TALLOS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dawnstar stood low in the darkened sky, taunting Tallos with its presence. He paid it no mind, instead inhaling the sweet-smelling air, enjoying it for the first time since having gone underground. The scent that flooded his nostrils and chest brought back the memory of the day he had first approached Leona as she struggled to wash her family’s clothing in the cold. Some small respite it is that I should die enjoying the same perfume of early winter snow and chimney smoke.

But he was not merely to die. A bonfire had been built for the sole purpose of his destruction. After the men had determined fire to be the only suitable means of snuffing out his existence, a healthy debate had begun over how best to accomplish the task. The typical execution by burning was achieved by simply starting a fire under the prisoner staked above a mass of wood. The dissenters argued that they had seen such burnings take place before, and that the stake often weakened and broke before the flames had consumed the body. Their fear was that Tallos might simply fall to freedom prior to his body being devoured fully by fire and turned to ash—the only way to be sure he’d truly been dispatched. The plan that was settled upon was to first build a massive blaze, chain him to a stake, and hoist him, not above, but directly into the center of the conflagration.

It was perhaps a more humane method, but it made no difference to Tallos. His recollection of the pain he’d endured when setting his own home alight had not faded so much as the scars that it had left. And those scars were as clear and gruesome to his own eyes as they were to the many who stared at him.

It was no mystery to him why they thought him a demon—it was, after all, exactly what he had intended to become. But his failure in that task was now utterly complete. The fact that he’d eaten human flesh meant little. He imagined most would have done the same if faced with starvation. The taste was far from unpleasant, and it was made easier for him, able to eat in the comfort of darkness.

There was, however, a mystery that Tallos now pondered. As he sat naked, cold, and in chains, kept alive only by the heat of the fire that would soon kill him, he could not help but wonder how this camp existed as it did. Of the hundred or so men here, he counted no more than a dozen who were those in charge of conscription. The rest all complied with the orders of these few men, their new masters, as if there was no alternative. The men of the village had even been armed with swords and shields and received instructions on their proper use. Should they choose to, the armed villagers could easily overwhelm the few who had originally forced them into this fate worse than slavery—for slaves were not marched into death with the same haste that Otis promised his conscripts, giving these men even more cause to fight.

“Otis, make sure your miserable recruits are alert in case we have need of their blades.” Gepner had remained in command and had been barking orders ever since Tallos was deemed a demon. “Erik, go get the scribes from notes and queries, all of them. Half of them probably can’t write worth a damn, and I want what takes place here kept record of.”

The skinny man that ran to fetch the scribes shared little in common with the Erik Tallos had known. He tried to remember his large, red-speckled friend, but every image formed in his mind was of Erik clutching his neck, blood spurting from between his fingers. How much of that was my fault, and not the gods’? Little difference it made now, but little differences seemed to be what consumed his thoughts—and what likely consumed all men’s thoughts before dying, Tallos imagined.

When the wind shifted, the heat of the bonfire became more than Tallos wanted or needed for warmth, awakening his deadened skin in anticipation of the torture that awaited him. Tallos reminded himself that he had lost everything, and with nothing left to lose, he no longer had need of fear. But the crackling pyre with flames reaching overhead made clinging to this notion rather difficult.

Near a hundred village men with shields and swords in hand were lined up next to the bonfire. Otis stood in front with a look of reproach. Tallos’s ordeal had kept Otis from his intended time with Lily, Gepner having ordered him and his conscripts to keep vigil over the captured demon. Though Otis stood a fortress in his water-hardened leather, Kelgun had shown the man to be mortal. Twenty or so recruits would be more than enough to topple him and find a seam in his armor or smash his helmless head.

The four mounted men-at-arms were in their own group, chatting amongst themselves, butts still in their saddles. Occasionally they would all glance at Tallos and laugh or frown. These men presented the biggest threat should the villagers rebel. Their long-pointed halberds were the perfect weapons for dispatching unarmored foes from a distance. If the villagers were to acquire the weapons for themselves, however, they would serve equally well for countering the mounted men, pulling them down with the hooked side or merely impaling their charging horses with the sharpened tip.

A slow procession of old men with quill jars and parchment followed the man called Erik back to his place at Gepner’s side. Tallos found he was relieved to see Wilkin was among them and unharmed. Another group of villagers, mostly women and children, streamed in from the opposite direction. Tallos thought he saw Dusan and Lily among them, but he could not be sure. He scanned the infantry in hopes of finding John but saw no sign of him. Tallos had seen him removed from the gibbet far sooner than expected and hoped he would have gone directly into infantry without further punishment. The more friendly faces, the better my chances of escape. Tallos realized he had no intention of dying without a fight.

It seemed the time had come. The two mailed men who had cast aside their weapons in order to fashion Tallos’s crossed stake had completed the task. They spoke quietly to each other, glancing nervously toward Tallos.

Gepner approached. “Stop your gossiping and break the demon’s chains near the ground.”

“Shouldn’t we stake him first?” asked one of the stake’s proud constructors.

“Just do as I ask,” Gepner spat, then looked to Tallos smugly. “There’s been a change in plan. Otis, have a few of your recruits wheel over the gibbet.”

Tallos did not need any more reason to hate this provisioner. His loathing had grown by bounds when Gepner had begun to pray to the Mighty Three shortly after passing judgment on Tallos. Finally I find one deserving of my wrath, but I have little means by which to make him feel it. Tallos’s fate rested solely in the hands of the villagers. With the hundred or so that had just joined the onlookers they were easily two hundred strong, whereas there were only nine of those who commanded them present.

Tallos stood and faced them. “Men and women of the Fourpaws,” he began, “I am not the demon these men have judged me to be.”

“Let me shut him up,” growled Otis. “I want to see a man burn, not hear a boring speech.”

“No,” said Gepner. “Let the demon speak. All can see what he is. We have no reason to fear his words.”

Otis grunted his disapproval.

“I am a Fourpaw man, the same as you. My village was destroyed by a small raiding party of Northmen.”

The two men responsible for Tallos’s staking began to bang away at the chains that were anchored into the earth. The noise made it difficult to be heard so he was forced to shout.

“They killed my friends, my wife, and my dog. Everyone I knew was murdered or worse. Everything I ever built or owned was burned to the ground.”

“Then why do you still live?” It was Otis who challenged him. And the question singed Tallos as much as any fire.

“Because I was a coward. Just like all of you. I thought to fight, but I hesitated. And then, when the fighting started, I ran.” Tallos had decided to take some liberties with his story, but the sentiment remained. “Had we all raised arms together against the few men who came to destroy us, we would have suffered losses, but we would have won. And those of us who died would not have died in vain. These men who hold you captive are no better than the Northmen that attack us. They come and demand from us our money, our service, our lives, and they offer nothing in return.”

Tallos had expected to see some nodding in the crowd, but they were all motionless. “Do not make the same mistake that our village did and allow so few to destroy so many. You men with the swords—protect your wives and children. Sir Kelgun, show these men what courage is, and lead them against these oppressors!”

The clanging of the men working on his chains stopped. Tallos looked at the group of unarmed women and children, trying to gauge if his words had had the intended effect, expecting at any moment for just one of them to raise a cry causing all others to follow in rebellion. Lily and her brother Dusan were close enough that he could tell for certain it was them. The boy stared at Tallos with sad eyes, but Lily only looked down. Tallos looked at the other faces surrounding them, but they were all much the same. That was to be expected; they were the meek ones—too weak even for arrow fodder.

Tallos looked to the center where the scribes stood. All of them wrote busily save Wilkin. He thought he saw the old man nod at him. Was it a nod of respect or apology? It was impossible to tell. In any case, the scribes would be of no use. Their quills carried no power here.

Tallos turned his attention to the armed villagers. They were motionless as well, save for some fidgeting. It would only take one man to charge Otis and the others would assist him in felling the giant. How many of their friends had they already seen maimed in training? And how many would survive an actual battle? Kelgun had shown courage earlier, and now with the potential aid of so many others there was little reason for him not to attempt one last time, perhaps earning his title of sir in truth. But when Tallos looked at him all he saw was a beaten man whose scorn was directed now at Tallos instead of his captors. I should not have called him by name. That was foolish. Tallos searched instead for John. That was a man with true honor, even if he was no swordsman, but he was nowhere to be seen among the many faces.

A deep laughter came forth. Otis had his arms crossed upon his belly and each hearty guffaw pushed them up and down again. He did not even seem to care that he had his back to the mass of armed men that Tallos had just dared to kill him. Nor was it Tallos he truly laughed at. The man knew battle, and he knew the men that waged it bravely. Behind him were no such men; even Tallos could see that now.

“These men fight for Rivervale, not for darkness,” said Gepner. “Put the demon in the cage, and let us see this done with already.”

Tallos tried to imagine what he must look like addressing this crowd of people. Lit by the flames that would soon consume him, covered by self-inflicted scars of a horrific nature, and completely naked, he had just pleaded with them. He wanted to burst into laughter as the two men who had severed his chains grasped him by either arm, but his hatred presided and would not allow it. The fire that he was about to be thrown upon paled in comparison to the one that built within. He loathed the weakness of these people, and loathed himself for having once shared that weakness.

He flexed the muscles of his arms, slowly building tension between the two that held him. His stay underground had withered him and each man to his side was easily stronger than him, but he did not let it impede his struggle. He pulled harder still, fueled by his hatred, he aimed to crush these two men together, but they were simply too strong. They only pulled his arms further outward, painfully so, and attempted to hoist him into the gibbet that had arrived. Tallos grabbed them by their tabards holding as tightly as he could and fought to remain uncaged.

“By the light of the Dawnstar’s crack,” one yelled. “Someone help us.”

Otis moved forward with a look of pleasure. His slow, confident stride brought him face to face with Tallos. “Do you think I fear you? I know you are just a man. Now be good, and let them coop you…” Otis put both his hands behind Tallos’s skull, lacing his fingers together. “Or I’ll be forced to hurt you.”

Otis was moments away from driving his head into Tallos’s face, but that was not what bothered Tallos most. The leather-clad behemoth’s breath stank of rotten meat, completely replacing the pleasant scent of smoke and snow. Was it one such as you that raped Leona? The thought of this smirking pig having his way with her was more than he could bear. Tallos inhaled the putrid air, allowing it to fill him with rancor. He would let his wrath be heard one final time.

He was too late. Otis was no patient man, and his bald, sweaty crown was already on its way to smash out Tallos’s teeth. Tallos began to scream in rage, hopeful that he would be heard before being knocked asleep, or at least that he may awake to the sight of some of his teeth embedded in his attacker’s forehead.

A torrent of flame shot from Tallos’s mouth, the force of which sent Otis flying backward. Tallos did not wait to see the hulking body hit the ground before first turning to the guard on his left and then to his right, howling flame at them as they each were ripped from his grasp. He dropped the scraps of their tabards from his hands and marched to his next victim, not scrutinizing the absurdity of these events he must be dreaming, only eager to exact his vengeance.

Gepner was a coward of a man. Tallos already knew as much. The hefty provisioner pushed Erik to the ground as he turned to run from Tallos, but in doing so tripped over himself and tumbled.

“Mountain’s mercy,” he cried. “Please, spare me.”

Tallos grabbed Gepner by the loose mail on his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. “I will show you the same mercy the Mountain showed my village.”

Smoke began to rise from under Gepner’s mail, and he shrieked with horror. Fire burst from his chest, setting his beard alight. Tallos released him, allowing him to run and fan the flames. Tallos then slammed his foot on Erik as he wriggled on the ground beside him, reaching for a blade. The thin bones of the man’s wrist snapped, and he whimpered. Tallos put him out of his misery with expedience, willing his head to combust. Erik’s eyes first reddened, then blackened, then burst.

Tallos turned to where the horsemen had been, but they were nowhere to be seen. He focused his attention instead to the armed men of the village, the beast of retribution still hungering inside him. They deserve to die for their cowardice.

Pandemonium had spread. Men and women scattered in all directions, but mostly away from Tallos. A man in plain clothes and with a sword in hand ran past him—one of the cravens. Curious, Tallos allowed him to continue on his course and was not surprised when he saw his destination was a fair-looking woman. She was dressed much the same as most women of the Fourpaw villages, much the same as Leona had dressed. Her long hair must have been knocked loose during the commotion, as she would have no doubt worn it in the more modest and customary folded tail when in the presence of strange men. It flowed in the soft breeze as had Leona’s, and when the man embraced her, Tallos felt the pang of anger. He had not forsaken his gods to save cowards from the very fate he had suffered himself.

Tallos blew hellfire from his lungs, engulfing the couple from many paces away. He did not pity this man who had allowed his village to be despoiled and then refused to answer Tallos’s call for insurrection. And he did not pity this woman, a weakling creature, her path never decided by her own actions but by others, namely the one she called husband—a man likely to have been chosen for her by her parents.

I am Nekasr, and around me the world burns.

As the woman was consumed by flame, Tallos’s thoughts betrayed him. The face that disappeared into the red death became Leona’s.

I will not be deterred by illusion, he told himself, and continued his assault.

His storm of fury hid her from sight, but it did nothing to stifle her soft yet audible lament—anguish that sounded no different than those times he’d been unable to ease Leona’s suffering, when she’d lost her younger sister and when Lia had run off.

As the woman’s cries persisted, Tallos’s will to commit this first of many atrocities persisted in kind. The gods he loathed would have no choice but to notice an act so vile as this. When he allowed his flames to cease, all that would remain would be their two bodies, charred to black, together in their final embrace.

The thought suddenly repulsed him. This man had at least made it to his wife in time to shield her. Where was I when Leona needed me? On a fool’s errand, one she’d warned me not to take. This man may have been too timid to fight, but at least he had run to be with her in death. He is a hero compared to me.

Tallos hardened his resolve, refusing to stop what he had begun. It was too late to, in any case. But his creeping doubt made him finally question what it was he was becoming. Seemingly boundless power rushed through him, making him feel invincible—godlike. The realization stifled him.

Tallos inhaled, trying to suck the hellfire back within himself, back where it belonged. He could almost hear the gods laughing at him, mocking him. This act of killing a defenseless couple had not made him feel as though he had provoked the gods—he felt more as though he had become their instrument.

As the blinding light went dark, so did the world. Tallos was thankful he could not yet see, but he would not run from what he had done; he would stay and look upon it. In his mind, he could still hear the woman’s lamentation. It sounded of grief and emotional despair, not physical suffering, and it confirmed for him, albeit far too late, that killing the meek did not suit his cause. Forsaking the laws espoused in the names of the gods would not draw their ire—those laws were spurious decrees that the gods themselves broke with their every breath. I must find a more deserving recipient of my wrath.

It was worse than he had expected. As his vision returned he saw movement—he had not killed them. Lia’s sad eyes assailed him from his memories. Knowing that he would have to end their suffering just as he had ended hers struck him with weight, but he would not neglect his duty, nor would he delay it.

He turned from them and walked toward where he knew a weapon sharp enough to see the task done quickly would rest. He saw only dark shapes, his eyes still fearful of allowing in more light, but he made out the mound that was his aim. As Tallos neared Otis’s corpse, he saw another figure knelt beside him. Tallos willed his eyes to adjust, but the kneeling man jumped back before he could be identified.

“Stand back, mage.”

The man had the gleaming weapon raised, threatening to swing down. The voice was strong, so much so that Tallos might have mistaken him for a brave man, had he not recognized it.

“The sword, Kelgun.” Tallos extended his open hand. As his sight returned, he saw the fear on Kelgun’s broken face, one eye swollen shut and his cheek scabbed over. The knight reluctantly surrendered his blade, presenting it to Tallos hilt first. Under other circumstances it may have amused Tallos, but there was no humor to be had in the task to come.

With downcast eyes, Tallos walked back to his scene of foul carnage. He suppressed emotion as the snow gave way to the bare earth exposed by his flames, knowing their bodies, blackened and writhing, would soon follow.

Their death will not have been for nothing, decided Tallos. This will serve as my lesson and eternal reminder. Tallos still felt the power surge within himself, its source unknown but seeming somehow external. He would ponder that later. He owed these two victims something: to name for them who would receive his retribution in their stead.

That the woman remained able to weep so elegantly confused him. She did not sound as though she were near death, and when Tallos’s eyes found her, nor did she look it. Though her husband still hid her with his body, Tallos saw her face. Nowhere near as beautiful as Leona, she still had a presence. Or perhaps it was merely that they were both unscathed that was so exalting. The oval of melted snow, dirt steaming from the heat but not dry enough to have scorched, encircled them, yet not a strand of hair nor bit of their cloth had been charred.

“We watched the Northmen slaughter them both.” It was Mile’s voice, Tallos’s uncle, that entered his thoughts unexpectedly. The way this man sheltered his woman—frightened and trembling himself—brought to mind a story Mile had told Tallos to frighten him from ever entering the northern woods. He described how he had witnessed his own father, the one whom he’d always looked to as a man of courage, turn into a quivering fool once dragged from his home, just clinging to his wife rather than fighting to protect her. “Your mother and I were lucky to have escaped with our lives,” he’d said. “You don’t ever want to see a Northman.”

How exactly these two had survived his inferno was less puzzling than his own confusion as to whom he should destroy. Perhaps it was because the possibility of revenge against his true enemy had seemed so hopeless before, but that was no longer the case.

He stood, naked and empowered, before the two innocents he’d somehow saved from fiery death at his own hand, before a town he’d liberated from conscription, before the unseen minions of the gods—those monsters to the north who had stolen from him everything, and he bellowed in his agony and hatred.

“Northmen! It is your turn to cower in fear. I am Tallos, and I will see your world burn before me.”