Blood and Life (and other short stories)

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The witch groaned when magic binding the elementals dissolved, and they perished in a spray of salty water.

The last one had been strong, and its magic greater than the others’ — it seemed to have chilled the very air around it, and her zombies were sluggish already. Once they came near the monster, they had been picked off one by one.

All but Brutus, who had became quite an asset. Smarter and a head taller than the rest she’d created, the brute had stayed with her all the way from its birth in the prison. She had abandoned throwing bones to guide the horde: it was enough to order Brutus to attack to make others follow.

The witch reached into the puddle left behind by the elemental, but it was as useless as any of them. There were no viscera, not a pound of flesh, nothing for the witch to use to replenish her army. She splashed the formless body with a frown.

“Ghosts and water elementals,” she muttered to the zombie. “If only some of the wandering souls in the prison had followed us. This would be much quicker.”

Brutus growled, making an effort to point at the piles of dust scattered in the pools. The witch shook her head.

“The spirits here aren’t angry. They’re sad, sad and lonely. Weak emotions that leave them feeble as children, and useless to me.”

The back of the cave was aglow with a pale grey light. There, the witch found the body of a young girl, clutching a lantern against her chest. She had curled around it, as if it was the only source of warmth in the world.

The witch hemmed, kneeling beside her. It took effort to extract the lantern: the girl looked frail, but even in death she resisted relinquishing the light like the witch were trying to rob a child from her breast. Frustrated, the witch grabbed a nearby rock, crushing the girl’s elbows.

She raised the lantern, examining the peculiar flame: it blazed in bright silver and shone in soft white in turn, almost seeming to dim out completely at times, only to regain its lustre a moment after. The witch watched it for a while, enthralled by the tiny star that burst into novas and was reborn over and over again. When she placed it aside, the cave seemed much darker than it had before.

She brushed tangles of hair from the girl’s face. She looked peaceful, caught in a perpetual daydream whilst watching the flame’s cycle. She had been dead a while, that much was evident, but there were no signs of decay on her corpse. The hair was thin and scraggly, but more likely due to pre-existing malnutrition than her current condition. Her limbs were emaciated, but not rotting, and there was no bloat despite the humid air.

The witch moved her hand to the girl’s throat, then the heart, and finally to the stomach, bewilderment taking form on her face. There was no life in her. To anyone but a necromancer, it was obvious… but to a necromancer, it was mystifying. Brutus loomed over the witch, growling questioningly.

“It seems you’ll be left with monsters as your cadre, still,” the witch said, brow furling. “There is nothing in her to raise, like she’d been sucked dry of vitality… Hm?”

She found something in the pocket of the girl’s skirt. It was a small gem, similar to the one in her circlet, but a deeper shade of blue and smaller. When she held it against the lantern’s light, she saw a trail of smoke inside it.

I wonder if this is more than a bauble, she thought. On the witch’s dress was a metal brooch, with a socket whose ornament had fallen out somewhere along the way. She placed the gem in it. When the witch let go, the metal reshaped itself around the gem, locking it in place.

At once, she was overcome by a chill that sent a shudder through her body. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling: the same had happened when she had been given the gem to raise the dead in Lioneye’s Watch. Her eyes opened as the coldness passed, and she did a double take when glancing at the dead girl. She had become nothing but a skeleton, flesh a ghostly memory around the edges.

The witch shut her eyes, let out a long sigh, and opened them slowly. The girl was the same as she had been, skin dyed pale by the silver light, bony but not bare bone.

Brutus growled. The witch stood still for a while, contemplating, then picked up the lantern and gestured for him to follow. “Come. Let’s find some Rhoas to raise.”

They returned to the shore. To the witch’s pique, the scavengers of the beach had worked quickly, and carcasses left behind by her minions had been picked clean. Some had been dragged away, lines and trickles of red in the sand marking the direction of a nest where hatchlings would be feasting. She might find prey to work with if she followed the trail… but with only Brutus between her and them, she wasn’t willing to try her luck, and so they carried on along the water’s edge.

They shortly came across a path leading up a cliff, and scaling it, found the remains of a ship. It must’ve sailed too close to the shore, the witch assumed: the protruding edge had pierced the ship’s side and it had toppled against it, resting with its mast askew like a stranded whale with a harpoon in its back.

She expected to find nobody there — the sailors were likely amongst the soaked dead near Lioneye’s watch — but, walking closer to inspect the damage, found someone sitting on a rock near the ledge. The man stood upon hearing the witch approach, standing with his arms bunched and head tilted as he studied her. Then his eyes fell to the lantern in the witch’s hand, and a look of eagerness flashed on his face.

Brutus growled, but the witch held out her hand, silencing the zombie. She recognised the man, but could not place a name. He was someone from stories so famous even those who didn’t frequent seaside taverns knew a few by heart.

“Well,” he said. “I hadn’t expected to meet anyone here. Not anyone who wasn’t slithering or translucent, anyhow.”

“Captain… Fairgraves?” the witch returned. Fairgraves nodded.

“Yes, tis I, Captain Sigmund Fairgraves, Wave Tamer, Piratebane, and conveyor of civilisation to barbaric lands.”

The witch listened to the litany of epithets, recalling the stories of how each was earned. “What are you doing so far out of town, and without weapons?”

He let out a weak laugh. “I’m marooned. Languishing, thanks to a pair of pretty blue eyes.” He sighed, shaking his head as he swept a hand over the ship. “Stuck fast in the filthy mud of Wraeclast, thanks to one sultry little slave girl. I liberated her from the flesh pits of Trarthus and she repaid me in full, with sleight of hand and swift feet. Turned the coat of my first mate, took my hard-earned treasure, and with it the wind out of my sails.”

Those sails haven’t felt wind for quite some time, thought the witch, eyeing the tattered strips. There are probably barnacles older than I infesting the wounded hull.

“But it looks like my foul luck has ended,” Fairgraves said, gesturing at the lantern. “For that, dear, is said treasure — my Allflame, harvested by my own hand from a shattered cathedral of the inner Empire. I would be eternally indebted if I could have it back.”

The witch swung the lantern away, taking a step back as Fairgraves took one forward. “I harvested it from a cave filled with ghosts and elementals,” the witch said. “To have it, you must make a more lucrative offer than gratitude.”

The captain folded his arms behind his back and frowned. “The Allflame does many a marvellous thing in the hands of one who knows how to harness its power, and has bestowed a unique gift upon me. Return it, and a small portion of that gift will be yours.”

The witch still didn’t move. She was suddenly overcome with vertigo, but steeled herself to show no outward weakness to this strange man. Her vision went hazy, and for a moment, Fairgraves was nothing but a skeleton, like the girl in the cavern. After a few blinks, he was as he had been. The witch groaned.

“All right,” she said. “Having light and warmth was putting a damper on the atmosphere anyway.”

Fairgraves reached out greedily, almost snatching the lantern when the witch held it out. He brought it close, running fingers across its surface. “My Allflame. My blessed, damned Allflame!” he crooned, then looked up at the witch. There was a glint in his eyes, and she couldn’t tell whether it was the lantern’s reflection or madness. “You want your moment in the firelight now, do you?” Fairgraves went on. “Unfortunately, necessity is what it is, and for the Allflame to give life it must first be kindled with life. And since suitable kindling is in short supply around these parts, I have little option but to make do with what I have.”

The witch grimaced when her vision blurred, and the skeletal figure stood where Fairgraves had. Not only that; she could see bones all around her, under the sand. Fairgraves’ voice seemed to come from very far when he growled, “Namely, you.”

The witch gasped when spirits converged, swarming the bones. Fleshless arms stretched out from the earth, and Fairgraves was engulfed by ghastly flames. Briefly, the witch saw skin return onto the captain, but just as soon it was melting away — though she was certain her eyes weren’t playing tricks now.

She was too slow to realise Fairgraves’ crew had her surrounded, and turned to find one of them bringing a sabre down. Pain brought her to her knees, and beside her fell the blade of the sword. She felt the wound; her head spun and the point of impact hurt, but not only was she alive, she didn’t find even a drop of blood. The blade was rusted dull, she realised with a look to her side. The skeleton didn’t seem to have noticed: it slashed at her with the broken hilt, only air disturbed by the swing reaching her.

The witch scurried to her feet as Brutus jumped to her rescue and grabbed onto the attacker’s skull. He yanked it loose, reducing the crewman to a pile of bones, and swung it with roar, smashing it into another. Splinters and bone dust filled the air as Brutus rampaged through the crew, but he was being overwhelmed: the witch had had luck on her side, but Brutus was vulnerable even to the most corroded edge, and spent as much time jabbing his severed limbs back in place as he did attacking.

But the witch could do nothing to help him. Vertigo overtook her, and spirits released from the bones lingered overhead, dazzling her. She stumbled over the skeleton who’d first attacked her, watching Brutus’ struggle. She gasped for breath, heart freezing over with fear.

She flinched, bringing a hand to her chest… and realised the chill wasn’t fear. It was physical, coming from the gem on her brooch. She touched it, clasped fingers around the brooch, and at once the dizziness cleared. The spirits remained, and she could read them. They weren’t angry like the spirits in the prison, nor were they sad like those in the cavern.

They were merely waiting.

She looked at the pile of bones to her side, then up at the spirit right above her. “Come,” she whispered. “Here, back to where you belong.”

The spirit flickered about, then shot down. It broke into a tiny cascade, splitting into threads that wrapped around the bones and pulled it up like a marionette. The neck cracked as a new skull was yanked in place of the one Brutus was using as a mace.

“Go! Help him!” the witch ordered. The skeleton hobbled into the fray, and the witch directed her attention at others. The magic was easy to work with: all she needed to do was focus at a set of bones, and the gem seemed to do the rest. It did not matter whether the bones were from the same skeleton, so long as they were close by.

“Mutiny! Mutiny, you scurvy dogs! I am your captain!” Fairgraves screamed as the witch raised his fallen crew, reanimating each new one that was taken down. Realising that the skeletons stopped fighting back, Brutus turned to Fairgraves and flung the skull at him. It struck the lantern, shattering it. Fairgraves shrieked as the light bled out, like it were liquid, and fizzled in the air before it hit the ground. The lantern, a worthless silver trinket, fell where the light hadn’t: Fairgraves had turned to ash, as if the flames around him had finally consumed him.

The skeletons parted as the witch walked into their midst. Fairgraves had scattered in the winds, and perhaps that was for the best. She inspected Brutus’ damage quickly — nothing a little patching up wouldn’t fix — and then her army, a good twenty heads waiting for a command.

“Well, well,” she said. “It looks like we needn’t adventure by the two of us any longer.”

She gestured for the skeleton squad to follow, but instead, they suddenly fell apart like the puppeteer’s strings were snapped. The witch snarled, looking up for the spirits… and cocked a brow when there were none.

She knelt down to touch the bones. They were as they ought’ve been; still and calm, as dead as anything could be.

She stayed on her knee for a moment of contemplation, then stood and walked to the edge overlooking the Ship Graveyard. She touched the gem, and became aware of the countless seafarers buried there. She couldn’t see them, not as clearly as she had seen the crew just before it rose, but she knew they were there, with as much certainty as if she’d buried them herself.

It takes a specific kind of spirit to bind, she thought, but they are another tool I can use.

“Fairgraves didn’t use a virtue gem to raise them,” she said as Brutus lurched to her. “Maybe that is why I could.” She looked at her brooch, feeling the gem. Her lip curled into a smirk. “We aren’t quite as defenceless anymore, brute,” she said. “Anger burns out as quickly as it flares and flesh tears apart as easily as I put it together. These spirits are just as short-lived… but this land was built on bones. They’ll be more useful at my side than underfoot.”

She grasped the gem harder and wandering souls appeared, filling the beach in an ethereal mist. The witch began her descent towards them.

The templar swung his hammer, sending a skeleton’s head soaring over the ruins. He kept spinning, letting momentum guide his weapon into the chest of one of the risen shambling towards him. It collapsed with a wet smack when the hammer dug through rotted viscera.

The templar looked around for more approaching foes, out of habit more than necessity; the dead of Fellshrine didn’t concern themselves with subtlety and stealth when attacking. Then, he let his hammer drop, resting himself against the handle. Xandro’s hammer was powerful, but impossibly heavy. The templar had quickly learned to pick his fights well — he was no beast of burden, and swinging the hammer around for more than a few moments was too taxing on his old bones, strong as he’d thought they were.

Still, his strength had grown over his travel. The first days, his back had ached from just carrying the hammer around, but by the time he delivered the siren Merveil from her curse, he wielded it with all the grace one needed to swing a mace.

A weapon so heavy made his travel slow, but he was not in a hurry anywhere. Yeena, the shaman of the forest encampment, had tasked her with the retrieval of an artefact in Fellshrine… but it would not go anywhere even if he took his time. The guards in the troves of the dead would wait, always wait, whether someone tried to plunder their treasures that afternoon or in a hundred years.

The templar started, raising his hammer when a sound came from down the road. He hurried behind a ruined wall, standing poised so that he could jump out and ambush whatever it was, should he need the opportunity. Rain rattling on overgrown cobbles muffled the sound, but he thought it was someone speaking.

They came closer, but stopped before coming into view. He tensed when something fell on the ground, but the rustling that followed suggested they had opened a scroll, or…

“Put it back!” snapped a woman’s voice. “You’ll ruin the ink!”

A man chuckled. “Your maps are finer than that. A little drizzle won’t touch the colours.”

“Still,” she insisted. “I remember the layout of the land. We need only follow the road to get back to the hideout.”

“Are you certain?” said the man. “It cannot be much of a hideout if a road leads to it.”

“Elreon, are you questioning me on logistics?”

The templar gasped at the name, cursing in his thoughts when the woman hummed and said, “Did you hear something?”

“Only the wind and rain.”

They were quiet another moment, then the woman said, “I suppose. Should we make camp here for the night?”

“No. It’s not safe for us.”

“Why? Luck has been well on our side since we stepped foot here.”

“That is precisely why. This god of Wraeclast — he gives and takes in uneven amounts, and we have been given so much I fear nothing but ill for our coming days.”

She scoffed. “You’re adopting the natives’ faith, Elreon? Where did your conviction go?”

“It hasn’t left me,” Elreon said levelly, “but I’ve come to accept that, in this sorry lot of land, God has no interest in the toils and troubles of every man. That does not mean he has no plan for those he deems important. I’m simply not certain I am one of them anymore.”

“How humble of you,” the woman said with a snort. The templar withdrew when they went on walking, for the fear of them suddenly turning and finding him. He caught only a glimpse of the tall, red-headed woman and his hooded companion.

“It is easier for you, my friend,” Elreon said as rain began to wash away their words. “You have already wandered, and now you shan’t ever be lost. It is quite the opposite for myself.”

Elreon was a good man, a fine servant of God, thought the templar, but he was denounced as a heretic. I wonder if the spiteful tongues sang true, after all.

Or perhaps this land is getting the best of him. He wouldn’t be the first of my brothers to lose to Wraeclast’s will. The templar rolled a ring around his finger as he mulled his thoughts. He had found it lying abandoned under a rock, but wasn’t the only one with his eyes on it. Magnus Stonethorn, a man the templar once called a friend, appeared to claim it as his own. At once, the templar had been filled with joy and sorrow, for finding a man he could trust as a companion, and for finding that another friend had been been exiled — no doubt unjustly.

Whatever Magnus’ attributed crimes were, the templar never found out, nor whether he had committed them in truth. Before the templar could offer the ring as a declaration of renewed friendship, Magnus attacked, searing the ground under the templar’s feet.

The ring had been abandoned, but the templar’s amulet had belonged to Magnus. It was a simple thing, but pretty, and held magic worthy of being hung around the High Templar’s neck.

And that’s the way this realm works, thought the templar with a sigh. The shiniest armour is scavenged, and those who would be hung for fencing in Theopolis are the wealthiest of merchants here.

He rose from his place, grunting at the ache in his knees, and continued towards the cathedral that loomed as a fallen giant against storm clouds.

He hadn’t made it far when something scraped against the ground, and he looked down to find a hand pushing out of the dirt beside the road. The templar stomped on them, breaking the desiccated fingers off, but more emerged around him. He frowned with dismay as another lot of bodies unburied themselves and took a firm grip of his hammer.

He jumped when a nearby pile of rocks shook, then stretched out into a humanoid form. Finding himself suddenly surrounded by cadavers and golems, the templar hoisted the weapon against his shoulder and broke into a sprint.

He left the lumbering mob behind with ease, but his path was cut off shortly by animate rhoa bones charging at him. He sidestepped, reducing the first into a rain of splinters when it met his hammer. The vibrations of the impact, however, made him drop the weapon. Cursing, the templar abandoned it when more rhoas arrived.

Unarmed as he was, his flight was hastened, but the dead kept rising in droves. Every stone seemed to be the limb of an elemental, and the rhoa hunted in packs that seemed endless. The templar gulped down the last drops in his quicksilver flask, narrowly slipping by a swinging skeleton. He turned a corner, swatting rain away from his eyes as he burst past pillars…

Into a dead end.

He spun, finding his retreat blocked. He backed away, into the midst of circular walls, looking around for an exit. There was none, but the stones looked rough enough to climb.

The zombies lurched into the ruin as the templar grabbed onto the stones. They crunched under his weight, but held; the templar thought of trying to kick them down, but through a broken part in the wall he saw the horde rising on the other side as well.

I’m trapped, he realised, looking down. The zombies had stopped, looking up to him, reaching lazily into the air. I’m safe for now, but I can’t stay here forever.

The dead can wait much longer than I.

His grip was slipping on the rain-slick stones, and with a grunt, he reached over to a tangle of vines to pull himself further.

Suddenly, he was falling, plunging towards the horde, a handful of loose vines flying with him. He landed softly, turning the zombies below him into a pulp. The rest merely stared at him from a moment.

Then they began to trample over each other, trying to get the templar. He scrambled up, grabbing onto the wall, but one caught his foot as he jumped. He tried to kick it, but more grabbed on, pulling off his boot and trying to get a bite out of his exposed leg. The templar grabbed harder onto the stone wall, desperately trying to pry his foot loose.

The wall gave away instead of the zombies.

He came down with a shower of rocks, falling backwards to the arms of the horde. He had a precious moment to recover: the rocks had crushed the zombies that had grabbed him, but he was still surrounded, and now more were clambering through the rift.

The templar shut his eyes. It seems my exile is over. Father, your son is coming home.

He groaned when lightning struck nearby, causing him to see stars despite his closed eyes. A terrible crash followed, then the guttural growls of zombies losing their borrowed time. When the templar could see again, he found the walls around him to have collapsed, each stone burying one of the risen dead. Rhoas charged him, but they stumbled on the same blocks, breaking off their feet.

The skeleton archers gathered further back unleashed a volley upon him, and the templar looked up in fright. Just then, a mighty gust blew down, hampering the arrows’ flight: they fell upon the bonestalkers raising rusty weapons at him, shattering every last one and finishing off the rhoas.

Both the templar and the skeletal bowmen stared at the sea of bone dust and splinters in confusion, then they nocked new arrows — only to be smashed by earth elementals rolling up the road. The elementals, however, ignored him: the templar watched them carry on the same way they were headed, down the road towards the crypts.

He spun slowly, watching the scene of destruction. The undead legion had been decimated. He was safe.

The templar noticed a piece of cloth sticking out from between the rocks. He frowned: it was blackish blue, giving off a soft lustre even in the dim night. Some zombies wore clothes, but they were mostly as damaged as the bodies themselves; this strip seemed much too well-preserved to belong to one.

He lifted the stone slab, tossing it aside, and felt his heart freeze for a spell so long he nearly joined the denizens of Fellshrine.

There was no zombie under the slab, only a robe of blue and black, threaded with yellow and an ornate collar. Where it had come from, he couldn’t tell; perhaps it was hidden within the structures. He knew the robe, as did any exile, and raised it with shaking hands and bated breath. He ripped off his old tunic and cast it aside, standing bare in the rain as he admired the dress of thaumaturge Shavronne before wrapping himself in it.

Only then he realised a part of the wall still stood, the portion right behind him which was covered in vines. They had fallen as well, laying in piles like dead serpents, and the statue they had veiled stood proudly for perhaps the first time in centuries.

It was that of a man standing on a pedestal, stout in build, with a stern but gentle bearing. He did not smile, but there was a genial air to him. His arms were spread in a gesture of invitation, or perhaps a taunt given his armaments: in one hand he held a mighty gavel, in another an axe with a fanged blade.

The templar regarded the statue in reverent silence, then noticed an aged plaque at the base of the pedestal. He made to wipe at it with the sleeve of his robe, paused, rolled up the sleeve and used his arm instead.

“Arengeesus,” he read, raising his eyes to meet the statue’s. “Patron saint of exiles and fishermen.”

He stood there for a long while, lost in questions of faith. Eventually, he started back towards the road to where he’d left his mace, staying wary of the elementals that still had to lurk somewhere.

I am not ready to give up my God yet, thought the templar, uncovering the mace from under rhoa bones that looked as if they’d also met the rolling stones. But… perhaps He will forgive me for placing some faith in this deity of Wraeclast as well.

I have a feeling I owe him my life.

The duelist picked up another log, frowning at its soggy feel. With a sigh, he threw it in the fire pit — the wet logs did little to feed the flames, but a weak fire was better than none at all. But if this is the best we have, thought the duelist, it will starve within the hour, and we’ll soon follow.

He looked at each sullen face gathered around the fire. The pit’s glow shone in the dull eyes of the exiles; two men, two boys and two women, both of the last too old and homely for the duelist’s interest. Most were weak, one sick, and all hungry. They roasted the morsels of crab meat the duelist had scraped together, but there was barely enough to feed one, let alone the six of them. One had already perished, and another would go soon, victims of a malady that threatened them all unless the ailing were left behind. That thought had already been raised, and met with uniform resistance.

The exiles weren’t only weak of body, but will as well, or so the duelist felt. They pitied the boy because he was only five, much too young to be given up on. The duelist didn’t know his name, nor any of theirs, for the matter. He had already given up on all of them.

Yet I stay, thought the duelist, watching the boy cough feebly at his mother’s breast. Sharing my meagre findings with them, making sure the wildlife leaves them be while they gather these sorry excuses for kindling. I must be a better man I thought… or far more foolish. He scoffed at himself. On the wane in the name of duty. Daresso would be proud.

“Master swordsman,” spoke one of the elders. They still wouldn’t look him in the eyes, even after seeing what he did for them. Or, perhaps that was the reason: few men smiled while they reaped. The duelist turned to him, and the man said, “We’ve been thinking of making camp. This shore seems endless — we might as well stop here and live off the bounties of the sea.”

“A terrific plan!” said the duelist, standing up. He walked to where waves washed onto the barren beach, blending with the night as he stepped beyond the reach of light. His silhouette spread its arms towards stars. “I can already picture it! Yes, us merry few standing in line, sticks and twigs as fishing rods, hoping that a fish foolish enough to bite a line with neither bait nor hook would swim close. On this very shore, we will lay the foundation for a kingdom of fishermen that shall be remembered for a thousand years!” He spun, the tip of his rapier glinting in moonlight, and pretended to stab at shadows. “I shall be the sword of that kingdom, keeping us safe from the dead and the cannibals…” He let the sword fall. “That is, until hunger and sleepless nights leave me too weak to raise my sword.”

The elder shared a look with another beside him, frowning at the duelist. “We have little choice, master swordsman. The lad Tarris is too weak to go on. He needs rest, something you’ve denied him thus far.”

“I am not the one who denies his rest, elder,” the duelist said, picking up his sword and returning to the circle. “On the contrary, I recall being the only one to vouch for it.”

“Stop saying such things!” snapped the boy’s mother, gripping her son tighter. The duelist hummed, but said nothing further.

“If not stay, where should we go?” the elder went on when the silence turned uncomfortable.

The void for all I care, old man, thought the duelist. I would like to see Sarn before I die, those famed ruins and the fallen city. With so many mouths and so few hands capable of holding a weapon, we will all perish long before that.

He started upon catching something moving in the murk. His rapier was out in a flash, making the crone beside her flinch as well. “Master swordsman! Be careful swinging that so-…”

“Quiet,” the duelist hissed. He heard it now: sand shuffling, someone breathing. Someone, not something, and that made it all the more troublesome. Cannibals. Lovely. “Go. Hide in the crags like you did before.”

“More savages?” said the elder, eyes filling with terror.

The duelist kicked sand on the fire, dousing the last of it, and dropped in the exiles’ midst. “Go now, as silent, as fast as you can,” he said, in a whisper almost inaudible. He then straightened himself and thundered, “Ah! There is more fight in you! Good. I’ve never turned down a challenge for a rematch, and I shan’t begin now. Come out of hiding and face me!”

Even with his eyes adjusting to moonlight after losing the fire, the duelist could see his foe was not a barbarian. They were clad in metal, for one, the moon’s rays catching in the flat of a steel longsword. Further ahead, more swords left their sheaths.

Oh.

Well, this is interesting.

The first enemy raised his weapon, charging at the duelist. He was down the next instant, throat flowing open onto sand: bellowing a war cry while charging blindly had been an ill-planned move.

The others, however, were smarter. The duelist cringed when torches came alight, and he found himself faced with a squad of twelve soldiers — all clad in the armour of Oriath’s Blackguard.

Clearly not their finest, he thought with a sideways glance at the soldier gurgling at his feet. But they are quite a few. I wonder if this is the time when I run from a fight.

The soldiers shared uneasy looks when the duelist burst into laughter. He then took a fighting pose and said, “Not the most pleasant of arenas, but it will have to do.”

The Blackguard attacked, with as much grace as the duelist had expected. Their tactics were crude, their technique more so; he danced in their midst with little trouble, using their numbers against them. They tried to swarm him, but in doing so ended up dodging more of each other’s swings than the duelist’s, who merely steered them away from himself and at other soldiers. Two went down without the duelist touching them, but the space in the ranks was immediately filled by one of those standing back.

“Stop it, you fools!” the sergeant snarled. “Remember your training! Attack in unison, not as you please!”

The duelist grunted when he took a cut in the shoulder. He parried the follow-up, spun and ducked under the swing coming from behind, escaping the ring. This isn’t good, he thought. They’re dreadful, but I don’t have eyes on the back of my head, and the one block I miss will spell my doom.

He circled back, keeping himself from getting surrounded again, but the cut was deep and he was already fatigued from hunger. The soldiers were forcing him against a cliff, grinning as the duelist’s end became more imminent. I suppose Sarn must wait for another life.

Something swooped down the ledge, and a soldier cried out in agony. The duelist barely caught the movement when the daggers that had felled the first were buried in the throat of a second. Then, just as swiftly, a hooded man stood beside him.

“Who are you?” asked the duelist.

“An enemy,” answered the man.

“Of an enemy?”

“I’ve not decided yet.”

While the soldiers still gaped at their fallen comrades, a roar resounded from above. A Karui giant came flying down, crushing another unfortunate soldier and scattering the rest.

“You do not fight alone, exile!” announced the Karui. “Haku will stand with anyone who faces the dogs of Oriath!”

“They’re only three,” said the sergeant. “Back in formation! Take them out!”

The soldiers regrouped, but as soon as they had gathered, a circle of runes appeared below their feet. Surprised, they stopped, and the circle grew out to envelop them.

Then it exploded, flash burning the entire squad.

The sergeant dropped his sword in horror, watching the charred corpses of his men topple. He raised his eyes to the grey-bearded man and red-headed woman standing on the cliff, then at the warriors before him.

Then he spun and ran away.

“Coward! Your men spit on you in the spirit world!” Haku yelled after him, picking up one of the torches that still burned.

“That is a nasty cut, exile. Shall I tend to it?” said the woman, climbing down the cliff. Fair even by pre-Wraeclast standards, the duelist decided he already liked her.

“’Tis but a scratch,” said the duelist, “but if you have the supplies to spare, I won’t turn down triage from one as winsome as yourself.”

“We are running light in potions, Zana,” said the knife-wielding man.

“There is always one for a good man, Vorici,” Zana replied, offering the duelist a tincture.

“You say that only because he called you pretty,” said the bearded man. Zana returned a flat look.

“Do not tarnish the honour of a true warrior, Elreon,” Haku said, slapping the duelist on the back and knocking out his breath. “You have seen the people he protects. A lesser man would have left them to rely on their own luck.”

“Seen them?” the duelist said. “You’ve been following us?”

“No,” Vorici said, looking at the bodies. “We were following them. We caught sight of your band while scouting the area.”

“Their camp isn’t far from here,” Zana said. “We were preparing to raid it for supplies.”

“And must now hasten the plan, or flee,” Elreon said. “Knowing that we’re after them, they will make to retaliate.”

“Your people need medicine,” Zana said to the duelist. “They are bound to have some at the camp. Food, too.”

“You would have me join your raid?” said the duelist.

“You fight well,” Haku said, bowing. “It would be an honour to call you an ally.”

The duelist rubbed his chin, considering the offer. “I’ll need to tell the others they’re safe, and have them wait for my return somewhere.”

“But you will join us?” Elreon said.

“Aye, I suppose I will. It would be a shame to see the lad waste away after I’ve gone through so much trouble keeping him alive the past days.”

Zana smiled. “A good man indeed.”

A hungry man, but I needn’t spoil your praise with honesty.

“Then we must introduce ourselves,” Haku said. “Armourmaster Haku greets you.”

“Vorici,” said Vorici.

“I am Elreon, loremaster,” said Elreon, nodding.

“And I Zana, a cartographer.” She made a little shrug. “A talent of little use in battle, but I can hold my own with a sword.”

“That is a skill not to be taken lightly,” said the duelist, flourishing his blade.

“And what shall we call you, friend?” Haku asked.

The duelist spun the rapier, returning it to its sheath. “‘Duelist’ will do just fine.”

Captain Aetius dipped his quill in ink, yawtning as he reached for a new piece of parchment. His eyes were watery and only a stub remained of his candle, but he went on copying the scrolls into his journal despite the late hour. The men thought it was odd he had taken a scribe’s work for himself, but he didn’t care. It gave him something to do during the night. Sleep was out of question when the scar on his forearm itched.

It had first begun when the man who gave him the scar was captured, when Aetius was still a sergeant overseeing the dungeons. Every time he passed the cell and came under the cold, steely eyes of the assassin Vorici, he’d feel a prickle under his sleeve.

In all likelihood, the itch was only because of the surrounding dampness, both then and now… but Vorici had been exiled, and Aetius had never been comfortable with the night, even when it was dotted with the myriad lights of Oriath. Wraeclast was a dark land, truly dark, and he ordered more kindling to be brought to the fire pits in an effort to hamper its hold on him. He chose to believe the itch was a warning of the assassin’s presence, and being considered odd was a small price for not waking up with a dagger at his throat.

He looked up from his work when commotion came from outside. Taking the candle in one hand and his sword in the other, he left the tent. He found one of his sergeants running towards him, camp guards after the man.

“Captain!” said the sergeant. He stopped before Aetius, leaning on his knees to draw breath. “We found refugees nearby… Others appeared…”

“Others? What others?” Aetius said, feeling an irresistible urge to scratch his arm.

“One was the… the notorious duelist exiled recently—his name escapes me,” said the sergeant. “One called himself Haku, and there was a templar, and a man who moved as fast as a shadow…”

Aetius grunted, feeling his throat constrict. He glanced into the night around the camp, then forced himself to calm down. It was difficult enough to think with the little sleep of the past few days. Panic would do nothing to help. “Wake up the sleepers,” he said to the guards. “I want all men up and armed within the next two minutes.”

“Yessir,” said the guards and hurried off.

“Sergeant,” said Aetius, “did one of the men wield daggers? Cover his face with a hood?”

“Yes, captain. Cut down two of my men before I could blink.”

Only now Aetius realised the camp looked much too quiet for a squad to have returned. “Where are the rest?” he asked with apprehension.

“All dead,” said the sergeant.

—

Zana peered past the bushes surrounding the camp, watching the soldiers scurry awake like a nest of startled ants. They armed themselves in an efficient manner, but confusion soon settled in when they assumed battle stations and were faced with nothing.

“Hmh,” Vorici said, crouched beside her. “I remember the leader. He was posted in the city dungeon. Nervous type, seemed to wilt whenever we exchanged looks.”

A rustle came from nearby, and the duelist appeared. “There’s a supply wagon on the other side,” he whispered, “but a bunch of guards appeared before I could get close.”

“It’s going to be rough sneaking in with all the camp alerted,” Zana returned quietly. “We need a diversion. There’s too many of them to take head-on.”

“I could lay traps on the path and lure them out,” Vorici suggested. “You get what you can and head back to the exiles. I’ll meet up with you after I shake the Blackguard.”

“We shall do no such thing,” Haku said. He rested against a tree nearby, his mace propped between Elreon and himself.

“Keep your voice down!” Zana hissed.

Haku stood, lifting his mace on his shoulder. He walked in their midst, ignoring Zana’s scowl when he made no effort to hide. “Traps and deception are cowardly means. We will get what we need the Karui way, through conquest, and won’t do so quietly. They must know who slew them so they know whose name to curse when they meet their ancestors!”

“Don’t be foolish!” Zana said. “There’s thirty men, at least, and all fully armed! We can’t fight so many!”

Haku laughed, and the guards nearest started, peering into the darkness. “The dogs of Oriath are no match for us. You may be but a woman, Zana, but you are worth ten of them. A Karui warrior is worth a hundred!” He raised both his mace and his voice, bellowing, “For Kaom! For the Ancestors!” and ran towards the camp.

The duelist watched him smash down the surprised guards, turned to Zana, and shrugged. “I like his plan better.” Before she could object, he was halfway to the camp, sword flashing in the light of a campfire.

“I will take out the leader in the bedlam,” Vorici said. Zana’s head darted towards him, but the assassin was already gone.

Elreon strode to her and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said. “God will either see us victorious or welcome us with open arms.”

He, too, ran into the fray, channelling his flaming rune underfoot of the soldiers who dashed towards Haku and the duelist.

“I’d rather He send me a sane companion to join our band,” Zana muttered to herself, unsheathing her rapier.

—

Aetius spun at the sound of a thud and a cry, finding a giant barbarian breaking into the camp, mace swinging. “Stay with me!” he said, holding out a hand before his guards ran off. That is Haku, one of the exiles, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. His arm itched unbearably. And if Vorici was seen in his company… “We must get my paperwork! It mustn’t fall into enemy hands, and this may be a diversion!”

The guards cast an uneasy look towards the massacre, but when an explosion went off and their comrades screamed, they followed the fleeting leader.

Aetius burst into his tent, hurriedly gathering the spread parchments. “Quickly!” he said, shoving some of the scrolls to the first guard in. “If the enemies are not repelled, we may need to retreat. The scrolls hold vital information—they must get back to Theopolis!”

It was, of course, a lie. Everything in the scrolls he collected was copies of copies of copies, and he had only copied them into the journal himself out of sheer boredom. The guards seemed as eager as he was to get them to safety, however, and he didn’t feel a need to dampen their sense of duty. He returned for his journal, and froze when a gasp and a muted gurgle came from the guards.

He turned to find one of his men toppling, throat slashed, and the other with a hand over his mouth, eyes bulging. The hand released him, and the guard fell, revealing a familiar face stepping inside the tent.

Aetius paled; Vorici smiled. “There’s that look again,” the assassin said, pointing at the captain with his reddened dagger. “I thought I knew you.”

—

The duelist danced in the middle of a melee, constantly moving so that when an opponent fell, he engaged another one. They weren’t much better than the ones on the beach, and he kept to picking off single enemies while helping Zana when it looked she was overwhelmed. Her lack of training showed, but she kept the Blackguard distracted with the duelist while Haku and Elreon handled the brunt of the killing.

The duelist slashed a blackguard between the helmet and chain mail, coating his front with blood in the fashion of the renowned Redmane. He stepped beside Zana, guarding her flank from an approaching enemy while she evaded an incoming attack and pierced her opponent’s lung.

“You fight well, for a cartographer,” the duelist said.

“And for a woman?” she added, with as much teasing in her tone as her heavy breathing allowed.

“I wouldn’t dare condone Haku’s remarks,” the duelist said with a laugh, disarming an enemy and kicking him in the way of Haku’s mace. “The only fights I’ve had to flee from have been outside the arena, against foes shorter and far fiercer than myself.”

“Hah. My father was a man of peace, and a firm believer in the might of the pen,” she said, pausing to feint and grazing the throat of another Blackguard. Panicking from the light wound, the man jumped out of her reach—and into Elreon’s flameblast. “A pen will do in a pinch, but I always found it easier to stab someone with a sword.”

“I wouldn’t have thought mapmaking a trade where one often needs to do so.”

“Not often,” Zana admitted, “but having to do so just once is reason enough to learn, don’t you agree?”

“In the forefathers’ name!” Haku growled, driving his mace down and crushing the helmet—and most of the upper body—of the last Blackguard who hadn’t run. He rested the great weapon on the ground and leaned against, letting out a sigh. “You two talk far too much when there’s killing to be done!”

“Only to distract ourselves from the grim business!” the duelist said, wiping his blade on a piece of cloth cut from a Blackguard’s tunic. “Detachment is the only way to carry the guilt of killing a man.”

“Hardly worth calling men, these,” Zana said. “Hunting the sick and the weak like scavengers. We put them down as befits the vermin they are.”

“You’ve grown harder, Zana,” said Elreon, joining them from the sideline. “I’m not sure I like it. Even the Blackguard deserve absolution when slain. They are beyond our judgement now. God will see to their fates as is just.”

“They’re also beyond the need for this,” Haku said, inspecting the wagon a distance away. “Your people could use this. I can pull the weak with the help of the strong.”

“There aren’t many of the latter left,” the duelist said, rubbing his chin as he joined Haku. The Karui gave a guffaw and slapped the duelist’s back.

“What are we if not two oxen, my brother?”

The duelist grimaced. “Well, where would you pull them? There aren’t many roads left for our sorry band.”

“Perhaps we should return to Lioneye’s Watch with this,” Elreon said, inspecting the contents of the wagon. “They could make use of medicine as well.”

“It’s too far. We would be through the supplies by the time we get there,” the duelist said.

“I agree. We should tend to our friend’s people first,” Haku said. “He earned it for them, like a true leader.”

Not to mention dragging the wagon through the sandy shore would leave my back crooked beyond its years, the duelist thought.

“We’re jumping ahead of ourselves,” Zana said, looking around. “Has anyone seen Vorici since the fight ended?”

“He said he would go after the leader,” Elreon said, pointing at the tent on the far side of the camp. At its mouth was a corpse, laying halfway inside.

Vorici sat on a stool inside the tent, a Blackguard lying face down at his feet and a journal open on his lap. He didn’t look up when the others entered.

“There you are,” Zana said. “You had us worried for a moment.”

“It was quiet, and I heard you talking,” he said, turning the page. “You sounded calm. I trusted there was no urgency to flee.”

“What is this?” she said, circling him to get a look at the journal.

“Blackguard dossiers. It appears the captain had collected various documents into an easily accessible form.”

“Anything of interest in there?” the duelist asked.

“Yes, in fact,” the assassin replied. At last, he took his eyes off the book and turned to Haku. “Did I hear you talking about a wagon?”

“You have the ears of a bat, my friend. We did indeed,” Haku said.

“Most of this is pointless bureaucracy,” Vorici said, laying the journal on the table, “but it also mentions a location inland, the Sceptre of God, and links Dominus to it.”

“Sceptre of God,” Zana muttered, frowning. “I’ve heard the name.”

“It’s a lead worth pursuing,” Vorici said, “particularly because there is another point of curiosity along the way. It would appear the Blackguard weren’t looking for us, but an old library of the Templars. Do you know anything about it, Elreon?”

“Hmm,” Elreon said, stroking his beard. “Little, I’m afraid. I have read about it, but only in passing in texts regarding other landmarks in the area. The library was lost countless years ago, and there was never a consensus amongst my brothers whether it was legend or not.”

“Says here that they’ve located the approximate whereabouts,” Vorici said, tapping the page. “They took interest because the higher-ups think it houses a power of some sort.”

At this, the duelist perked up. “A power? You mean a weapon?”

“Another matter dividing opinions,” Elreon said. “Of the few that know about the place, some argue the relic held within caused its destruction, while others blame natural reasons—a disease, perhaps, or simply the monsters of Wraeclast—for its downfall. Both arguments have their merits and faults, and neither offers a full explanation as to why its location was forgotten. Some even claim it was a conspiracy, and the library was intentionally wiped off maps…”

“Be that as it may,” Zana said, interrupting the elder before his rambling got in full swing, “we have the coordinates, and it would provide shelter for the exiles, however temporary.”

“Perhaps they could stay there, and make it a home like Lioneye’s?” the duelist suggested. Zana shook her head.

“If the Blackguard have taken interest in the library, they’ll surely find their way there eventually.”

I’m never getting rid of the wretched folk. “Oh, of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It sounds like we have a purpose, at last,” said Haku, slapping his hands together. “Come, my friends! We have mouths waiting to be fed.”

“You weren’t serious about us pulling the wagon, were you?” the duelist said hopefully. To his dismay, Haku only laughed, beckoning him to his side in front of the wagon. The duelist sighed, but acquiesced.

“At least we’re not going to pull it through sands,” he groaned.

“Actually, we’ll be following the shore for quite some time,” Zana said, flipping through the journal.

“No need to look so gloomy!” Haku said when the duelist’s face fell. “It is excellent training!”