The Worship of Violence

A timid silence followed the eruption. The air, thick with fear, shuddered, then settled. A stillness filled the void, as if time had fled. The moon, spilling its crimson radiance through the ajar door, appeared to relish the prospect of carnage. The lively orphanage, now permeating a charnel calm, had reverted to a graveyard.

The world waited. Breathless. Unblinking.

The moonlight bouncing off half his profile had dyed his silver hair in blood, lending Zaile a profane visage. Shrouded in black, dagger raised promising slaughter, the newborn reaper released a long, raspy groan.

Despite the quiet, Zaile heard droplets, almost like those leaking through the attic that was his bedroom. Accompanying the dripping was a drizzle, though he could not make out the source of the sound. Golden shimmers, resembling tailor’s dust, flickered before his eyes. One blink later, hall was dark again.

Pain and weakness were now buzzing flies. Even the nausea and shuddering pulses tugging at his attention—warning him that he was bleeding time away—did little to dilute his bloodlust. He saw red. He smelt a sickly sweetness. He tasted copper. He looked about with wild, hungry eyes. He needed more.

The stasis shattered.

The girls collapsed like a row of human dominoes. The few who remained conscious merged into a trembling, crying heap. The Northroc henchmen dropped their trophies and ran for the moonlight. Tripping over themselves and the thin air, they writhed like oversized black maggots.

Zaile fell upon his prey before Wiz could even flinch. With surgical precision, his dagger slid across the man’s eyes. The scream was delightful. He then stomped at the unguarded legs, producing two more cries as the bones gave way. Cackling, Zaile sent his captive tumbling into the corner with a kick. This one, he would question later.

Wiz raised his arms once more. Only this time, the masked swordsman did not seem impossibly nimble. Zaile almost laughed. The man never had multiple limbs. It was all just a Curse playing tricks on his eyes. With a disdainful snigger, he pivoted, allowing the shivs to tickle his silver locks. He gave Wiz a baleful glare. This one, he would kill last.

Moving with bestial agility, Zaile tore through the fleeing men, leaving a trail of limbs and entrails. Before his dagger, their flesh was paper and their bones dry twigs. He didn’t even need a weapon to kill the last henchman. Instead, his hands converged on the man’s skull in a clap, squirting red from every orifice. Had human anatomy always been so frail? Was this how Solmis saw them?

Slowly, Zaile turned towards Wiz when his world spun. He teetered several paces forward like a certain Lord Peacekeeper before steadying himself. The hateful fire that heated his veins—no doubt now drained—was fading. Arms hanging limp at his sides, Zaile marched towards Wiz, resolving to slay the man quickly.

Wiz reached inside his robe for another shiv but thought better of it. His entire being still trembling from that pronounced reminder of his own mortality, he doubted he would hit a sack of flour, let alone this feral avatar of vengeance. Despite filling and emptying his lungs several times, he could neither stop his teeth from chattering nor his sword from shaking. Even the simple act of retreating became a treacherous balancing act. It dawned on him then that this could be his last fight.

Zaile charged once again into the waiting blade that had since lost its hypnotic sway. The wall of limbs no longer seemed an impossible obstacle, but rather, a series of awkward feints. Gone were the silky footwork and the cunning swordplay. Instead of cutting himself with each bullish lunge, Zaile burrowed under the languid slashes and swiped at the legs. This reply caught a backpedalling Wiz, who fought back a cry as the dagger opened his shin. Zaile grinned. His first lick was oddly satisfying.

The two continued their deadly dance across the open floor, with the taller man struggling to keep pace with the silver devil. High, low, left, right, Zaile’s dagger slipped through the defences like mercury. Several more probing pokes later, he began inflicting gaping gashes with increasing frequency.

Reeling and clutching his side, Wiz bounced half a step back into a lunging thrust. This errant attack lost him his sword arm. He stared at the stub in shock until a piercing weight punched through his chest. Coughing red, Wiz looked down at the dagger plunged into his sternum.

Zaile hurled himself into Wiz with a shrill cry, ramming the man into a wall before dragging his blade down. The torso unravelled with disturbing ease. Lips forming a maniacal grin, Zaile turned towards the front door as the corpse slumped to the ground. It was time to take back Prim.

Dizzy, he stumbled into the courtyard. The Graystar had just loaded Prim onto the cart. The outrage renewed a flame within Zaile. Tightening his fingers around the pommel, he readied a rush just as the kidnapper opened and held a lantern over Prim.

“Not a step closer,” yelled the Graystar, his voice quivering, “or she’ll be as pretty as you. Drop your weapon.”

Sniggering, Zaile advanced, as if to say “go ahead”. With his every step, he could see the Graystar’s growing panic. Zaile pressed on and levelled his dagger when his knees buckled. Almost annoyed, he grunted, straightened, and lumbered on.

“Stop!” shrieked the Graystar. “Stop—”

Prim stirred, opened her eyes, and screamed. She only grew louder as the Graystar tried to pin her down. As they tussled, the fat candle tumbled out of the lantern onto the girl, singeing her nightgown. Freeing her hands after much frantic thrashing, Prim snapped her fingers. The fire died, seemingly swallowed by the thin air before blooming into a blinding white sphere.

Curling up, Prim covered her ears as the Graystar squealed. There she lay, trembling with every sob as the man flailed. After some time, she ventured a peek at him and quickly close her eyes again. She burned him.

With the Graystar writhing in the dirt, Zaile edged forward. Another nauseous spell hit him. This time, it felt like an uppercut to the jaw. Falling flat on his face, Zaile crawled on, his fingers leaving troughs as he pursued the man who dared to touch Prim. Yet, he could but watch as the fleeing Graystar grew more distant. Eventually, even his vision began to swim.

“Zaile, Zaile,” the familiar calls carried a desperate tone. “Grace of Mercy, please, Zaile—”

The first thing Zaile saw was Prim returning his gaze, her face a teary mask. Looking around, he found amidst a circle of children with many knelt in fervent prayer. With a start, he groped for his dagger but found he lacked the strength to twitch even his fingers. Instead, he let out a low groan. All the pain he had ignored during his bloodthirsty rampage had returned, now keener than ever. The gash under his armpit was by far the worst, with his skewered foot being a close second. Prim’s thighs, which now served as his pillow, was the sole source of comfort.

“Be still,” whispered Prim, before shouting. “Where is Marcus? He’s going to—” She took a deep breath, and swallowed the last words that almost escaped her lips. “Zaile…I hurt someone.”

Without the strength to press her hand, Zaile settled for a nod. “Ruan?” 

“He’s here,” came a gruff voice. “Make way!”

Marcus, with Ruan at his heel, battled his way through the wall of children to Zaile’s side. Sporting a black eye, the healer dropped his haversack with an audible grunt. Brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line, he began rummaging through his bag.

“Grace of Mercy,” he muttered. “I swear Zunark spawned you brats to torment me!”

Zaile chuckled weakly before closing his eyes. Somehow, he felt one step closer to Solmis. You’re next. With that silent vow, his day came to an end. For the Templar he intended to hunt down, however, it was just the beginning. 

The gnarled giants of Arnos formed a circle around the foreign man who rested atop a stump. They rustled in fear and anger, though the former proved much louder than the latter. The flat wood that had become the stranger’s bed once belonged to a towering brother. They had to answer this insult in kind. But then again, this one had a blade darker than the night. And thus, they continued to deliberate.

“Herald of Zunark,” rumbled a deep voice that parted the trees. “Is this how you repay me for the sustenance and canopy I have thus rendered?”

“I lost a Lufeir because of your bumbling children,” replied Solmis without opening his eyes. “Thank the Ascendant that I have not made kindling of you.”

Peals of laughter shook the earth. “I have outlived both Zunark and Finnardi,” boomed the unseen speaker. “How foolish. A mortal who thinks he can threaten eternity.”

“You would call this survival?” Solmis scoffed and sat up. “Bound to trees and forever condemned to consume flesh and blood? Tell me, Arnos, was it the demon’s blood or the Ascendant’s divine ashes that drove you to such madness?”

Thick roots ruptured the earth. Erecting the sheathed blade, Solmis pressed on hand against the hilt and unleashed a burst of darkness, parting the tidal wave of mud. His defiant smirk faded. That was a warning. The wrathful eyes that lined the wooden tentacles told him he would not receive another.

“First came the rain that peeled flesh from bones,” snarled Arnos. “Then the ashes that turned creatures to mad beasts. We had no choice! And yet here you are, seeking to once again embroil my people in your foolish wars. Was unleashing two cataclysmic plagues not enough for you?”

Solmis gripped the pommel and furrowed his brows. The centuries of malice he saw in those ancient eyes pierced him like a hail of needles. Had his focus lapsed, the shock of the somatic illusion might have killed him.

“It’s been a while since a mortal had the insolence to withstand my gaze,” said Arnos, closing his eyes. “No wonder those Finnardians were no match for you.”

“I offered you fresh Finnardian meat,” replied Solmis, his voice taut with tension, “and sanctuary in our hallowed homeland. Am I to take this as your rejection?”

“Honey-coated lies,” Arnos chortled. The other trees joined in, echoing the same words. “Who are you, a lowly death dancer, to make such an offer?”

“You may be looking at the next Saint Bladestorm,” declared Solmis. “And should you aid in my ordeal, you will not only have a saint, but the Solwind clan as your benefactors. Surely, even this hermitage must know what that means.”

The wriggling tree roots dislodged more mud trapped in their creases. Solmis exhaled, falling flat onto his stump once more. Resisting the eyes had drained him. He last sweated like this walking the path of purging flames back in the temples. He had severely underestimated this heretic. Which begged the question: why had his instincts driven him to provoke this antiquated apostate?

The answer came in the form of a pale blur, weaving through the hissing trees that snapped at it to land next to Solmis. The Templar sat up. It was a bird of clay. The feather patterns on its wings, the unusually sharp claws that sank into the wood with a meaty thud, the elegant curve that defined the neck, all pointed to a sculptor who took great pride in their craft.

She lives!

He had always known this, of course. But now, this belief had evidence. Soft chuckles grew into hysterical laughter. Solmis covered his face in a vain attempt to hide his tears. He was not at Zohrenburg to break the siege. He had failed to join the pile of dust that had become his clan. He had not even avenged his liege after all this time. And yet, the Ascendant had bestowed upon him another chance.

“Ascendant my witness,” he managed between sobs. “I will bring her home! I—will—bring—her—home!”

“A Finnardian golem,” opined Arnos, extending his roots. “Have you other collaborators? Surely it couldn’t have found you unless…” The old tree trailed off before continuing in a more heated tone. “You used me.”

Solmis studied the bird with renewed marvel. It must have found him when both he and Arnos clashed. How did she manage to get her hands on a Finnardian contraption? When did she find time to engrave the clay with her signature flourishes? And how many did she send out before one made its way to him? But more importantly, what was she trying to tell him?

Ignoring Arnos, whose tirade sounded like a concert of tumbling boulders, Solmis began tracing the bird’s contour. As he had suspected, his finger soon found dents beneath its wings. Solmis sighed. The girl had always loved her riddles, just like her brother, who’d often offer him hints. Now, he would have to solve this without borrowed wisdom.

“You were always too clever for me.”

For that moment, Solmis forgot the world. The uncaring, crimson glare of the moon, the unrelenting night chill, the hissing and snapping tree, and every other sensation faded into irrelevance. He was a boy again, back in the Beram family forge, mulling over an arithmetic puzzle as sweat ran down his neck.

“You figured it out yet?” she asked, seated atop an old anvil.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Solmis replied without looking up.

She giggled. “And why is that?”

“This is no place for a lady from a distinguished clan.”

“If it’s good enough to forge papa’s blade, then it’s good enough for me to visit.”

“People will talk.”

“Who doesn’t? Let them.”

“But—”

“Instead of worrying about things that may or may not happen,” she interjected, pointing a finger at him, “why don’t you worry about the equation instead? My brother solved it when he was half your age.”

Solmis almost laughed, recalling the episode. After all this time, he was still better at dividing flesh with the blade than dividends by divisor. Fortunately, this particular puzzle had little to do with maths. When he finally found the sequence with which to press the indentations, the sun had risen. The clay bird, chirping twice as if in celebration, split into two halves, revealing the text carved into its interior.

“I’ve prepared a path into Sahjax,” Solmis read aloud. “Bring a large distraction.”

“I figured it out last night,” Arnos complained. “And couldn’t you have pried it open?”

“No,” Solmis snapped. “Now, I’m going to need some assistance.”

“And what do we stand to gain from incurring Finnardi’s wrath?”

“I’m going to bust the Settlement barrier open. Your children will get at least half a day to fill their bellies.”

“Very well,” agreed Arnos, to the shrieking joy of his trees. “Assist I shall.”

The ground quivered as the demonic elder dug into his roots, dislodging two eyeballs and tossing them at Solmis. The Templar grunted with apparent effort as he caught them.

“Plant these outside the accursed barrier,” instructed Arnos. “If they can’t break it, we leave. Understood?”

Solmis smiled.