Since you are mine, and I am responsible for you, your life does belong to me. It is mine to take as I wish.” A smile erupted from beneath his bushy mustache that connected to his immense beard.

With a bolt of energy that seemed unlikely from one as immense as he, Ylethus ran forward to close the distance between him and the young woman. He let the pommel of his sword hit his wrist as he lifted his sword up and outward like a lance as he ran. He gave another long howl as he rushed forward with deadly intent.

The young woman threw her severed beard-prize at the charging hulk of Ylethus limply and let the smile drop from her face. She took a single second to assess her options, realizing that the cliff’s edge was only an inch away from her heels. There was no dodging to the left or the right as the edge now surrounded her. She blinked for a moment while drawing in one last breath of dry air and then let it out in a rage-filled scream as her legs sprung forward beneath her.

She began her run towards Ylethus who continued to charge at her and with only a second to spare she leveled her blade at him while jumping with all the force her legs could give to her. As she lifted up she brought her legs up and behind her, trying to get height over the warrior’s sword. She kept her klaive pointed before her at an angle to sever the artery in Ylethus’ neck.

Despite the redness, Ylethus’ eyes twinkled as he anticipated the young woman’s attack. He let the momentum behind his blade drag it forth as his hand slid along the hilt. He flicked his meaty fingers around the pommel and pulled the sword back sharply with two fingers. He let his girth carry him as he slid on the sand-dusted rock. Within the span of a heartbeat he was able to slide his hand down to the middle of the blade and with a snap of his wrist he brought the tip in towards his chest.

The woman was undaunted by the handiwork that Ylethus pulled off before her. She continued soaring a few feet further in the air, allowing the world’s weight to draw her toward her target. She had left herself open in the air and had to commit to her attack.

Ylethus grabbed the tip of his sword with his free hand and felt the sharpness of the blade dig into the exposed parts of his palm. The cool metal felt comforting and the callouses of war insulated his hand from any pain. He held his stance to the very last moment and with one last groan he seized upon his sword and jerked it forward with all his strength.

The pommel of the great sword flew through the air to make contact with the young woman’s face. A savage crack erupted as metal impacted flesh and bone. As soon as the sword’s end made contact with the woman’s face, Ylethus pushed the blade’s tip over his chest like a pinwheel. The blade swiveled without a grip on it until he could seize upon it with his other hand. Once he could feel the leather between his fingers he swept upwards with the flat of his blade to impact the woman in the ribs.

Ylethus turned his body as he slid, easily dodging past the woman’s blade by a few inches and allowed his feet to skitter to a halt near the cliff’s edge. He let his sword drop and threw it into the air to catch it with his preferred hand. The young woman impacted the ground hard and she remained there for several moments as embarrassment and rage tore through her.

“You think you’re so deceptive.” Ylethus gave another chuckle as he took a step towards his wounded prey. “I’ve trained you to fight since you could hold a sword. You have the skill, but you refuse to temper it with wisdom.” He lifted his sword up and let it drop into his scabbard with a single motion. “You still haven’t mastered the most important lesson I’ve given you after all these years; honor.”

Ylethus closed the distance to the young woman and knelt down with his arm outstretched, hoping that she would grab it and get back up to her feet. The woman looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and blood dribbling from her nose. He could see in her eyes that he had wounded her pride more than her face. She lifted herself up to a crouching position and pushed away his hand with her own. She stumbled to her feet and stepped back from him.

“Ghelta…” Ylethus started and then ended his words. “It was just a little sword-bite, don’t be like that.” He took another step toward her with his arm still outstretched, this time not to help her to her feet, but more for comfort.

Ghelta wiped the blood from her face with the back of her hand. All she managed to accomplish was to spread the blood across her cheek and allow new rivulets of crimson to drip over her lip. She flicked a scabbard at her waist and dropped her klaive into it. She took one more step away from Ylethus and lifted her top lip into a snarl.

“So, this is why you brought me up to these cliffs. Just so you could remind me of my place and hit me in the face?” Ghelta tried to aim her words like weapons at Ylethus. She could see in his eyes the concern he had for her well-being. The weapons may have been sheathed, but she knew she could slash at him with her tongue just as well as metal.

Ylethus stared at her with worry for a few more moments and then let his face fall to the ground. “I brought you up here for training.” He let his outstretched arm fall and brought it in to cross over his chest. “The bloody nose is just my way of caring for you.” He gave a sardonic grin at her.

“We usually train at the barracks. Why are we out here, in the middle of nowhere?” Ghelta outstretched her arms to indicate the cliffs around them. “I appreciate the change of scenery, don’t get me wrong. Some fresh air compared to all the stink of the warriors back in Alsira Thaenat.”

“Today is a special day.” Ylethus lifted his eyes up and focused intently upon Ghelta. “Not only do I need to beat some honor into you, but I need to know if you can handle yourself for what’s about to come.”

Ghelta took a few cautious steps forward and turned her head to the side to stare at Ylethus skeptically. “Is this my Kollishi Thaulp?” She narrowed her eyes and watched his every moment with anticipation.

Ylethus let both of his arms drop to his sides and gave a belabored sigh. “No.” He rolled his eyes and turned away from the young woman. “You’re not ready for that, yet.”

“Damn you to Gehemol!” Ghelta threw up her arms in the air and clenched her hands into fists. “I’m almost twenty Summers old, you stubborn bastard. There are young-lings half my age being allowed to prove themselves to become warriors, and here you are keeping me cooped up as your little plaything!”

Ylethus turned back with a snarl. “You’re not my plaything, girl. You’re the closest thing I have to a daughter. I tell you when you’re an adult.” Ylethus’ sky-blue eyes shone hotly beneath his bushy brow. “You are not yet ready to prove yourself in such a ritual.”

“You have no idea what it’s like.” Ghelta brought her clenched fists up to her chest and could feel her face growing flush. “I may be like your daughter, but I’m still an orphan. You won’t let me fight as a warrior. The other members of the Vhulkhovyr whisper things about me all the time. They call me the runt of the litter. They call me strange things like the ‘Witchling’ and the ‘Cursed.’ The only way I can get any respect is to carry my weight as a warrior.”

“You’re mine and I’m the gods-damned Vhollen of this city!” Ylethus bellowed his words, but he wasn’t as mad at Ghelta as he was at the situation that surrounded her. “I know how to command warriors. I’ve lived my life on the battlefield, Ghelta, I know what is best. You don’t know what the world outside is like. I don’t care what they call you. All I care about is that you’re safe and that you learn to fight well.”

“I know how to fight.” Ghelta wiped the drying blood from her lip once more. She grabbed the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb and snapped it back into place. Some more blood flowed freely.

“You know how to wield weapons. You don’t yet have the honor and the bravery to truly fight.” Ylethus began to fidget his fingers over the pommel of his sword. He stared away from Ghelta towards the distant Jol River that sliced its way through the deserts and rocky plateaus beyond the cliffs. “You don’t know what the battlefield is like. You don’t know loss, fear, and true rage.”

“You’re just mad that I threw sand in your face.” Ghelta smirked and began to dab at her face with her hand. She pressed her fingers to her cheek and winced at the soreness that tore through her.

“That proves you’re not yet ready. You may know how to win, but you don’t know the point of the fight.” Ylethus pulled himself away from whatever was worrying him in his mind. He lowered his head and looked back to Ghelta with a sideways glance. “I think I’ve been too lenient with you over these years.”

“Lenient?” Ghelta lowered her hand away from her face to stare slack-jawed at Ylethus. “You have me train almost every day. My first toy as a child was a gods-damned sword! The only books you’d read to me at night were the tales of the old Alsira battles and the conquests of Bulithol Gaereth.”

Ylethus gave another sigh at the knowledge that he wasn’t reaching the young woman. “I’ll show you today the lessons that I’ve failed to get through to you in the past.” He lifted his chest up to give a deep breath and continued. “Maybe if you can prove yourself to me this day, I’ll think about giving you a chance to prove yourself to the tribe with a Kollishi Thaulp.”

Ghelta’s crimson eyebrows peaked at the last two words. “Really?” She took two steps towards Ylethus while curling her hand under her chin and grabbing her elbow with the other. “You swear?”

“Upon your empty, blood-shaded skull.” Ylethus closed the distance and grabbed Ghelta by the head with his meaty fingers. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. He could feel her pull slightly from beneath him, and he released his grip to let his hand slide slowly through her long hair.

“Well…” Ghelta finally got free and stood before Ylethus on her tip-toes. She leaned backward and forward from toes to heels and crossed her arms behind her. “Okay, then.”

“Good.” Ylethus stepped away and lifted his sword out of his scabbard. He looked the blade over in his hands and then let it swivel back into his dominant hand. “You’re going to get some lessons in honor from me, whether you like it or not.”

“Fighting, I’m fine with.” Ghelta lowered herself into a crouch and flicked her klaive free of her scabbard with her thumb. “Just tell me you’re not going to go on one of your rants.”

“They aren’t rants, girl! They’re lessons.” Ylethus shook his head, causing his beard to sway around his chest. “My words will temper you with wisdom. While my sword will beat those lessons into your thick skull.” Ylethus grinned wide, showing his large teeth above his beard. “Now prepare yourself!”


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Next Section
II: Lessons of Duty


Sunday 10 December 2017

Episode I - XV Hasty Escape



A Blood-soaked Legacy


XV
Hasty Escape
(Full Chapter)


The tangy smell of blood and the primal scents of murder lingered on the air making its way down the river’s water. Scents and details beyond the ken of mortal senses relayed dark information as they wafted and congealed near the water’s cold surface. As they made their way along in the dark, they were greedily snatched up by the nostrils of Vhoggli as he wadded in the midst of icy, subterranean waters.

The bloody information shot through his synapses lighting up his mind with fear and remorse. He could smell the destruction of the female oracle and the old man. He did not regret the passing of the old man as he had been quite mean and unnecessarily rude to poor Vhoggli. The passing of the young female, however, pained him as she had been more than accommodating to him in the past.

There was another strange scent on the air, something that smelled like blood but was far sweeter. The smell of the thing sent Vhoggli’s senses into a dizzy swirl. There was power in this smell and the only way he could place it was the ichor of some unholy thing.

Vhoggli began paddling harder at the water to put more distance between him and the carnage barking at his back. The new smell must be the stink of Merithault the Mad. His master had warned him before this expedition started to avoid her at all costs. He was going to heed those warnings with every fiber of his strange existence.

He padded over to a rock up ahead that tore through the surface of the water like a jagged tooth. He scrabbled with his soaked leather boots against the rock but found a ledge that he could push himself up on for a moment’s respite. He flopped his cold and soaked body on an outcropping and stared back the way he had come.

His cold, tiny fingers dug beneath his leather armor and underneath layers of his clothing to find a small pouch sewn within. He grabbed an orb the size of a fist and lifted it up to his face. There was no light this far into the deeper caverns for the orb to catch, but with the preternatural sight that Vhoggli had the orb glowed a soft blue. Many of the oracles he lived with believed him to have abilities to see in the dark like a cat or wolf — they were mistaken — his sight was focused on the astral realms more than anything terrestrial.

Vhoggli ran his stubby fingers over the smooth and perfect roundness of the orb. He could feel many little matrices of runes with the tips of his fingers, but he could see the energy dancing within it with his eyes. He took a moment to wax academic at this treasure he now held. An orb of power created almost four millennia before the current age. This was the first and the most powerful of the Nesharite Spheres. This was the most sought out artifact of the Authrakallin Order and one that many of the oracles would murder each other simply to gaze upon.

His clawed fingers seized tightly around the orb as he opened his inner thoughts towards it. He had to know for certain that this wasn’t just a hoax. He could feel the immense energy flowing through it and could taste the ancient power tickling the back of his throat. If this was a forgery, it was one made with powers that were no longer left in this world.

As Vhoggli’s soul reached out and touched the orb immense flashes tore through his disjointed consciousness. Visions of ancient cities deep beneath the world-plane where ancient artificers crafted the pieces of this orb. Visions of Merithault’s visions from Ullthos that drove her insane. Visions of Merithault’s daughter, the one who would inherit her mother’s sin and sacrifice herself to save the world. Visions of eons of carnage, madness, and pain. Finally, he saw the serene visions of old Vhaltenesh as he took it upon himself to bring the oracles back from the ashes.

It was painful and more than he could bear, but he pulled his consciousness back from the orb he clutched in a death-grip between his fingers. This was indeed the first of the spheres and the only one to have all of the truth of the world hidden within. This was the tool that his master needed back in Alsira Thaenat. This was the prize that was worth not only the lives of each member of the expedition to Oerstav Caelii but the life of every human upon the face of the world.

Vhoggli placed the orb back into his pocket and tightened a loop of twine over a small piece of bone to secure it. He patted the orb safely tucked beneath his leathers and reached into another pocket to retrieve yet another ancient treasure. When his hand emerged his fingers held a small metal clasp still holding a torn bit of ancient fabric. The metal glowed with a green flame of energy within it.

Quickly and deftly, Vhoggli drove the sharp pins of the clasp into the palm of his hand. Small rivulets of blood came up from the wound as the clasp drank deeply from it. He lifted the clasp up and placed the pins through the fabric of his shirts beneath his leather jerkin. He tightened small gears with his thumb which mechanically drew the fabric taut and cinched down hard on the pins.

Toulam had told him before he left to keep his eyes open for this particular artifact. Thankfully his master was gifted with scrying and divination enough to know exactly where Merithault had hidden it. Given that it was the robe clasp given to Maenthrai to hid her from her mother, it was easily found beneath the poor oracle’s skull. Vhoggli now hoped that just as it hid the creator of the Nesharite Spheres away from her mother for many years, it would help shield himself from the Mad Oracle’s uncanny abilities. Thus far it had worked as intended.

Vhoggli rolled back into the freezing waters and continued to wade away from the horror that was unfolding behind him. The cold waters were uncomfortable and did drain the energy within him, but they weren’t as dangerous as they would be to a mortal. As fond of the humans, as he had become over his existence, it was moment’s like these that he found it worthwhile to be something entirely other. If he was human, he would have given in to hypothermia and drown a long time ago.

A few moments further and he could reach out with his senses to notice he had come to a dead end. Ahead, the roof of the cavern sloped sharply until it bent beneath the surface of the water. A moment of panic and rage tore through him at the thought that he had reached an unnecessary obstacle. It was only a matter of minutes before Merithault finished with the other expedition members and began to seek the thief of her treasures out.

Vhoggli flopped in the water and gave a kick at the wall ahead of him. He stopped for a moment and remained silent. He re-attuned his senses to seek any other way out of this predicament. Maybe there was the slight sound of wind coming in from somewhere, or bubbling coming up from below the water that he might be able to explore.

As soon as he reached out with his heightened senses, he was blinded and deafened by an explosion of raw elemental energies. An earthen thunder tore through the roof of the caverns around him sounding like the world-god Myrris herself had awoken in an ancient, primordial rage. Small rocks began to pelt down from above causing Vhoggli to drop beneath the surface of the water to shield himself.

Stones and shards of the roof crashed down upon the surface of the water and sunk into the chilled depths below. Vhoggli let himself drop into the depths just as a weighty rock fell on top of him. The impact was lessened by the rock but still hurt him and trapped him beneath its weight. He struggled and kicked against the weight to dislodge it from him. Several kicks and he got himself free. He watched below as the large rock descended into a dark tunnel.

The water around him wavered and rippled with the impacts and the quakes that tore through the whole set of catacombs. He looked up between upraised arms to see massive fissures in the roof above the water. The impacts of stones and shards lessened after a few moments. Willing to risk his safety, Vhoggli dropped his arms and began to kick with his feet towards the surface of the water.

The crest of his oblong head peeked above the frosty water until his eyes could peer into the dark air once again. He kept the rest of his body submerged just in case another quake sent the caverns into chaos once more. He cocked his head to the side to free one of his pointed ears and heard a strange silence in the caverns beyond.

He did not know what caused the quake if it was the wrath of Merithault at having found her treasures missing, the elemental powers of Tyverus who must still be fighting for his life, or some natural occurrence. Whatever had caused it was devastating and had no doubt sealed off most of the passageways that Vhoggli could have used to get back to the surface.

He let those realizations sink in for a moment as he lowered his head and peered downward to at the darkness beneath him. The rocks had continued past him into that darkness, which signaled either tunnels or caverns below. It seemed counter-intuitive to go further down in order to travel upwards, but he would have to explore this as it might be his only way now.

Vhoggli reached up an arm beyond the water and grabbed a jagged rock that had revealed itself in the quake from the sloping wall beside him. He kicked hard against the water and launched himself into the air to hang by another rock slightly higher up. He swung there for a moment, peering around in the darkness around him while reaching into a small, leather satchel hanging from his belt.

It was a merciful thing that his peculiar existence didn’t necessitate for him to breathe like most mortals did. His existence was beyond such concerns as air, food, or most temperature extremes although fire and ice still caused discomfort. Being as he was, a creature born of astral power trapped in a half-dead shell, his only concern was that of essential energy. Specifically, that of the blood of his master. In a situation as dire as this, he needed to sup from that power to keep himself going.

Vhoggli grabbed one of the small vials of blood elixir that his master had prepared for him on this expedition. Toulam had labored hard to prepare extra vials of his blood mixed with distilled magical herbs and enchantments to keep himself going. Usually, it was enough simply to be near his master and quaff some of his immense energy through proximity, but being thousands of miles away, he had to resort to more potent forms of sustenance.

His tiny and clawed fingers seized upon a vial and lifted it up to his face. With a flick of his thumb, he broke the tip of the glass and placed it against his ragged lips. The trickle of blood and power flowed over his tongue and sent his mind dizzy with fire. One gulp and the elixir was fully within him. He tossed the empty vial into the water with an almost silent splash. Within a moment the power of the blood soared throughout his body as it healed and reinvigorated him.

Vhoggli let go of the rock and fell into the water once more. He bobbed on the surface giving one more look back the way he had come. He felt remorse for Tyverus who was either dead or fighting for his life, at this very moment, against insurmountable odds. He would not win, but at least he would go down fighting. Vhoggli had studied the notes that his master had gathered concerning the Mad Oracle and knew well that she was beyond the powers of any mortal to vanquish. Her powers were given to her by some tainted god, to be its avatar of destruction in this world. This was all the more reason for him to get out of this damned place as soon as possible, lest she finds him despite the enchanted clasp he wore.

With a kick and bend, Vhoggli was beneath the waves and making his way towards the darkness below. Slowly he made his way further and further into the depths, checking sporadically at his collar and padding at his leather jerkin to make sure he did not lose his prized treasures. The tunnel below seemed to stretch on forever.

Despite the renewed power coursing through him, Vhoggli soon began to notice a drag on his kicking downward. At first, he wondered if his limbs weren’t responding correctly due to the cold, but within a few moments, he felt the upswelling of water around him. It began as a push against his face, but then soon became an immense pull against his back. Each kick seemed to do nothing as he was being dragged back up the way he had come.

A few moments more and the water around him seemed to lose density around him. He blinked his strange eyes as the pull from behind him loosened and a moment of vertigo overtook his senses. Something was pulling the water around him up and back into the caverns. Tendrils of dense water slapped against him now, and as vertigo mounted he felt himself falling as if in the air.

The water ahead of him seemed to tear itself free from itself and get swallowed behind him into the dark. Ahead he could see rushing darkness as gravity took hold of him and sent him falling through the air beyond. He kicked and swayed with his arms against the rushing air as he fell faster and faster into the darkness.

The moments of panic seemed to stretch on longer than they should have but it wasn’t long until Vhoggli could reach out and see the black surface of water rushing up at him from far below. He kicked at the air and swung his arms around to get himself as if he were standing upright. He clenched every muscle he had in his body, pressing his legs together and lifted his arms to cover his head.

The impact of the water was as hard as a rock against his flesh. The feeling of ice tore up his back and chest. Pain tore at his feet and then against his arms as he rushed beneath the surface. Most mortal bodies would have been shattered by the impact, but once again Vhoggli was glad that he wasn’t mortal.

It took a moment for him to shake the pain out of his mind as he began to sink further into the darkness below. He checked to make sure that his arms and legs were still functional. If any of this fingers or toes were broken he would deal with that later. For now, the blood elixir within him healed him sufficiently so that he could keep swimming downward.

Whatever power had drawn the water from the caverns above must have drained the entirety of the catacombs dry. He was fortunate that whatever body of water remained below him remained otherwise his body would now be shattered on rocks and the amount of wounds that he didn’t think the powers of his blood elixir could heal. He continued to kick and sway in the darkness.

Vhoggli could feel a smile creep across his wide mouth as the realization dawned on him about the source of the water below. Whatever power above had summoned and drained the waters of the catacombs away was separate from these waters he was now within. That meant that the water he was making his way through right now would open to another body beyond. Eventually, he would be able to get out of here, after all.

Minutes of swimming into the depths were beginning to take their toll on his limbs, but Vhoggli continued forth with a desperate desire to be free. His ears popped several times as he could feel the pressure of the water mounting over him. He had traveled through all kinds of directions as she followed the curvatures of the tunnel.

The tunnel began to bend upwards once more and as Vhoggli reached the turn he could see a beautiful and dazzling light shining through the darkness towards him. He kicked harder and shoved his arms forward to press into the lit waters beyond. As soon as he emerged his senses were sent into a frenzy at what he beheld outside the tunnel.

He had followed the waters straight into the depths of the Heartsblood Sea. He tore himself free of the tunnel mouth which stood as a hole in an immense cliff deep below the waves. Ahead of him, he could see rifts of boiling magma heating up the further depths of the water.

Soft moonlight filtered in from the depths far above creating a cascading set of blue and silver ripples that lit up the higher water above. The magma boiling below lit up the depths with a crimson and gold sheen amidst all the shadowy darkness. Lit up from the shifting colors and shades was a sprawl of gigantic silhouettes all around Vhoggli in the depths.

These silhouettes, as his perceptions acclimated to the energy around him, were cast by immense spires and ruins that had sunk beneath the waves long ago. Ahead and around him were the ruins of the ancient city of Neshran, the first home of the oracles. Jagged cliffs of rock held half-destroyed spires and buildings over boiling rivers of magma.

The sight that Vhoggli now beheld would be enough to make most scholars and oracles of the Authrakallin descend into crying fits or go mad at beholding. All around him were treasures beyond the ken of even his master. Spires of metal and glass that dated to the time when the ancient Morthavi built them at the dawn of time. Ruined streets and buildings flowed beneath him as he kicked his way through the chaotic waters toward the surface.

Some spires still held light within them, glowing with the torches crafted by the extinct Azhemyra artificers of old. Powerful energies still coursed through the ruins below, some of them harnessed still by enchantments and others being the echoing shades of the dead. A place of such beauty and horror, untold hundreds of thousands of souls condemned to destruction by the madness of Merithault when she ascended to be the monster she now is. So many artifacts may still be within those depths, waiting to be reclaimed by those adventurous to seek them out.

Such concerns were beyond Vhoggli at this moment, he had what he had come for and all that was left now was to get it back to his master before Merithault tore this land asunder once more in her unquenchable wrath. He kicked hard against the water and drove himself up through the hundreds of feet towards the surface. The spires below seemed to reach up towards him, wanting to trap him beneath the waters, but he ignored them.

Minutes more, flowed away to be snatched up by the darkness below as Vhoggli finally reached the highest waters above. He could see the light of Ishep lighting up the night’s sky as immense and dark storm-clouds rolled in to quench that light. Several flashes of lightning tore through the clouds to strike the surface of the sea water. As they struck a feeling of static energy rippled beneath the water’s surface.

Vhoggli tore up through the surface of the water to be blinded and deafened by cascading energy once more. The sounds of thunder and whipping wind assaulted his hearing as the red flashes of lightning went off above him. He could feel himself being tossed on waves as they crashed over one another with elemental anger.

Vhoggli blinked the sea water from his eyes and began to swim towards the shore just a few dozen feet away from him. Waves crashed down upon him, but he continued his way towards the shore with resolute determination. The storms above were growing with power and savagery. He suspected that the storm wasn’t natural and was, in fact, a sympathetic response to Merithault’s rage in the catacombs below.

Perhaps the Mad Oracle had finally dispatched Tyverus and was now realizing that two of her treasures had been snatched by a foe she could not sense. She had existed in this place for so long and the land itself had drunk from her foul essences to the point that both existed in sympathy with one another. As her mood changed, so did the weather in this land. As such, it was paramount that Vhoggli had to get away from this misbegotten place of madness as soon as possible.

With a tumble in the waves, Vhoggli was cast against the blackened and rocky sands of the shore. He pulled himself up, as further waves crashed against his legs and back. He patted himself to make sure the clasp and orb were still in possession and got up to his feet. The light of Ishep was almost swallowed by the growing storm-clouds above.

Vhoggli looked at the grass and trees ahead of him and recognized the area he was now in. He had made it back to the small island south of where Neshran had been located. He was on the same island as the camp his now dead friends had set up. Before him by a few hundred feet and around a jagged rock was the entrance to the catacombs below.

Running on tired legs, Vhoggli made his way into a grove of trees to his right. He used the trees as cover and continued over a slight ridge to where he found a fallen, moss-covered tree. He dropped and skidded forth on his knees as he neared the fallen tree. His slide forward allowed him to reach his arm inside a hollow of the wood to grab a small pouch within.

His fingers seized the pouch and brought it out greedily. He pulled on the draw strings and looked inside to see several vials of blood elixir held within. He closed his eyes and held his head aloft with relief. The extra amounts of blood elixir he had hidden there two days before was what he needed to keep himself alive on the journey back to Alsira Thaenat.

Vhoggli snatched the vials from the pouch and shoved them into the satchel around his belt. He tossed the pouch on the ground and stood up. The canopy of the trees above were dancing as rain and hail tore through them from the clouds above. He climbed over the fallen tree and looked forward in the darkness, allowing his preternatural senses to reach out.

A few hundred feet forward and to his left was the camp just outside the mouth to the catacombs. The members of the Ahlketh caste that the expedition had brought with them were located there. A few dozen feet from there, on the opposite shore, was the moored ship they had taken from Morrthault City to this accursed place.

Vhoggli winced as he realized that the innocent members of the Ahlketh laborers were probably already dead. They had no chance against the powers of Merithault if she emerged from her subterranean realm. The ship itself would be destroyed or stripped of all its crew as well.

As his senses reached out, he could hear a strange silence on the winds and a hint of blood on the air. Everyone was dead on this island, perhaps on all the islands that made up Oerstav Caelii, that is except for himself. He turned away and began to run back to the nearest shore.

He jumped over rocks and crawled through foliage as he made his way to where he had hidden a small raft from the ship. He tore through the branches of trees as his feet padded upon the black sands of the island. Lightning tore through the skies above as he did so.

Among the flashes followed by ear-splitting thunder, he could spy the raft still tied a jagged rock on the shore. The battered raft lifted and swayed on the crashing waves as if it were trying to free itself. Vhoggli ran towards it with abandon.

With a jump and flourish of claws, Vhoggli made his way into the raft and severed the ropes holding it in place. Waves brought it hard against the rock once, but with a riptide drawing it below, it swiveled and was drawn back out into the waters. Within moments Vhoggli seized the oars within the raft and began paddling hard against the waves.

It would take him the rest of the night wrestling against these waves until he could get free of this place. If he could survive this last trial, all he would have to do is follow the northern currents of the Heartsblood Sea to a small port on the coast of the Morrthal Highlands. There, hidden away, he would be able to find his master’s Authroc and fly it back home to the deserts of Alsira Thaenat. That is, of course, if he could survive the elemental wrath of this horrible place.

Vhoggli gave a jagged grin, letting his tiny fangs poke free over his lips. His master’s plan had gone well and he would soon be home. The price had been high, but his companion’s sacrifices would be worth it. With the first of the Nesharite Spheres, Toulam could finally find out how best to keep the poor girl alive and hidden from Merithault’s wrath. That pitiful, red-haired Witchling he had seen so many times when his master went to visit her adopted father. She was the last of that misbegotten bloodline, after all. That poor, unaware girl named after the thorn-covered desert lotuses that only bloomed when coated in the blood of the fallen — Ghelta.


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Next Section
I: Cliffs of Alsira


Saturday 2 December 2017

Episode I - XIV A Vengeance of Fire



A Blood-soaked Legacy


XIV
A Vengeance of Fire
(Full Chapter)


Tyverus opened his eyes to a world of chaos and blood-drenched savagery, all around him the ground was covered with still-burning embers, blood, debris, and dead bodies. It took a moment for all of his other senses to come back; the sounds of men howling with fury or screaming with pain, the bitter smell of gore liberated forth by the slashing of metal and the taste of his own bitter blood on his tongue. All around him was the doom that all of humanity brought upon its brothers and sisters. This savagery was the only true gift that the gods above had bequeathed upon all of mankind: War.

Without having to be conscious of it, Tyverus took a step forward and ducked under the blade that was sweeping across the air toward his head. The blade swung in mere inches from cleaving in his skull. Attached to that blade was a barbarian covered in furs, yelling at the top of his lungs. Bones of birds swayed from threads woven through the barbarian’s nose and up the sides of his face. His beard was matted with blood and gobbets of flesh. What was to be seen of his face beneath the splatters of blood and dirt, was painted in the blue clay paint that the Khollisthenna people — The Death Wolves of the North — were known to wear to war.

This particular warrior of the barbarian tribes had previously struck Tyverus in the face with his metal bracer, sending him into a moment of blackness. He didn’t need to be fully aware of his state, as he was trained well enough. Without needing to think, his body was reacting to every thrust and slash the barbarian warrior sent his way. The Khollis berserker had gotten in a lucky shot and it was now time for Tyverus to ensure it would be that warrior’s last.

Tyverus had dropped his blade a few moments earlier and since that had become quite enamored with the blade the barbarian had tried to kill him with. Keeping up momentum in his first step he dropped into a crouch and turned his back to the still-roaring barbarian. He let his left foot slip on the pool of blood at his feet allowing him to hit the barbarian in the chest with his shoulders. The momentum was enough to knock the wind from the howling man’s lungs.

A small command of earthen power was made as Tyverus channeled the energies of the ground below into his right hand. Rocks and pebbles formed along the leather glove he wore to reinforce him. With a downward thrust, he pummeled his fist into the swinging sword arm of the barbarian. Behind his right hand, his left greedily reached out to grab the hilt of the berserker’s sword. Tyverus’ impact was enough to break the warrior’s arm almost in twain. Bones shot up from flesh and a light sprinkle of blood covered Tyverus’ face.

Before the warrior could suck in air for a cry of pain, Tyverus had clutched and stolen the blade from him. With a swing and pivot, Tyverus took up his earlier stance before the man and sent the singing metal of the blade into the barbarian’s neck. As soon as metal impacted bone, the Khollis warrior grabbed Tyverus by the neck with his other hand. Meaty fingers dug into the knight’s flesh just above his mantle and for a moment it felt like the barbarian might lift him from the ground.

Tyverus knew how hardy and powerful these tribesmen of the northern lands were, but he never thought that such power could be held by a man who had his own sword embedded in his neck. Spouts and sprays of steaming blood-drenched Tyverus’ front as he continued to pull the blade through the warrior’s neck. Bone grated against metal as he managed to pull the blade downward and free. The grip on his neck hadn’t abated.

The sky-blue eyes of the warrior stared hotly with rage and judgment at Tyverus as he stood his ground and let the blade fall away to the ground. The grip on his neck began to loosen as each heartbeat brought more of the barbarian’s blood up and out of his body. Slowly the grip fell away and the warrior dropped to his knees.

“You fought well.” Tyverus spoke softly under his breath. “Join your ancestors and your kin in the halls of Olthenna.” He took a step backward as the warrior continued to stare at him hotly. The warrior did nothing to staunch the spilling of his own blood. Slowly his eyes closed as he knelt forward to grab up his sword from the ground with his functional hand and impaled it tip down into the steaming soil. He got back up into a full kneeling stance, leaning on the cross-brace of his weapon. The warrior opened his eyes once more to stare at Tyverus, with a look no longer of rage, but one of peace at dying in battle against a superior opponent.

The life soon left the warrior’s eyes, but he remained still in his kneeling pose. Tyverus turned away from the warrior and grabbed up his own sword in the grass nearby. The sounds of battle echoed out and a few explosions roared through the smoke-filled air.

Sword in hand, Tyverus launched himself forward into the fray, stepping over burning embers and dead bodies as he sought out more barbarians to send to the goddess of death. Ahead by a few hundred feet, he could see the silhouettes of warriors crashing arms against one another and he aimed there with his feet.

Off to his left, as he ran, he could hear another fray and with a look over he beheld several barbarians closing in on a prone knight. Each of the barbarians raised up their swords or axes as they plunged towards the disarmed and wounded knight. As soon as Tyverus couldn’t see the knight over the warriors closing in on him, he felt a slight breeze tugging at his matted, brown hair.

Knowing exactly what that breeze heralded, Tyverus dropped into a crouch and slid on his right foot. He pulled into a somersault to the right just as a fiery explosion went off to his left. Air drew in with hunger towards the explosion, and immediately after the heat of flames shot out at him. He lifted his left arm to shield his face. The flames hit him first, followed by the hail of scorched chunks of flesh and bone. It would seem that the fallen knight had decided to take the warriors with him into Olthenna’s grace.

Tyverus shook the heat and momentary disorientation from him for a moment and then got back up to a crouching position. As soon as his senses sharpened once again, he heard the whistle of arrows on the wind. Two heavy bolts the size of his forearm bit into the ground by his feet. The whistling of the third bolt ended with a hard impact to his left shoulder.

As soon as his left arm flew to his side under the impact, he raised himself back up to his feet. Without thinking his eyes darted into the smoke before him. By the sounds of the arrows and the direction of the impact, the archer was ahead and to the left. Given the size of the bolts, it was uncertain how far away they were, but he knew they would be notching more arrows within a few seconds.

Tyverus lifted his sword-arm, holding his blade forward and pointed at the source of the arrows. He closed his eyes to focus on his elemental commands of the air, feeling the wind whipping up around him. He opened his eyes to gaze into a small vortex of air reaching out from the tip of his sword like a lance of wind. The lance of swirling smoke spread forward and grew in size.

The whistling of three more arrows came at him and with a slight movement of his sword in his hand, he sent all three careening off in different directions. He focused hard and swelled the air in front of him to whip the smoke away. Before him, his vision elongated through the smoke, creating a spear of clean air. The moments seemed to freeze as he focused all his intention on widening and furthering the area he could see.

The spear of clean air stretched out almost three-hundred yards from where he stood. Ahead he could see several tree trunks and high grasses beyond a snowbank. He stretched the spear wide to create an elongated cone of visibility before him. That is when he could see the blue-painted archer beyond the first trees.

Tyverus couldn’t help but smile at the cleverness of the young woman that stood before him on the other side of the battlefield. She was one of the Khollis archers who were famed for their deviousness as well as the strength of their bow-arms. The woman had already notched another three arrows into her longbow and stood perfectly still to stare through the tunnel of cleared air at Tyverus.

The archer was painted in the same blue clay paint as the rest of the barbarians. Her golden hair, braided and held in check with gemstone beads whipped around her head on the air. Her arms tensed with a strength that most men that Tyverus had met in his travels, from city to city, would be incapable of. On her face was a look of cold determination to fell her prey.

It took only a moment for Tyverus to realize, despite the extreme distance counteracted by his heightened senses, that the woman had slightly pivoted her bow-arm to a sharper angle. The gemstone beads in her hair, trailing over her face, allowed her to gauge the intensity of the vortex Tyverus commanded. With precise skill, she had recalculated her trajectory and was about to loose her new arrows.

Tyverus had no arrogance or conceit about his abilities, knowing that these warriors were well-trained in fighting his kind over the last several years of this war. They had the determination of a people fighting for their home, and the cunning of the wolves that were their tribal namesake. He had to think fast as those arrows made their way to him. He couldn’t cover the distance in time to make it to her and he was on his own in this fight.

He turned his head slightly to see the burning crater far to his left. The elemental fires still burned among the chunks of fallen warriors. The embers of burnt wooden huts cast on the wind still glimmered at his feet. He would need to draw from this fire to take out this archer before she ended his life.

As soon as Tyverus turned his face to the fires on his left, the fires went out. Flames flowed on the air in rivers toward him as he reached out with his left hand to grasp them. The flames from the embers around him soared to life and raised up like fiery snowflakes to his outstretched hand.

One arrow struck the ground near Tyverus’ feet while two struck him in the armor of his chest. The two that hit him didn’t penetrate through, but the impacts caused him to reaffirm his footing. The fire met with his left hand and roared in his grasp.

Tyverus reached his flaming hand over and let the fires leap to the blade of his sword in his right hand. He still kept the sword pointing before him, and as the flames welled over his blade, he lowered himself and ran forth towards the archer in the trees. He kept his feet moving and he pivoted hard from left to right, swaying to the beat of war-drums in his own mind. He had to keep his steps as erratic as possible.

The archer watched him from the tree-line and with precise movements pulled another three arrows from over her shoulder and notched them into her bow. Time seemed to dilate as Tyverus made his way closer to her. He could see her slowly draw her bow-arm back to the full extent of her strength. The bow seemed to distort under the strain as the arrows were drawn to their heads.

Tyverus kicked up the flames around him from his sword. The heat licking at his face was enough to burn the stubble from his tired skin. The flames roared with more life and seemed to well up in front of him like a shield. The heat soon became unbearable, but he ran on. To offset the pain his hand and on his exposed flesh, he howled in rage. He began to yell like the Khollis berserkers would do before running into battle. The bellows of rage sent his mind behind him and the pain seemed to dissipate.

The archer loosed her arrows once again while holding her stance to watch them as they neared the screaming knight. The flames around Tyverus grew with an even more fevered heat. The arrows impacted the fires around him and burnt to cinders in the air.

The archer’s eyes shot wide open as the Guardian Knight covered more ground towards her. She didn’t reach for another set of arrows this time. She lowered into a crouch with her bow dropping to her waist.

Tyverus continued in his run and now needed to release the built up fire in front of him. With a flash, the fire abated and roared into a swirl around his sword. He raised up his sword and aimed it ahead of him like he would with a bow. The archer continued to stare at him, wondering what he was about to do, and that is when he unleashed the fires upon her.

A gout of flame erupted from the tip of his sword and flew through the air with a howl sounding like wyverns taking to the skies in hunger. The rippling plasma launched itself into the trees as the archer turned on her heels to run for cover. Her reaction didn’t help her as the forest around her lit up under the heat of the flames.

The sound of thunder went off around Tyverus as the gout of fire exploded and spread into the trees like dragon’s breath. He aimed the sword in front of him, stopping his run, and swept the flames from side to side. In the distance, he could hear the archer howl in pain as her body alighted and burned away.

Yes, Tyverus knew that the only true gift that gods gave to humanity was that of war and horror. When man fell against man and the seas turned red with the blood of the innocent, that was the only time the gods were sated. In all the horror he had unleashed over his short life, all the lives he had taken, each of them was a sacrifice to the hunger of the distant gods above.


* * *


Tyverus opened his eyes slowly, as each lid felt like he was lifting the entire weight of the world. It took a few moments for the blurry and dazzling light before him to become coherent images in his mind. He fluttered his eyes several times and the world returned to a focused state.

His gaze was upturned towards the destroyed ceiling above. Great rivers of water followed on the air between innumerable chunks of rock. Glowing crystalline lights continued to sway on nothing as they shot out erratic streams of lightning at nearby boulders.

The pain began to soar within him as he pushed against the rock floor to try and get up. He could feel the cavern wall against his head and he used it as leverage against his neck to get up partially. As his head moved, he was able to look down at the devastation of his body.

The rock and metal he had summoned as armor had fallen away into crumbled heaps around him. His body was fully exposed save for the plate and leather armor he usually wore. Both of his legs were broken in several places, his left arm was shattered beneath a large rock. His right hand was a mass of burnt flesh grafted to the metal slag that was once his sword. Somewhere inside of him, he felt a shudder and blood began to leak through the leather covering his abdomen.

He knew that he was mortally wounded and could no longer fight. He closed his eyes once more and reached out to the power of his mantle. The energy within surged back to him, dulling his immense pain enough for him to breath normally once more. The energies within his mantle were at their last dregs. He had enough power to either keep his body alive for a few days, hoping that someone might save him or for one last desperate attack. He didn’t know which would be the best course of action, but he knew being saved was beyond hope at this point.

Tyverus opened his eyes once more to the elemental chaos around him. He watched the sight before him and began to wonder if this was a vision of what Gehemol might be like: The realm of the damned, deep beneath the world-plane. For a few deep breaths, he remained motionless and lost in contemplation of his own mortality. That is until he saw some motion from across the cavern.

Something was shifting beneath a pile of rocks and skulls, between the shattered pieces of the altar at the very farthest edge of the cavern. Within a moment a hand reached up from the debris. Lengthy and skeletal fingers reached up to the chilled air above followed by a broken arm. The bones of the arm snapped back into place and began to push a nearby boulder away.

With an eruption of dark energy, the debris was blown apart and the broken body of Merithault was laid bare. Tyverus pushed himself up a bit further against the far wall in fear and preparation. As he did so, so did the monster before him. She raised slowly to her broken legs.

The image of her body was unfathomable both in the damage he had done to her, but also in her inhuman resilience. No creature could have survived such an onslaught of energies. Yet, here she was crawling up to a standing position on legs that were nothing more than broken bones and pulped flesh. He couldn’t understand if it was telekinetic energy that was keeping her aloft, or some ability to completely remove pain.

Merithault was on her feet, such as they still were, and she lurched forward a few steps on broken limbs. Each footstep echoed out with the crunching of shattered bone and torn sinew. Her arms were useless and her body was sundered in several places. Portions of her skull were impacted and her jaw hung at a strange angle.

The beast continued to make slow and agonizing steps toward Tyverus. With the first few steps, the monster managed to snap portions of her legs back into place beneath her. A few more steps as she neared the crest of the bridge let her snap her arms back into place. Several more steps saw her use her clawed hands to snap her jaw back into place. A few more allowed her to heal portions of her skull, or snap bones back into place on her chest.

It was obvious that the previous element that Tyverus had assaulted her with was not sufficient for killing the creature. He only had enough in him, if he sacrificed everything, for one last attack. If blades, strategy, the powers of the air, the earth, and water itself weren’t sufficient to kill her, he only had one last recourse to try.

Tyverus painfully lifted his sword-arm up and set the heavy blade on his shattered knee. He kept his eyes locked on the icy stare of Merithault as she continued to near him with each slow step. He closed his eyes once more and reached out to the last bit of energy within him and his mantle. He turned off the enchanted safety mechanisms that held his body together. He tore through the last runes instilled in his mantle and let the raw energy cascade through him.

His eyes opened and he could see himself glowing. Tongues of plasma danced along his body, the fires burning the top layers of his flesh away. Rage pooled up inside of him once more and with a smoke-filled breath, he launched all of his excess energy through his blade and outward from it.

Tiny strokes of lightning jumped from his body to the metal of his blade causing the air around the blade to ignite. The energy quickly ripped into a frenzy of crimson bolts that soon shot out from the sword.

The air around Tyverus squealed and then roared as the flames were given life as they bolted at Merithault who was only a few yards away. The flames struck her in the chest, bowling her back a few steps. The first impacts only seemed to stun her, but the second volley of flame melted her in place.

The fire continued to roar from Tyverus’ body, through his sword and out into Merithault. The flames roaring forth began to spread out like a dancing river of plasma let loose. The smell of burning flesh, bone, and ichor welled up on the smoke from her body. She gave a loud scream of pain as the flames dissolved her unholy flesh.

Merithault dropped to her knees as the flesh was flayed from her bones. The waves of flame continued to wash over her as her bones began to sizzle and char. Her screaming ceased as her body collapsed to ashes and smoldering shards of burnt bone.

Tyverus kept the energy coursing through him even after he saw the Mad Oracle’s body collapse. Fire still roared through him as the flames began to melt away to the rock before him. His body went cold as the last vestiges of energy were sucked away. Pain filled his mind and his breathing slowed.

His sword gave one last sputter of lightning and flame and then went quiet. He gave a few pitched breaths, feeling the last bits of energy leave him. He could feel his body dying and growing cold now. He gave one last look at the charred heap of ashes and blackened bone on the ground before him before he closed his eyes.

In the darkness behind his eyes, he could hear the slow beating of his heart. The time between each beat grew longer and longer. The pain coursing through is body began to numb. In his mind, he reached out to whatever was beyond life and wished for it to finally take him away from this world of the living.

There came a sound of soft pattering from in front of Tyverus. At first, it was hard for him to hear it over the beating of his own heart, but as he began to realize the sound, he opened his eyes once more. Before him, he gazed a humanoid form coalescing from the smoke of the cavern.

Slowly the form took a feminine shape and stepped toward him. The first features to become visible were the opened green eyes that looked down at him with tears. Next came the familiar smile and beautiful features of Isilda.

The female form divested of clothing knelt down over Tyverus and reached out to his chest with a hand. An ephemeral feeling of cold penetrated his chest and seemed to reach around his heart. Energy crackled from Isilda’s ghostly hand to his heart, reviving his life energies. He could feel a feeling of soothing calm spread over his entire body. In his mind, he could feel love like he was finally free of all this pain, this rage, and immense suffering.

“You gave everything.” Isilda leaned in to whisper into Tyverus’ ear. Her voice was like a choir of the gods singing a hymn to the righteous fallen. “Know that you have fought well.”

“I’m so sorry.” Tyverus’ eyes began to well up with tears. He wanted to reach up to her and hold her, but both of his arms were ruined beyond use. “I failed you. I let her take you away.”

“She didn’t take me away, Tyverus.” Isilda continued to smile as she raised her other hand up to lightly caress his cheek. Her skin felt ghostly and cold. “I’m here. Bhergom is here. All of us are here. You will be here with us.”

“I will join you beyond the veil of death? I will join you in Olthenna’s grace?” Tyverus could feel Isilda’s cold hand gripping his heart. His life ebbed and flowed for a moment as pieces of his consciousness left his body.

“Beyond the veil of death, yes.” Isilda’s eyes began to glow brighter with each moment that passed. It was hard for Tyverus not to be drawn to her eyes. The rest of her form seemed to darken and distort as he gazed into her beautiful eyes. “As for Olthenna’s grace, such is not meant to be.”

“I don’t care about the gods. I just want to be free of this pain. I want to be free of this world.” Tyverus choked for a moment and blood welled up in his mouth. He spat it out over his chin and tried to breathe once more. “I just want to be with you.”

“Good. You will be. Forever.” Isilda’s smile began to widen and reveal teeth. It took a moment for Tyverus to notice the strange silvery gleam her teeth had. As her smile widened, he could see sharpened fangs peek over her bottom lip.

Tyverus pushed his sword-arm against a boulder and squirmed upward. The world was darkening around his vision, but something felt off about how Isilda looked. There was something wrong with the cadence of her voice. It was familiar but not filled with the same life and joy that made ice vibrate and dance like before.

He lifted his chin slightly, feeling the cold grip of Isilda tighten a little more around his heart. She continued to hold his cheek, but he shook his head free of her hand. He looked below him, past his feet at the charred ground. It took a moment for his mind to grapple with the realization that the charred remains of Merithault were no longer to be seen.

“Hush now. Don’t worry. The pain will be gone and you’ll soon be at peace.” Isilda grasped Tyverus’ chin with her free hand and pushed his neck back. Her earlier ephemeral feeling was much more solid now. As she pushed against him, he could feel the sharp bite of long claws against his cheeks.

Tyverus let his face be pressed back against the rock and slumped down to lying on the ground once more. As he did so, he shifted his broken leg slightly causing his body to convulse with extreme pain. He lifted his sword-arm up very slowly and pushed his elbow into a nearby rock.

He stared up into the glowing eyes of Isilda as she continued to smile. His eyes moved from her eyes to her lips, and then to her body. As he did so, he pushed the tip of his blade into her ribs with all the force he could muster.

Isilda reeled back in pain and screamed out. Her voice stopped being the soothing and familiar sound but changed into an inhuman howl of pain and betrayal. Tyverus kept his eyes fixed on her face as it melted away like a dream-like illusion.

Before him, he could see the charred and burnt flesh of Merithault. As she opened her eyes he could see the inhuman and icy cold hatred in her stare. He had driven his sword between the blackened ribs that stuck out between her cracked and blistered flesh.

She reached out with her free clawed hand to snap the blade in half. The force shattered Tyverus’ wrist and sent his arm to fall at his side. She reached into her side and pulled the jagged and melted metal shard free.

“You can’t just let things be.” Merithault threw the shard of metal away and turned to gaze at Tyverus. Her earlier smile had morphed into another predatory snarl. “I try to give you peace, and you won’t accept it. To your last breath, you fight.”

“I’ll kill you.” Tyverus spat up at Merithault. He lifted his chin up and returned the same snarl that Merithault had upon her charred lips.

“You have spirit. I should expect such from one of the Guardian Knights of Morrthal.” Merithault tightened her icy grasp on Tyverus’ heart causing him to sputter for breath for a moment. “I once had a son when I was mortal. He left to become a Guardian Knight, like yourself.” Her snarl turned into a sadistic grin. “He put up a fight, just like you. I killed him all the same.”

“Monster!” Tyverus lifted his head up again while trying to jab at Merithault with what was left of his sword-arm. The fiend grabbed his neck with her free hand and held him down. “So many innocent lives were taken by you. You do not deserve to exist!”

“Poor boy. Poor deluded boy.” Merithault crooned as she leaned in closer. “No one upon this forsaken world is innocent. You have no idea the horrors I have glimpsed for all of us. The death that I grant is a mercy. Every life I take saves the world from its ultimate destruction. It is only when I don’t take lives when those of my blood somehow create new whelps to inherit my sin, that is when horror and bloodshed are truly released.”

“You’re mad! The eons you’ve spent as an unliving abomination have rotted your mind as well as your soul.” Tyverus glared hotly up at Merithault. He pushed back against her hand with his throat in defiance. “Isilda saw your weakness. Isilda knew that the last of your lineage must live. Your secret is known, beast!”

“You think that blood-haired little witch is your savior?” Merithault gave out a cruel laugh, loosening her grip on Tyverus’ heart for a moment. “I’ve seen the future. Ullthos, himself, gave me the knowledge of what is come millennia ago. If she lives, she will be all of our ruin.”

“The only one that needs to die is you.” Tyverus felt Merithault grip at his heart with cold fingers once again. He began to sputter up blood. He kept his eyes fixed on her despite the pain.

Merithault let go of his neck and began to stroke the top and side of his head with her free hand: A caress like a mother would to her son. “You poor boy.” She leaned in again, whispering in his ear. Her cold breath made Tyverus shiver. “You think all of this about you, don’t you?” She pulled back and stared down at him. “You’ve dare to think this is all about you. Your story. Your life.”

Merithault shook her head slowly and smiled. “This isn’t about you, not one bit.” Her smile grew until her fangs were fully visible under her healing lips. “This story is about me. You are a pawn in fate’s hands, and I am the one who guides that hand. I always have.”

Tyverus remained quiet while beaming his rage up at Merithault. He pushed forward again and was gripped in painful convulsions as the Mad Oracle seized upon his heart once more. He could feel the life leaving his body as his sight began to grow dark.

“Embrace the darkness and give in.” Merithault’s voice was less like a predator and more like a concerned care-giver. “I can feel within you the desire to be reunited with the one called Isilda. If you just give yourself to me, like she did, you can be together again.”

“Lies. Isilda never gave in to you.” Tyverus pulled back, but Merithault clutched at his heart again. His vision was now nothing more than pinhole of light.

“She gave in when her soul was freed by me. You see, your feelings towards the gods are correct, young knight.” Merithault gave Tyverus a jolt of more energy to keep him alive just a few moments longer. “The gods you know have forsaken you. They have forsaken all humanity. When we pass beyond our mortal coils, there is nothing be the realm of shades. Beyond that is oblivion. It hungers for us all.”

Tyverus stared up to Merithault with a look of genuine fear. He wanted to fight against her words, but his lack of faith resounded with what she said. If there was nothing but a realm of echoes and dissolution beyond death, maybe what she offered was the closest to the here-after he could find.

“Good. Your feelings are correct.” Merithault began to draw her free hand over his face and neck. She stopped and felt the cold metal of his drained mantle, her fingers gliding over the dead runes. “You will see once I kill you that there is nothing beyond. You will be drawn to me like Isilda was like Bhergom was like all my children were. There, I will drink of your souls and keep you with me. Oblivion won’t take you.”

Tyverus wanted so badly to be reunited with Isilda, yet for all his doubt and pessimism in life, he could not bring himself to believe in the monster’s words. She was an abomination; an unholy thing, a monster beyond reckoning. The choice between being a pawn of a devil or being cast to nothingness was simple, he would not be a pawn.

“Take your offer of immortality…” Tyverus lingered on his words for a moment as his eyesight passed into darkness. “…And fuck yourself with it!”

Merithault snarled and roared like a predatory beast. She leaned in and clutched hard on Tyverus’ heart. Her other hand tore the metal mantle from his chest. Coldness and pain soared through Tyverus and then was engulfed by blissful numbness. He could feel himself spiraling away into a deep abyss.

The roaring of the monster faded away to a distant echo. He was barely aware that the fiend was ripping his body asunder, but he no longer cared. He had fought to his last breath and that was enough.

As he fell into the cold abyss beyond life, he could reach out beyond his senses to feel a glimmering purple light. He didn’t perceive this light with his eyes, but with the ephemeral perceptions of his soul. Slowly the light grew and took on the form of Isilda.

The woman reached out her ghostly hand towards Tyverus and as she did so, he was aware of his own ghostly hand reaching out to hers. He could feel the energy within her as their astral bodies touched. She leaned into him and embraced him. Crackles of energy shot between them.

“I’m here to take you away.” Her voice resounded with love and comfort. Her voice had the same vibration as she had in life. A voice that could make the ice dance and sing. “You suffering is finished.”

Tyverus embraced her deeply, getting lost in her arms. Their energies melded and then faded away. The fighting was over, and Tyverus could finally find peace. The expedition was lost and the suffering had been immense, but the concerns of the living were not for him any longer.


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XV: Hasty Escape