A Warring Cry

Ignoring a foot fetish jab, the Templar unlaced Tiana’s boots, which came loose with a sickening squelch. The stench of blood was unmistakable. The earlier burst of speed flayed her feet raw, ripped off the nails, and shattered her toes. Her Curse had collected its toll.

“Zunark’s whore!” Tiana screeched. “You trying to rip them off?”

Solmis lifted an arm as if to slap her, but allowed the limb to fall. Instead, he bowed his head in apology. He knelt next to her, clasped his hands together, closed his eyes, and became a living statue.

“I am virtue,” Solmis whispered after a lengthy silence. “I am benevolence. I am life.”

The smooth, hypnotic tone swept away Zaile’s fear, the last crutch keeping him upright. Collapsing onto the ground, Zaile let out a great sigh of relief. Though exhaustion tried to close his eyes, curiosity drew them towards Solmis. The demonic butcher they met in the Deadwoods was now a priestly healer resembling the Envoy of Mercy. Is this divine contraction of lenity and annihilation the secret of Zunarkian might?

The Templar kindled anew, this time like the gentle flame in a hearth. Zaile felt a warmth coursing through his veins, banishing aches and fatigue he did not know of. Scratches and cuts vanished, leaving Zaile to prod at skin and flesh made whole.

Once Solmis finished his silent prayer, he marshalled the flame onto his fingertips. With the caring, deliberate hands of a midwife, the big man massaged Tiana's feet. As he did so, the burning liquid oozed from its master onto the patient, licking at the appendage before devouring it whole, causing Tiana to tilt her head back and close her eyes.

“Just what are you doing?” asked Tiana, perhaps feeling more inquisitive now that she is no longer in pain.

“A divine blessing,” replied Solmis. “Regeneration. Treasure it.”

“Why are you here?”

“Vengeance.”

“Krugo?” Zaile spoke up at last.

The warm light trembled, as if the name stirred an ancient grudge. Solmis met his eyes with such intensity that Zaile flinched. Then, as if to repress the baleful monster within, the Zunarkian bit his lower lip and turned his attention back to Tiana.

Hush!

Zaile blinked as the thought ricochetted between his ears. Tiana leered at him and pursed her lips while pointing to her feet. The boy shrugged. How was he to know the volatile nature of the Templar’s sorcery?

Tiana let out a frightened gasp as her feet dissolved into a quivering mass of blood, flesh, and bones. The Zunarkian maintained his vice-like grip, gentle but firm. Fingers, strong and nimble, waded through the primordial clay, began reshaping the ankle. Stopping occasionally to wipe sweat from his brow, Solmis continued to knead the feet before abruptly withdrawing his hands, snuffing out the blaze with a flick of his wrists, leaving only the scarlet moonlight to illuminate the arid wilderness.

“Walk.”

Tiana needed a moment to close her jaws. Her feet were not healed, but rather, recreated with painstaking attention that captured every detail. Even the grey swirls on her toe, the mark of her Curse, was faithfully recreated. After a few testing steps, she broke into a sprint followed by a series of cartwheels and somersaults.

“The Ascendant has rewarded your valour and strength,” deadpanned Solmis. “Flight is truly a magnificent gift.”

“You forced my feet, what can I say?” Tiana was snide.

“You were corrupted by wanton avarice,” Solmis snorted in contempt. “That’s hardly my fault.” He then stabbed a finger at Zaile. “Now, where will I find Krugo?”

In that brief eternity, Zaile wondered whether he should lie to Solmis or betray Krugo. It was an impossible choice between the grand sabre and the purging lights: a decapitated corpse or a pile of dust. His eyes darted from the Templar to the huntress, but the question got no easier. In the end, he chose immediate survival.

“Sahjax.”

Zaile sensed a pair of eyes boring deep into his soul, stripping him naked. It took every bit of courage he had to return the gaze. Solmis cocked his head to the side, almost like a Freak sizing up livestock before closing in, swallowing Zaile in his shadow.

“The Ascendant has ordained me to bestow you a boon,” said Solmis with a voice that could freeze ice. “Give voice to your desire, faithless child.”

The relief, still fresh on Zaile’s tongue, soured as the taste of new fear crept into his mouth. Was this a trap? What gift could this zealot, addicted to murder rites, possibly give him? He licked his parched lips and lifted a tentative finger, pointing to the grand sabre. He had half expected Solmis to give him the Rondel treatment when the Templar reached for the blade. Instead, Solmis presented the weapon with both hands. Zaile’s eyes devoured every single detail, from the frayed leatherwork on the pommel to the smooth raven scabbard. For a moment, Zaile thought he heard something humming inside the sheath. Shaking from awe and dread, he reached for the demonic steel that beheaded a Guardian.

The moment Solmis unhanded the sword, the world fell.

Weighing more than a dozen anvils, the blade plummeted like a thunderbolt, almost slamming Zaile into the ground. Grimacing, Zaile massaged his aching shoulders with numb fingers while Tiana exploded with laughter. Solmis scratched at his thick beard, pensive.

“In unworthy hands does the blade weep,” he said. “Mayhap my voice will better fit your mortal shell.”

Zaile feigned disdain, wrinkling his nose. The horror Solmis inflicted was still fresh. Merely standing in the Templar’s presence had sweat dampening his collar. Could he strike such fear into his enemies?

“The warrior’s spirit precedes his steel,” said Solmis. “A divine call to rally allies, and a fiendish roar to cull foes.”

This time, Solmis unleashed a low growl that rumbled like a mountain. Zaile roared as wild might surged through his veins. He was certain that he could pound a Freak to dust with a single punch. Then, just like that, the power left faded, leaving Zaile so hollow that he sagged to the ground.

“Seven times will you greet the morning sun with blazing courage,” Solmis chanted. “Seven times will you bay for the blood of the waning moon. No more, no less, with heart and without fail.”

With that, Solmis turned away. Tiana joined Zaile as they watched the Templar fade into the gloom. She pressed her breasts into his shoulder and breathed down his neck, relishing in his discomfort.

“I’ve always heard the western demons were dangerously beautiful,” she whispered, stopping short of nibbling on his ears. “Heresy just got a lot more attractive.” Her fingers dug into his shoulder. “So, what will we tell the others?”

Zaile sensed a veiled threat rather than a friendly warning. Still, it was a timely reminder that the danger had not passed. He didn’t need a theology lesson to know he had committed sacrilege. One whisper to the Blades in the Peacekeepers, and he would be on the first available catapult, hurtling head-first into the Sahjax barrier.

“Nothing.”

“Good answer,” Tiana chimed as she reclaimed her bloodied boots only to toss them away in disgust. “This will be our secret,” she giggled with malicious mischief. “How deliciously sacrilegious.”

Zaile made a face as they jogged back home. Their flight from the Deadwoods had veered them well wide of Sahjax. Betrayal could come later. For now, they needed to survive the returning journey. Given all the colourful tales Zaile heard about nighttime Freaks, he did not like their chances.

“If you see anything in the distance,” said Tiana, as if reading his mind. “Run. You don’t want to fight Freaks at night.”

“Why?”

“Ask Kannu. It’s his favourite pastime.”

The unlikely pair continued their homeward journey at a steady trot. Zaile kept looking back. The constant head turning soon left him with a sore neck and feeling rather foolish.

“You born in the Settlement?”

“No.”

“Figures. Something that nasty must’ve come from Zunark direct. Where’d they get you?”

Zaile tapped his chest. “Heart.”

“I don’t even remember how I got mine. You still got a family?”

Zaile gave an affirming grunt.

“Guess you had more of Mercy’s grace than me,” said Tiana. “I had a son.”

He frowned. “Had?”

“Born pure.”

Zaile’s stomach churned. No matter how many times Marcus regaled him with such tales, it sent ice crawling down his neck. While a Curse would condemn a child to toil in the Settlement, unafflicted children went into Finnardian custody. Tiana might speak with resignation, but Zaile wasn’t sure he could suffer the cruelty without reaching for a weapon.

“You tried anything else aside from hunting?” she asked, changing the subject.

Zaile shook his head. “You?”

“The Blades sold me to a local business. Too late to save me but in time to exploit my misfortunes.”

“But…”

“Yes, the Divine Finnardi frowns upon prostitution,” Tiana mused. “But we’re not Finnardians, are we?” A mirthless cackle punctuated her speech. “I’ll have you know the noble warriors of Mercy spared no coins to join me in bed, or the back alleyway for that matter.”

Unable to restrain himself, Zaile chuckled.

“You know what they say when they’re with me?” Tiana went on. “It gives them something to confess on Penance Day.”

This time, they both laughed.

The clouds had veiled the moon when Zaile sighted Sahjax, the prison he had called home. After spending a full day out in the vast wilderness, unmolested by Freaks, the mere thought of entering the cage sent spiders scuttling under his skin. Yet, behind the Finnardian enchantment that would reduce him to dust, was Ruan. Zaile stopped, turned around and gave one longing look to the horizon. It was then he realised that he would never be free of this place.

His heart sank further when he found a horde of white coats prowling the city gates. There were three Guardians inspecting their array of men. The air crackled with nervous energy as the Blades chorused their prayers. Lowering his head, Zaile scuttled past the formation, trying to still his chattering teeth.

Euphon accosted a greying Guardian, who appeared more concerned with the Apprentice than his report. A few paces away, Ferric sat next to a sprawled Kannu. Smiling weakly, the Graystar gave Zaile a tired wave. Before Zaile could respond, Tiana hurled herself onto the large hunter.

“Mercy, girl,” Kannu chuckled, wrapping an arm around her. “What took you so long?”

“Detour,” said Tiana. “When did you guys get here?”

“Long enough for the lording to start bickering with the bureaucracy,” said Ferric, pointing go Euphon. “But not quite long enough for them to heal –”

“Paid?” Zaile interrupted.

Ferric shook his head. “No.”

The icy dread turned Zaile’s hands into sweaty fists. With this many Blades around, any suspicion of heresy could spare Euphon of the promised remuneration. His suspicion heightened when an old Guardian stumbled towards them in place of the Apprentice. Zaile wrinkled his nose as the veteran drew close. Had his eyes not water from the overwhelming stench of liquor, Zaile might have found the Finnardian’s command over his faculties most impressive.

“Grace of Mercy, my dear Fallens,” the Guardian managed his slur so well Zaile almost mistook it for an accent. “Euphon did say to expect two more hunters. Well, that’s two less bodies to recover. I’m Quinton, Lord Peacekeeper of Sahjax.”

The frail and lanky drunkard could hardly manage a salute without swaying under the influence of alcohol, much less wield a weapon. Three rusty pins sat upon the fading silver collar, aged trophies for pious gallantry long past. The bald grip and old scabbard bore silent witness to the countless battles he survived. Pinching his nose, Zaile wondered how much warrior was left in this walking wineskin.

“I remember you,” Tiana sneered. “I have yet to properly thank you for helping my son into the inner circle, Lord Peacekeeper.”

Tiana scowled when Quinton appeared to not hear her. He waved over two blue collars and pointed to Ferric and Kannu. The Acolytes looked at each other, confused.

“Heal them, you dolts!” Growling, he smacked each one on the shin with his sheathed sword.

The men hobbled as they drew traced patterns in the dust, murmuring as they worked. Quinton observed the two for a brief moment before he lost interest, burping loudly. Perhaps embarrassed by his display, the Guardian straightened and cleared his throat.

“They’re still learning,” Quinton garbled. “Euphon insisted you have this for assisting in his Finnardian duties.”

With some fumbling, Quinton placed a velvety pouch into Zaile’s eager hands. The hunter unravelled the strings and held up a token to the moonlight. Gold. Zaile brightened and poured more coins into his shaking palm, his smile widening with each clink.

“Grace of Mercy,” Tiana seemed determined to make her prayer blasphemous. “How will we ever repay your generosities?”

“Do you two not require healing?” Quinton asked. “Your friends seem to have suffered some substantial harm.”

“We’re fine,” Tiana replied curtly.

“That demon killed four of my men,” the Lord Peacekeeper said, tilting his head in feigned confusion. “Yet you escaped him, unscathed. How?”

The question hit Zaile like a punch to the ribs. In his panic, he dropped a gold coin and scrambled after it. As he faked another count, Zaile stole a glance at Tiana. The woman, toying with her hair like a little girl, was in no hurry to answer.

“Did you need me dead?” Tiana sniggered. “If so, then I apologise for the inconvenience.”

Quinton scratched his wiry sideburn while his eyes darted between the two Fallens, eventually settling on Tiana’s feet. Zaile could feel his pulse racing. Could the Guardian perceive Zunarkian sorcery?

“You’ll need more gold if you want me to step on you,” Tiana declared aloud and wiggled her toes. “What’s it going be, Lord Peacekeeper?”

Her provocation drew a few chuckles from the Blades. Zaile peered over his shoulders to find the Lord Peacekeeper still locked onto Tiana’s feet. Was it the alcohol, or expert caution that slowed this inspection?

“I’m going to charge you if you keep staring,” Tiana said irritably. “Or were you expecting a bribe?”

Quinton yawned, wiped away a tear, and resumed gazing at the feet. Then abruptly, he straightened and lifted his sword. Zaile recoiled, half-expecting the Guardian to shave off Tiana’s toes. Instead, Quinton fumbled the weapon several times, forcing a blue collar to fasten it to his belt before he could slice off his own fingers.

“Let the good folks through,” Quinton declared, turning to his men. “Now steel yourself. If Mercy will it, we may yet avenge Rondel.” The Lord Peacekeeper showed Tiana a faint smile. “Whoever did that was very skilled.”

Tiana felt a swarm of hands tightening around her throat, leaving her gasping for air. Her lips parted, but thoughts of fire and brimstone made forming a sentence impossible. The pale woman watched helplessly as the Lord Peacekeeper joined his men. Sensing something amiss, Kannu raced to her.

“What's wrong?” he snarled, gripping his axe. “He hurt you?”

“No,” Tiana whispered, pressing his arm. “I’m...tired.

“That,” said Kannu, sweeping Tiana off her feet, “I can help with.” He tipped his chin at Zaile. “Pay her.”

Zaile pocketed five coins and tossed the bag at Tiana. With that, the hunters made for Euphon. The Apprentice, stationed next to the barrier pillar, stared after his departing seniors. Sensing the approaching hunters, he quickly unknotted his brows and straightened.

“Grace of Mercy,” Euphon said, his voice drooping with his shoulders. “Hurry in. I must erect the barrier afterwards and –”

“Meeting. My place.” Ferric interjected, like a pugilist delivering a well-prepared counter.

“Now?” Tiana raised her voice in exasperation, almost wriggling out of Kannu’s arms.

“Of course,” Ferric made another punchy reply. “In defeat lies wisdom.”