By Michael R. Baker
Talmoc’s pursuers awaited him atop Hawk Point. Outnumbered, there was nowhere left for him to run. Or so they would think.
Perhaps now, I will get what I crave. The lord of Nightenmarch had been killed so easily by Talmoc’s hand. He wanted a true challenge.
Five of them stood silhouetted on the hill-top, and one was unmistakable. Lazil. The Brazen Call. Light glittered off the smoky edge of the champion’s greatsword, dancing on the blood-laden sky.
Mistress, the blade that spilled the blood of a thousand foes.
It will be mine if I win tonight, Talmoc thought. It was a big if, of course, but what was life without a little risk? He quickened his pace, his feet slipping slightly on the dirt path winding upward, slick with rain.
He glanced over his competition. Besides Lazil, two of his brothers wore little armor. The ones in the back had bows. Nightenmarch Rangers. They hadn’t seen him yet, instead focused on Ymer Forest off to the east. Its gnawed depths shivered, an ancient fog hanging low over its natural ally. Its shadow masked his own footsteps.
As Talmoc expected, Lazil was the first to spot him. They move fast. In moments, Talmoc was surrounded.
He ignored the flattery of lesser fools, focusing his attention solely on the only man who mattered. Lazil, the aged man of a thousand wars, wore a solemn expression, iron eyes of cold.
“Good evening gentlemen,” Talmoc said.
Lazil met his courtesy with his eternal stone. “Talmoc. You shall go no further tonight.”
“Not in this world.” The lion-haired man next to his superior drew his weapon. “Tonight you die.” His bronze, double-handed battle axe had streaks of old, dark blood down the edge of the blade.
“I didn’t find you on the fields of Urnzur.” Talmoc ignored the others completely. Fucking gnats.
“We were not there,” said the warrior monk on Lazil’s left. “Justice warrants our blades more.” In his hands coiled a fearsome, two-handed battle staff. “That justice being your head, Talmoc.”
“How noble of you. Yet when your kin called for war against the might of Beruno, you didn’t join them.” Talmoc nodded to Lazil. “Why is that, Lazil? You belong to the Western Realm, do you not?”
“You address him by his name!” one of the rangers snarled.
“Easy, sir,” The Brazen calmed his sheep with a bronze smile. “King Jalid has forty thousand men to fight for him, Talmoc. The loss of five men won’t hurt him.”
“Quite. I know of your deeds well, Lazil, but I’m afraid I don’t know the names of your companions,” Talmoc said. None of them offered a name.
“Quit your stalling, Talmoc. You know why we’re here.”
The second ranger drew his bow. “You stand guilty of murdering Lord Haldon of Nightemarch.”
Lazil stayed them with a calm hand. “We discovered your foul crime, and so we have you.” A gleam of life entered his eyes, two chips of ice; an iron wreath of judgment. “You must pay for your crimes.”
Talmoc laughed aloud. The wind would carry the song of this coming battle for miles around. Let it. Let the gods hear my victory. “If I wanted to cover my tracks, even your blessed rangers wouldn’t be able to find me, I promise you. I wanted you to find me, Brazen.”
“Say what you mean, Talmoc.”
“I gain nothing from defeating the weak.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Talmoc pondered his meaning. He had never said anything truer. In a swift movement, he drew his trophy blade, Nightmare. Its obsidian edges glowed a malevolent smoke. The monk shied away from its sight.
“A monstrosity!”
“How did he get that?” The rangers muttered, no longer as cocky as they were. Lazil did not back away; he was no coward. He took a step forward, Mistress in his embrace.
“You carry such arrogance in your words, Talmoc.” Lazil raised Mistress with both hands. “You struck down Lord Haldon and slipped away into the night like a snake. It matters not whether you planned this meeting. The ending will be the same. Surrender now, or you will most certainly die.”
He gives me a choice. “Humor me. What happens if I surrender?”
“You’ll be dragged back to Nightenmarch, where you’ll receive the Son’s Justice.”
Talmoc laughed in his face. “You’re going to have to kill me. If you can.”
Whatever trace of warmth in Lazil’s face curdled into an iron fury. “Then you’ll die here, your corpse feeding the crows. You chose this fate, Talmoc.”
Talmoc swept Nightmare around him in a semicircle, his eyes darting between his opponents. The rangers had recovered from their moment of weakness, their hands reaching for arrows from quivers. “My knees will never bend.”
Lazil’s gaze wavered, a drop of sympathy. “Then this ends.” His voice echoed a tinge sadness.
Talmoc slashed at the air with Nightmare, uttering the words of a dead god. “Kilzarchit.” The tongue of old Valia was still potent. A burst of dark, smoldering energy came with a flash of light, and the two rangers crumbled. Their bows clattered to the ground as they clutched their faces, screaming.
“Obe! Saneor!” The foolish lion screamed, taking his eye off Talmoc for a split second. I know your names now. Talmoc charged as the rangers collapsed, their faces blistering and peeling from the dark spell.
“Fool!” Lazil roared, as he and the warrior monk charged in for the kill. Talmoc weaved through them, intent on killing the axeman. Nightmare parried the first lazy cut by the monk and deflected Mistress as Talmoc struck, piercing the lion. Black, oily liquid welled from the wound, spattering the fog-like blade. It cackled in the night, crackling.
The monk’s eyes were wide with fear, dropping his staff. He was next. The next slash by Nightmare, and his head was taken off his shoulders in a rain of blood and gore. The screams of the two rangers rang in Talmoc’s ears, sweeter than any music he’d heard in inns. The sound of blood and his enemy’s pain were his songs. Only Lazil remained, who moved out of his deadly range, Mistress tightly wielded in both hands. How does that feel, Brazen? To be covered in the blood of your companions. The two warriors locked eyes. Lazil stared right back, his gaze burning into his own.
“So it comes down to this,” Lazil declared. The two circled each other, scoping one another for an opening. The Legend’s movements were quick and fluid, not once giving a weakness to strike. However Talmoc could see the doubt in his eyes, the tension of a soldier hardened by years of bloodsport. He fears me. Elation filled him.
Lazil struck first, trying to feint out Talmoc with an uppercut to the legs, but Nightmare parried and Talmoc survived, weaving behind him to attack next. He was tiring now, and holding up the great black sword was harder than it was before. The aftershock of the dark spell rampaged through his body. Nightmare cannot be used again. Its foul workings required a sacrifice of life-force, beyond his current talent. Talmoc knew that.
Lazil’s speed and reflexes were incredible, and Talmoc smiled despite himself as the two men exchanged blows. Nightmare and Mistress clashed, the lady’s dance against the demon sword, neither getting an advantage. The two men came apart once more, panting for breath. Lazil’s heavily-lined face was shining with sweat, pain of forty years on his back. They circled each other again, both under the glinting moonlight. Oh dance with me this night, my good man. How did that song go again?
“You joke easily for a dead man,” Lazil panted. His steel eyes had a slight twinkle to them, hiding under the duty. He thrust forward, bringing Nightmare to battling height to stop Lazil’s desperate attack. The two blades came apart, their union broken again. Nightmare hissed in response. It’s time to end it. He knows it too.
“You cast foul magic, Talmoc. You’ll die soon enough.” The Brazen grunted, stern in his reproach. Talmoc flashed him his sweetest smile.
“No rules in war. That’s why I live, and your companions are dead at my feet. Now, for your Mistress. It’s time I take her.”
“Then you shall have it, serpent.” The two came forwards once more, and this time, Talmoc knew there was no turning back. Again and again the two swords crossed, so quickly it became a blur, as lady pushed for a breakthrough. One slash grazed Talmoc’s shoulder, but it brought the great champion’s swing out of balance, and Nightmare found its mark, biting deeply through chainmail and plate, deep into Lazil’s guts. He dropped to his knees, his eyes rolling back in his head gasping for breath. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. Mistress fell from his fingers onto the ground.
Panting hard, Talmoc pulled Nightmare out of the wound he made in the Brazen’s stomach. But, the energy was spent, the evil glow ebbed away and left it dormant. Talmoc gasped, feeling his own strength wane, and his own knees buckled; were it not for him supporting himself on his sword, he too would have fallen. Its too much. The blade’s magic is still draining me. Tears streaming from his eyes, he crawled to Lazil, still alive, but defeated. His eyes were open, gray and glassy with shock.
“Damn you, sorcerer!” His last hiss rattled deep into the night.
Talmoc staggered over his fallen prey. The two rangers now lay still, their faces unrecognizable, a black, ripe mess. Talmoc grabbed Lazil’s chin, forced him to meet his eyes. The steel still lived, but fading fast. The great man’s eyes dilated, then went still.
“We’ll meet again in the paths of the Mora I’m sure, Brazen. Farewell.”
The great champion, defeated by a smelter’s son. Talmoc bellowed his triumph for the heavens to witness. Only silence greeted his victory. Mistress lay on the grass, dusty and chipped. When he picked it up, he saw a solid bend in the steel, where it had clashed with his Nightmare. A fine prize. And yet…Talmoc killed the Lord of Nightenmarch in a heartbeat. He too was rumored to be a great man, a warrior for the ages. Haldon died in less than an instant, blubbering for his life.
Talmoc took a deep breath. No, tonight was a victory, and a glorious one at that! He had taken on five great warriors, one the most prolific swordsman of the Western Realms, and defeated them all. His shoulder burned, a twinge. Not wholly unscathed. His satchel of herbs was in his cloak pocket, ready. But first, he had to loot the dead. It was against the wishes of the gods, but why deny him the right to his victory?
There was some gold, a couple of handsome crafted ivory daggers belonging to the two rangers. One had a particularly appealing bow made of hornwood. Talmoc took it all, including the quiver full of arrows. He was no master marksman, but there was always a time to learn. By that point his wound was stinging, so he took a rest and removed his shoulder plates to inspect it further.
Only a graze. He had to take care of it still, less corruption from the dark gods set in. The Flame always sought to take over its disciples. He had no knowledge of healing magic, so he had to rely on other skills. He took out some herbs from the satchel, ground them up with a stray rock and wrapped it in torn cloth to make a makeshift poultice to wrap around the minor wound. With that taken care of, it was time to address the fallen Brazen. Talmoc was tempted to strip the corpse completely. But he had fought bravely. No, let him go to the Octane’s halls of glory in his likeness. He deserved to reach the Mora a whole man.
Talmoc turned his attention to the monk. Nothing. The warrior order of Altnor were fearless men indeed, sentenced to a lifetime of suffering. Then he paused. There was something in his robes, a scrap of parchment? No.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Talmoc dug it out and unfolded it. On it were hastily scrawled words.
Dearest Ibrim.
I don’t know when this will reach you, but I hope they arrive soon. We need you. Things are growing, a shadow in the dark over in the Maldir Mountains. Two of our Order have gone missing, Brothers Sandar and Coulm went into the ruins, not to be seen again. We have been investigating the stalkings of a madman who has been delving in the mountains; we saw him enter our domain many days ago. It is imperative whatever foul power lies in that ruin is found and destroyed. We need to investigate immediately. I fear it is Jatar. Please, come west to me. I will be waiting at the inn of Kaimist; the Ale of Drinkers. It is vital we do this, for the Order of Altnor.
May the light of Altnor pray on you.
Yours
Grandmaster Albrich, Champion of Altnor
Jatar. That word rung a bell. Some of the elders called it a demon. But there was no fear, only excitement. It was a spirit from what Talmoc knew, though he had little knowledge of the finer details. This Order of Altnor was another story.
Talmoc paused, frowning. Some invisible force was holding onto him, something powerful. It was more than just an interest, it was a hunger. A desire. He had to find out more. Then it hit him. He knew then what to do.
Standing above the fallen monk, Talmoc opened his left palm, his eyes closed. Ibrim, that was his name. He didn’t die nameless at least. That was a man’s worst fear. One who died without a reputation in this world was no man at all. He knew how to find out more knowledge. His memory sorcery could be just the thing. Remembering the struggle of learning the old, powerful art under the Syndicate, Talmoc smiled, and spoke a word.
“Soulsternis.” The old Valian words cracked from his tongue in shattered ice, forcing the corpse’s mouth open. Tears split his lips spilling blood, then wider and wider, splitting his cheeks wide open. A light, silvery substance oozed out of the wounds of Ibrim, molding together into a bubble, wider and wider until they smothered his corpse.
“Let me find what I’m looking for,” Talmoc muttered. Already he could feel the strain in his eyes. Flashes of speech and images fired in the bubble before him, indistinguishable at first. Come on, come on. It was getting harder and harder to hold onto the thoughts. Then he caught a glimpse of two men talking in grey, flowing robes which fell to their feet; something he could use? Then snatches of speech. Talmoc listened hard.
“The Order….we must ride with “
“Alberich of Brotherhood, he knows about the Jatar. Go to him at once, in Kaimist.”
“No Unuch!. I must obey my Lazil’s words first.”
Then it was done, the bubble distorting out of shape and evaporating. Talmoc sat down hard on the sweet-smelling grass, the coppery smell of Ibrim’s blood on his fingers. Maybe that was undeserved. A sully, for one of your Order to have your bodies befouled by such trickery. A tingle of remorse mingled with his curiosity now. But there it was again, that force, tugging at his adventure. Talmoc couldn’t put a finger on it.
He knew one thing for certain. Whatever path lay ahead, Kaimist was the best place to begin.
“What you having?”
Talmoc’s eyes itched. He fucking hated places like this. The fumes from the tavern’s billowing fireplace was hot and smoky, making his eyes sting.
“Finest of your spiced wine. Whatever you have, I don’t care.” He hurled a handful of coins on the table. Just don’t bite the coins, dear woman. Talmoc made a mental note to toast the great men who paid for his board.
She accepted the coins. Nobody questioned cheap money. “Everything seems to be in order.”
What did you expect? It was as though everyone thought Talmoc to be some rampaging murderer with a magical sword.
Warm, friendly smells of woodsmoke and roasting meat was a welcome bereave from the rain. Many small tables made of polished oak were cramped in the room, many seating patrons nursing bronze-colored tankards, or gambling with dice and playing with those stupid black cards called Kis. What a dumb name. He’d never played it. Gambling with cards was for lesser men. He gambled with his very life every day.
“Boy! Bottle of the Harcour wine for this gentleman. NOW!” The innkeeper snapped to someone out of sight, the force in her voice made a couple of surly patrons wince. Talmoc only smiled. Hurried footsteps scrambled upstairs. “I swear, that boy’s too slow sometimes. Needs to be beaten to learn his way,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Anything else, sir?”
Sir? Talmoc kept his face neutral. “A room, if it’s possible.” He already had food at his table. A wooden platter bearing a feast of heavy rye bread, salted cheese, black pudding and smoked mutton. Poor fare for a poor people. He found the inn in the village of Stemar, six days ride from Kaimist. It was a shithole. Regardless, it was filling, which was all Talmoc wanted. He was a wanderer and a cutthroat, not a pampered prince.
The innkeep flushed pink. “Not sure if we have any more rooms, sir. There’s been some trouble with the baron’s men, and-”
“Would this help?” Talmoc threw another coin purse on the table, bulging with coppers. She took it with trembling fingers. “You may as well take it. I need a place to stay tonight and rest my bones. I’d take any room. Any.”
The poor woman looked like she’d never seen money in her life. “Only the room below the boiler remains. And I can’t charge this much for it. You’ll sleep poorly.”
“No need,” Talmoc smiled. “But if it makes you feel better…how much is the boiler room?” It would surely be noisy and cramped, but better than outside. And should any danger come, better these people die before I do.
“Two Senns for the night, five for two, and an extra for each consecutive night you spend,” she replied. The dull way she spoke it was a drone, a rehearsed one. What kind of life would that be? A scrawny lad appeared from around the corner, holding out a dusty bottle with a faded label. The words Halmoc’s Refuge were barely readable in faint black ink.
“I’ll only need one night, then I’ll be on my way again.” Talmoc gently took the coin purse back from the woman, feeling the smooth mouse skin. Opening the drawstring, he emptied and counted seven little copper coins, handing it to the innkeep. “There you go.”
She bowed her head in acceptance and turned to address one of the other patrons, who was singing a loud, crude song about a rat. An honest innkeep, that’s new. Talmoc knew many who would have taken the full purse and told him to piss off. They tended to become the dead ones.
Talmoc weaved his way through the tables and found his own seat again. Comfortable, he raised the bottle of spiced wine to his lips and tore a chunk of black bread with his hands. The taste of ginger and nutmeg flooded his mouth; a warming treat. Now he could feel the strain of the day’s efforts in his body. His eyelids were drooping. He needed sleep, but first came idle listening. You never know what you might hear.
Someone had gone travelling into the Kilto ruins far to the east of Magenor and found ancient Mammoth bones, so large that he could ride his horse through the skeleton. He was laughed at by his peers. Mammoths. That must have been from the older times, when the Mammoth King still raged in the Magenor. He was asking for help to travel back to the ruins and bring the bones back to the city markets, but was shot down in a gale of laughter, and he stormed out of the inn in a rage. The Mammoth King was an old legend, even before the death of the Valian gods…
Talmoc slipped and nearly banged his head to a few muffled guffaws from onlookers. Time for bed. Taking the directions of the innkeeper, he headed down a flight of stairs and opened the first wooden door on his left, feeling the hardwood underneath his sandals. The panels creaked as he entered the cramped, dark space. The sound in the ceiling was loud and obnoxious, like pigs fucking.
Well, you get what you’re paid for. The bedding was clean, and the mattress was reasonably comfortable. Taking off his clothes leaving him only in his thin undergarments, Talmoc covered himself with his thick traveling cloak; the sheepskin would keep him warm. He disarmed himself of his main weapons; Nightmare emitted a strange chanting from deep in its blade. Talmoc regarded it curiously. What’s up with you? The whispering stopped.
He kept his trusted butcher’s knife close though. Just in case. His eyes drooped….
He awoke with a start. He couldn’t see a thing, his head on fire. Pain, blazing pain, laced every inch of his body. Then came a burst of blinding light, so potent his eyes burned to even look. He kept his eyes shut. Then he heard it, a great and mighty snarl in the air.
“Hear my call, mortal.” He stood upright, bolt awake.
“You are weak. Right now, your enemies surround you. But you have potential. Such…delicious potential.” There was a relish in that voice, so powerful, almost lustful. A heavy weight pressed over his eyes, forcing them shut.
“Who are you?” Talmoc shouted. Such power. He felt himself shaking. “Only a coward talks in thin air. Show yourself!”
“This little man has a fight in him!” The voice mocked. “I trust you haven’t forgotten your ways. You left all your home and worldly past for war. I have much use for people like you, Talmoc. A champion.”
A champion? “Who are you? Declare yourself!”
“Soon,” crooned the disembodied voice. “I need people like you.”
“I do not fear death,” Talmoc declared, even as he stood there powerless, weaponless. The malevolent voice laughed again.
“You challenge, me mortal, without hope of survival. I like it. I have seen into your soul, Talmoc. I see your potential, your divinity, your hatred. If you want to find me, there is a caravan outside your world right now, making its way to Kaimist. They want to destroy me, but you cannot destroy an idea, can you? Find them, and come to me. Now wake up! Stumble in the mist no longer, and become a champion of the Mora.”
Talmoc hit his head on the wooden beam, hanging low above him to the sound of the boiler’s rumbling; a beast without its meal. Fuck. He was drenched with sweat, but he remembered the spirit’s words. A caravan.
So be it. It could be just what he needed. Packing up his things, he walked out of the room and into the main bar. The innkeeper was behind the counter, her glossy black hair matted and forlorn. There were still patrons inside the inn. Did I even sleep? But he no longer felt tired. A power was sustaining him. Opening the wooden door out into the town square, he stepped out into the cobblestones. It was dark out, the sky painted inky blue.
Far into the heavens, he could see the constellation of Carbturbis. The Sword of the Octane. The village of Stemar was a small one, a trading post under the control of Lord Jaqtir. Talmoc knew the old bastard well, had even served him for a while. A few tired guards patrolled the streets but fortunately ignored him.
He found what he was looking for: a group of people on horseback talking to a guard.
“We need more men for the task ahead; we have reports of demon worshippers.” The speaker was a particularly tall bald man, his head covered by a straw-colored hood. “Can you spare any men? You will be richly rewarded.” He had a cold, blunt way of speaking. Yenick. He’s from Yenick. Talmoc inched closer.
“None here.” The guard tried shooing them away with a dismissive wave of his spear. “We’ve had attacks on the outpost by bandits. You’ll find no help here, I’m afraid.”
“This is important.” The second speaker was a woman, fingers curled around the reins of her steed.
“I cannot help you,” the guard repeated. “I am sorry.”
Talmoc decided to intervene. “I’m available if you need assistance.” Everybody turned to look at him.
There was a tight-lipped sneer in the sentry’s face. “There’s your help I see. Now be gone.”
The bald man scrutinized Talmoc with suspicious eyes. “Can you fight?”
Talmoc gestured at his clothing. “I’m still alive if that’s your concern.”
“He looks strong enough,” said the woman. “We are heading towards the outpost of Kaimist, to purge a demon’s crypt.”
“Tira, we know nothing about this man!”
“He looks experienced enough, brother. And we’ll need the steel,” Tira shot back, not once turning her gaze from Talmoc. Finally, their leader spoke.
“He’ll need a horse. Can you ride?”
“Well enough.” Talmoc shrugged casually. The guard cut in then.
“Go to the stables outside the gate, Lancem can see to it. Tell them I sent you. Name’s Pengnor. Now leave. It’s past curfew.” The guard stalked away, leaving Talmoc with the monks.
“You’ll do then. Come, we have no time to waste, It is five days ride to Kaimist, Do you have a name?”
“Talmoc.”
“Good.” The bald man gestured casually to his brothers. “I am Brother Aram. These are Tira, our shield-maiden, and my fellow brothers, Unuch and Samuel. You do your duty, and you will be richly rewarded.”
A shiver ran down Talmoc’s spine, and he heard a whisper again, cold and brutal. Oh you shall be, mortal. Lead them to me. My game has begun. He struggled to keep his face calm and normal. “Very well then.”
“Good. Then we ride.”
“There. You see the ancient markings?”
Talmoc craned his neck to see where the monk was pointing. The five wanderers trotted their horses up the dirt path slowly into the hamlet of Kaimist, so not to wear out their steeds. The cliffs here were worn brown teeth, a light rain falling on their faces. If he squinted, he could make out the stone slab carved into the rock.
“Aye I see them. What is that tablet?”
“An old relic. Kimist is an ancient place, built during the age of Altnor.” Aram shifted in his saddle. “Our ancestor was a great king, dedicated to pursuing the meditation of the Octane and defending its people from the curse of the world. That tablet bares our ten tenets, the eternal laws we follow until the day we join him in the Mora.”
You’re tied to your god, like all faiths.
“So tell me, wanderer. Where you come from? How did you come across us?” Brother Unuch sat brooding on his horse, his hard-little eyes boring into Talmoc with ill-repressed suspicion. The others had been wary of him, but shared their food and warmth with Talmoc amiably enough. Unuch was a huge, scathing brute, covered with coarse, stinking hair and didn’t talk much. When he did, it was a scowl. Not once did he offer to share his provisions with Talmoc.
“If you were listening, Brother Unuch, you would have known all about him,” Tira scolded. She nodded to the soldier guarding the set of wooden gates leading into the village, who granted them access. She had her long red hair tied back in a ponytail this morning, her freckled face dirty and unkempt.
Entering the village, Talmoc was unimpressed by what he saw. It was small and badly kept, with small stone buildings on either side of a single dirt street. Far above them was the foreboding rock face; the mountain of Chillbrak, Great words had been carved into the rock in a language which Talmoc didn’t understand.
Samuel saw him looking. “It’s ancient Valian, back when the old Dynasty held power across all of Uldur.” They dismounted, Talmoc feeling the squelchy mud under his boots. Three young boys in white robes hurried to take the bridles, leading the horses away.
“So, where is he?” Unuch grunted. “I desire me some infidel bones.”
“Patience,” Brother Aram growled. “There he is.” A heavy footed male dressed in a flowing black cloak walked towards them, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Only when he got closer did Talmoc notice the aura radiating from it. A sorcerer then. Interesting.
“You are late, soldiers.” His heavy, jutted jaw stuck out under a disjointed, bulbous nose, cheeks covered with gruesome, deep scars. He too was bald.
“Father Alberich.” Aram bowed.
Alberich’s eyes turned to Talmoc. “And who is this one?” He grunted. “A volunteer?”
“I found Ibrim during my travels, sir. I’m sorry to say but he’s dead. I…found your letter.” Talmoc shoved the parchment in the elder brother’s face. The leader’s eyes narrowed, snatching it out of Talmoc’s hand. Why did I say that. He heard a snigger, and wheeled round. Nobody was laughing. The monks were giving him cold, hostile looks.
“You had this information and didn’t tell us? Why?” Tira’s sword was in her hand, but Samuel held her back.
“He may have had his reasons, Tira.”
Alberich held up a calloused hand for silence, still reading the letter. “How did he die? How did you get this?” Clearly, he was used to being obeyed without question. Talmoc tried not to smile.
“I was traveling from Nightenmarch, when I came across two bandits harassing him. I killed both bandits, but he died from his wounds. I checked his letter and traveled up north to Stemar. That’s when I came across your comrades.” The lie came easy.
“May our vigilant Altnor watch over his soul,” Tira whispered, looking down at her feet. Alberich squinted curiously at his writing, then back at Talmoc. “Seems like you’ll do. You have my thanks. Your name?”
“Talmoc.”
“You wear two swords.”
“I like having both hands free to kill.”
One of Alberich’s henchmen snickered, the head monk giving him a cold look.
“I see.” Alberich hunched closer, those watery eyes scrutinizing and scraping. “We’re here because we have a possessed man in the crypts. Well, you read my letter to my agent,” He went on, waving a hand airily.
“I need more to go on then that.”
Alberich shrugged. “Not much to tell. The place was abandoned, none of us go near it. That’s when we heard of the madman. We need to go in. You shall go with Brothers Samuel and Unuch.” He paused, pursing his chapped lips together. “Should you do your duty, you will be paid well. How does three hundred Senns sound?”
That was a handsome price. “Seems good to me. I need more information.”
“You’re hired muscle, not one of ours,” Alberich snapped. “It’s all you need to know.” Talmoc glared right back at him. “Still, I appreciate you for coming here, when it isn’t your fight. When you find out more, leave the house immediately and find me. Do not attempt to talk to the entity, whatever it may be.” The other two bowed low and hurried off, leaving Talmoc in the company of Samuel and Unuch. Alberich stalked away.
“Let’s go,” barked Unuch.
The three walked along the street, Unuch breathing down Talmoc’s neck. Do they expect me to run after all this way? On his back, he felt Nightmare shiver with anticipation. He had no idea what to expect when he entered that house. Again, that irresistible force was driving him on, and like a sheep following its shepherd, Talmoc followed. It will all make sense I’m sure.
They walked down the hill with stone dwellings flanking the dirty path, some with white-robed men and women kneeling on the ground at the doorways praying, some working in a large open space on the left, weaving.
Nearby, a couple turned over a dead calf over a spit. Fuck, that smells good.
They went under a creaky wooden bridge, and beneath that, carved into the rock was a tunnel, leading deep into the mountain.
“In there,” Samuel whispered. Unuch took the torch off the guard at the entrance.
Inside, the corridors were pitch black stone, and dripping with mildew. They walked in silence for a while, Talmoc feeling the tunnel wind left and right, the flames licking the walls, tasting the dew.
“The house is close by,” Unuch’s voice wavered slightly in the echoing path. “Alberich thinks it’s demon worship. Could it really be Jatar?”
“Who knows?” Samuel shrugged. “Let’s just…let’s just get going.”
They don’t speak of it, Talmoc thought. They fear him. They came to a halt at a heavy stone door carved in the right hand side. The tunnel continued onward for some time ahead, swallowed by darkness.
“They lead into our crypts. Some say the body of Altnor himself lays in there. We can’t go in though, forbidden,” Samuel scratched the back of his neck with a free hand. “Shall we go?” He hesitated.
“Craven. He’ll die by my hand,” Unuch snarled, panting for breath. The light flickered, showing his pustule-covered face, cheeks dripping in sweat. Unuch shoved his way into the room. Breathing deeply, Samuel followed him in.
Slowly, Talmoc got used to the darkness. The room was small, and barren, nothing inside but a few rotting pieces of wood. The floor was cold stone drenched with a glutinous red fluid. Blood. Then they saw the bones, littered everywhere. Two skulls, pale yellow. Pieces of rotting flesh hung from the eye sockets.
“Altnor preserve us!” They drew their swords. The door slammed shut, blocking their only means of escape.
“No!” Unuch snarled, running to it and pushing on the door. It wouldn’t budge. Then somebody cackled from ahead. He wheeled round, wielding his blade. A discarded lamp rose suddenly into the air, hovering. With a beam of glowing light, it burst into flame, revealing a passageway.
“Show yourself, madman! You die today!” Samuel brandished his sword.
The voice. The same one as in Talmoc’s dreams. “Let us begin. Kill them. Crush them all!”
Samuel uttered a low, feral moan, weak as a kitten, as Unuch spun round.
“We need to get out of here!”
Nightmare chanted in Talmoc’s grip, vibrating hard and glowing a violent purple. It had never reacted like this before.
“Kill or die. Only the victor leaves this place alive. But what’s this? My blade?” The voice chanted, the giggle shrill and child-like, echoing ever deeper around them. Unuch let out a howl of rage, feral. Talmoc readied himself for a fight, but it never came. Unuch charged at Samuel.
“It’s you!”
Samuel didn’t even raise his weapon to defend himself. In a single stroke, Unuch’s sharp blade took off Samuel’s sword arm, sending both it and the sword flying in a wave of blood. Samuel fell to his knees with a scream, not even as Unuch turned round, recognition dawning across his bloodlust. Talmoc stayed calm. Unuch’s cold eyes hardened.
“No. You’re the enemy!”
Too late for you. Talmoc charged. “That was your mistake.” Nightmare slipped through the man’s open grasp and pierced his chest in a fluid movement. Two more quick stabs, and both men lay dead on the ground, blood pooling at their feet. So easy, Talmoc mused. Now how do I get out of here? He was still locked in.
“I’ve come. I know you’re here. I’ve answered your call!” Only silence met his declaration. “Show yourself!” Talmoc screamed into the dark, spit flying from his mouth.
Something on the floor scuttled. Unuch’s corpse floated into the air. His eyes, blank in death, burst into life. The man’s bowels loosened in death, the smell of shit rank in the dusty tomb. The corpse’s mouth tore open and began to speak.
“Welcome Talmoc. It’s a shame I cannot see you face to face but I cannot manifest physically in this realm. This mortal will do. It has been long since I’ve seen such talent. Disposing of such honorable men. Delicious.”
Talmoc stood his ground, aware of how dry his mouth was. Slowly, he lowered Nightmare. “The monks mentioned a madman.”
“Oh yes, him,” The disembodied voice was bored. “I promised him power, but it seems I drove him mad with my visions. He died some time ago. He ripped out his own guts with his bare hands, poor thing. I made him think he was being possessed. Weakling.” The puppet threw its head back and laughed. “No loss. But you are different. And you wield my weapon too. Nightmare.” Uluc’s head lolled from side to side. “It has been a long time.”
The pommel grew white hot. Talmoc dropped it, cursing, only for it to hover upright in front of him, glowing red. “This is yours?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said the bored voice. “The First Ones stole it from my vaults during the rebellion, right before they escaped. I’ve been watching you ever since you plucked it from its resting place.”
“That was a long time ago.” Talmoc stared at the body. “Who are you?” The necromantic monk began to giggle.
“Who am I? I am only a small prince amongst the Flame’s realm. But you can call me Jatar. The Scourge, I am called to some of you little sky-dwellers. Little nobles, I think that’s what you lot call yourselves in the land above. I…” The puppet convulsed, vomiting from its putrid mouth. The air stank with blood, so thick Talmoc nearly retched. “Heheh…you know the legends of creation of course?” It began to sing;
“And the Octane of old, and new, called into the power of the Balance, and so the great Shadows of the world were thrown back, their blades and corruption receding, as the world breathed life again.”
Talmoc felt his strength leave him. So it was all true. “There are more of you?”
“Too many. Your realm should be ours, but we’re forbidden to enter it thanks to the powers of the First Ones. My brothers and sisters bicker endlessly on how to proceed. The fools.” Jatar’s sneer was cold and harsh. “The Flame does not care though, and neither do I. We are all his children. We will be one eventually. Time is nothing to us.”
“I’ve had enough of your games.” He turned to leave, but the passageway was still blocked. “Let me out.”
“You cannot bargain with me, Talmoc. Besides, I’m here to help you. This is what I desire. I want to see Alberich destroyed. I want to see his faith burn before his eyes, before he joins me, and swears off this Altnor forever. Can you do this?”
Talmoc felt his lips twist into a sneer, almost controlled. “Very well. Since you give me no choice, I accept. How do I proceed?”
“Lure him here. You will show him the true meaning of the word pain.” A creak of open rock scraping against stone, and light filtered into the room again. Talmoc was free. “Go. Find him. You’ll find a way, I’m sure. And Talmoc…do not betray me.”
Talmoc fled the tunnel, heart hammering in his chest. The guard moved to join him, white.
“What happened?”
Talmoc grabbed his shirt. “They’re all dead!” He shook him. “It’s the Jatar…he’s killed them all. I only barely escaped…” He made his voice waver, feel the tears in his eyes. “We need Alberich! Your leader!” The guard was young, his face green with fear.
“He’ll be at the inn. Come, we need to hurry!” Talmoc panted, injecting the fear into his voice. He wasn’t even faking it this time.
The guard quickened his pace to match his. Bursting through the door of the inn, they found Alberich sitting alone, nursing a cup of wine. Talmoc hurtled towards the elder brother.
“What happened? Where are the brothers?” Alberich’s eyes widened, stone melting.
“It’s Jatar, or whatever his name. The madman attacked, killed Unuch and Samuel. I only just managed to kill him, then I heard the chanting…the terrifying chanting…” Talmoc paused. The demonstration of the things power made him sick. He pushed his honor aside. This is me or him. “I managed to break free, run away, but it’s still down there. It was issuing a challenge. I heard its voice. It mentioned you by name, Alberich.” On his back, Nightmare stayed dormant.
“Very well. The demon wishes to challenge me, I will face him.”
“But sir-” the guard began, but Alberich bullied over him, grabbing a war staff from the corner.
“You, you’ll come with me,” he ordered Talmoc, who nodded, eyes wide. “I shall purify that ruin in Altnor’s name.” He stalked out of the inn, and Talmoc followed. That was easy.
The chamber was exactly the same as it was when Talmoc had left it, although Unuch’s corpse no longer floated. He lay still, drained and withered. It’s as though he’s been dead for weeks. The air was thick with dust, but heavy with something else, a foul presence. He’s here. Waiting. Alberich drew his staff to killing height. “Draw your weapon,” he said curtly.
As predicted, the slab closed in on them, bringing them into darkness. Talmoc drew Nightmare. Still it lay dormant. Now, we shall see. He took deep breaths, waiting. Then he heard Jatar.
“Ah yes, my adversary.” A flicker, and the room burst into light, their own torches snuffed out at the same time. Alberich stepped forward, whipping his warstaff around his fingers.
“Jatar! You will leave this place.!” He took a step closer, then another.
Talmoc didn’t see the spikes coming. He yelped and jumped aside as great bladed spikes came out of the floor with a grinding noise. Alberich responded only a second too late; his fingers grasped one of the spikes and came away bloody. Like an embalmed tomb, the spikes encircled Alberich, pinning him in place. He struggled to get to his feet, but the trap made it so he was forced to kneel.
“What is this? I won’t be quelled by this, Jatar. I’ve defeated you before!”
“Oh yes. But now I have a new power by my side.” Jatar cackled, and the bodies on the ground came back to life, rising into the air. Alberich’s mouth opened in a sob as the two fallen monks flanked him on each side. Talmoc took a step closer to the cage. Alberich’s eyes widened.
“You!” The cage began to twist, the bars curling around Alberich’s arms to pin him in place. The path to him was open. “Fucking traitor!” His bare arms slowly turned red, the blood running down his body in rivulets.
“It’s time for the breaking,” Jatar’s voice boomed. The corpse that was once Samuel limped slowly over to Talmoc, holding out a large, rusted club. Talmoc took it, the metal warm to the touch. It purred.
“No … Samuel, what you doing? This is blasphemy!” Alberich moaned. He began to cry.
“He can’t hear you, old man. Now Talmoc. Beat him.” Jatar commanded. The fire returned to Alberich’s eyes as Talmoc advanced, mace raised.
“You’ll never defeat me! And you, when this is done, you will burn!”
With a smile on his lips, Talmoc held the mace high above his head. Samuel and Unuch’s rotting eyes bulged, lips torn wide as they urged him on in Jatar’s voice.
“I am your god now, Alberich.”
The first blow collided into Alberich’s left shoulder with a sickening crunch: it exploded in a gout of pus and blood. Alberich screamed in pain, letting loose a barrage of abuse. The chanting grew louder around Talmoc, echoing.
“Shatter his pulp!”
“Excellent!” Jatar shouted above the man’s screams. “Again! Again. Destroy him.”
“I will … never give in,” Alberich sobbed. The Elder Brother, reduced to a squalling infant. Talmoc readied another blow.
Not his face. Not yet. Jatar’s voice was silky in his ear. Crush him. I know just the place.
The second blow caught him between the legs. Alberich howled, blood flowing freely.
Just as well the Altnor Order are celibate, Talmoc thought with a chuckle.
Again and again the blows rained down, on his legs, his arms, his body. Bones snapped, hilt of white poking through his limbs, ribs tracked like snapped branches. Despite it all, Alberich was still alive. Finally, his face remained.
“End it. Burst him like an orange. A blood orange.” Jatar jeered. Talmoc brought back his arm for the final swing. Alberich started crying, his voice faint.
“No more … no more. I give. I submit to you.”
“You offer me yourself?” Jatar demanded. His puppets repeated it, their voices hoarse in the flickering light.
“Surrender. Surrender. Choose. Choose!”
“Yes. I am yours … Master.” Alberich murmured pitifully. He’s broken.
“End him.” Jatar sneered, dismissive. Talmoc readied for the final blow, staring into Alberich’s dead eyes. There was nothing left.
“Excellent work, my champion,” Jatar murmured as Albernich slumped to the ground, his once handsome face now an unrecognizable pulp. The two reanimated brothers fell to the ground discarded.
“You sound unimpressed,” Talmoc said shortly. He inspected the cudgel, smeared with blood and bits of brain. He threw it to the ground.
“Not at all. People just bore me, and he was weak. But you did as bid. Your reward.” Suddenly, the exit cleared again.
“You will have to fight to escape. The Order will fight to avenge their leader. They are coming.”
It was only then Talmoc realized what was missing. Nightmare.
“Here.” Jatar’s voice was soft.
A sword appeared in front of Talmoc; one he knew well. Nightmare, in all its glory, but it was different, its blade shorter, thicker.
“Take it.”
As Talmoc’s fingers wrapped around the hilt, something heavy wrapped around his body. He was encased in obsidian black, heavy armour from head to toe, his gauntlets clamping into his skin. He gritted his teeth with the pain, great long talons bursting from his fingertips.
“Nightmare, restored to its own glory. Your power is mine. Go into the world. Kill in my name, and your boon will be infinite,” Jatar crooned in his ear. Loud voices were coming from outside, panicked shouts.
You brought them. You planned this. Talmoc should have been angry. Instead, he smiled. Inside his new skin his body began to burn. The price, he knew it. No matter.
He had come this far, after all.