Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  “I am unharmed. Please come here.”

  The cat turned back to face Ceyrabeth. She hardly noticed through the agony of her flesh beginning to blister. Then the cat swiped a claw across her face, drawing blood, and jumped off her.

  This didn’t even register to Ceyrabeth- she was more concerned with removing the burning armor from her body. Sir Keiran and Sir Quinlan raced to assist. After a few frantic seconds of blinding pain and fear, the breastplate fell to the ground with a dull sound, her mutilated gauntlet following shortly after. The metal continued to glow angrily in the dirt for a handful of moments before it began to cool.

  The cat raced back to Sul and jumped on his shoulder, “I good kitty.”

  Sul smiled and scratched him behind the ears, “Always.”

  The cat nuzzled his scarred face against Sul’s forehead, purring loudly. Sul stroked his back gently, “Osen; my bodyguard,” He offered by way of introduction.

  Osen lifted up its head and hissed at Ceyrabeth as she struggled to her feet. Ceyrabeth, not yet able to speak, just glared at it with eyes glazed with pain and hissed back. Sir Quinlan tried to speak forcefully but he was rattled to the core. “What manner of demon--?!”

  “Former demon, if we’re being truthful,” Sul scratched Osen lightly under the chin before turning to Atiya, “Please send for the White Vanguards and update Mother Reiko as to the increase in the number of patients under her care.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And find Osen something large to dismember.”

  “I have an ox available.”

  Sul nodded his approval as Atiya looked down at Osen.

  “Osen, come.”

  The cat opened its one eye, eyed the Mithrac with disinterest and closed it again.

  “Osen,” Sul whispered into his tufted ear, “Meat.”

  Osen quickly sprang off his lap and rubbed against Atiya’s shins. Atiya gave Sul an even look and he shrugged slightly before she and Osen departed.

  “I challenge you!” Ceyrabeth cried out. A tiny voice in her head was screaming at her that this was the worst possible idea, and she didn’t consider herself to be particularly suicidal…but something had broken irreparably within her. She had held herself back too long and couldn’t for the life of her figure out how to regain control.

  “Do you indeed?” Sul asked, keeping any implication of mockery from his tone.

  “Unless you’re a coward! You hide behind your demons and monsters and don’t dare raise a finger for yourself…!” She caught the scent of alcohol and violence before a voice hissed in her ear.

  “Go ahead. Call the Cap’n a coward again,” Maul seethed, “Please.”

  The woman refused to be baited and kept her eyes fixed on Captain Sul, “Well?”

  “Oh yes,” Sul mused aloud, “I remember. This is when I am to erupt in a display of injured pride and rush forth to challenge a well-trained combat veteran easily more than a decade my junior and trust that my ego will allow me to replace what the inevitable decay of time may have robbed me of.” He stepped forward, hands resting lightly behind his back. “I’m willing to admit that your eagerness to fight is inspiring, given your current condition. But do not mistake any regard I have for your courage as stupidity.” Sul gestured to Maul.

  “Down you go!” Maul gave Ceyrabeth a casual shove and the injured woman’s legs buckled underneath her. She crashed to the ground, crying out in pain on impact, “That’s for calling the Cap’n a coward, ya moisten wench!” The elf then made an obscene hand gesture at the fallen knight before turning his attention to Sul, “Do you need anything else Cap’n?”

  Sul smile was barely there but it was enough to make the elven woman want to explode, “No, thank you, Sergeant,” His expression hardened as he scrutinized the prone Ceyrabeth, “I believe the point has been made.”

  “Yes, Sir!” Maul saluted crisply and, giving Ceyrabeth a snort of derision.

  Ceyrabeth couldn’t determine what part of her body hurt most: the claw wounds, the burns, the shattered wrist, or the cracked ribs from being thrown from her horse in the bog but she struggled to her feet anyway. She would be damned if she would show her frailty to this fiend, “Do you remember what it was to have a conscience?” The rage was receding, taking with it the strength she desperately needed. Her voice was almost pleading once more, her sable eyes looking wider than ever in a face drawn with pain. “Kindness? Decency?”

  “More than you know,” Sul replied almost too quietly for her to hear. His expression softened, became almost vulnerable. Ceyrabeth couldn’t decide before it was gone entirely. “Perhaps you should ask your former commander about decency and conscience?” Captain Sul’s tone remained soft but the words could freeze molten stone, “It’s said that you can tell a great deal about a soldier by who they choose to serve. You stayed in your Order, knowing the truth of the corruption of those you served. And that, Sir Ceyrabeth Vallorin, is a great failure on your part.”

  Ceyrabeth went white to the lips. She swayed, trying to find something to clutch for support and found nothing. Nothing could ease the fact that Sul was absolutely right, and Ceyrabeth knew it, could not dispute it in the slightest. She felt cold wash over her, threatening to drive her to her knees. It was the ghost of an old sensation that coursed through her body- the frigid bite of a blade wielded by a lover as it was driven into her body all the way up to the hilt without mercy or remorse.

  “Mother Reiko will tend to you now. Dismissed.”

  Ceyrabeth dimly felt gentle fingers on her arm and a quiet Ghen voice, “Come away, child,” Her grip tightened, “This battle cannot be won. Not yet.”

  Ceyrabeth couldn’t walk, could barely think. She just continued to stare wide-eyed at the man who had so easily found the most hidden of her shames and dragged it into the unforgiving light. She didn’t know whether she wanted to rip out his heart or throw herself at his feet, pour out her shame and beg for forgiveness.

  “Take heart, Sir Knight,” Sul’s voice slid into Ceyrabeth’s thoughts like a stiletto, “You’ll have your opportunity for justice…or vengeance, should you so choose.”

  Ceyrabeth might have nodded, she was unsure. Instead, she allowed Sister Reiko to lead her away from the command tent.

  “You appear to have struck the girl a severe blow,” Atiya commented tonelessly.

  “So, it would seem,” Sul replied quietly, “I’m curious to see if she has the strength to recover.”

  “And if she does not?”

  “Then she does not matter.”

  “As you say, Captain.”

  .*.

  “Come, child. Sit down. You are shaking,” Sister Reiko parted the tent flaps and motioned her to a bunk. “This is my assistant, Sister Stillwater,” She gestured to a severe-looking young woman who indicated the arrival of the injured Witchhammers with barely a nod of acknowledgment.

  “Good afternoon, Sir Witchhammer,” Sister Stillwater said stiffly.

  Ceyrabeth realized with a start that they were in the healer’s tent. She was shaking and suddenly her knees buckled. She dimly realized that she hadn’t hit the ground because Sir Quinlan had caught her and was laying her down on a nearby cot. “Quin…” Ceyrabeth cried out as the burns made themselves known with a vengeance. “You should have been the one to speak…I never should have…”

  “Hush, Ceyrabeth.” He opened the pouch at her belt and gave the vial within a gentle shake before uncorking it and pouring it down her throat.

  The wyrmscale elixir hit her blood, working its’ magic just as Mother Reiko placed her hands over her chest and began work on the burns and cracked ribs. She laughed then sobbed at the sweet release of it, the lack of physical agony. But then the rush of emotional anguish hit like a landslide until the combination of two opposing feelings was too much and she finally fell into blessed darkness.

  Chapter 4

  Changes

  ‘An army, much like any living organism, must grow to succeed. It must incorporate new eleme
nts into itself, however unusual, so that it may continue to evolve. It is only with the influx of new ideas, new imaginations, that a forces’ strategy can continue to overcome adversity.’ – A passage from ‘Victor Vinguardis’ (Way of Victory) translated from Daymorian. Author unknown. Currently banned by the Church of Imperius

  Yes, this was familiar. This had happened when Ceyrabeth had gained her lieutenant's commission, one of the youngest in current history to do so. It was the culmination of years of intense drive, study and hardship...made entirely worth it by the look in Carmilla's eyes. Pride...lust...love...promise...they had all been there as the Knight Commander pinned the dual star on Ceyrabeth's cloak, marking her an officer of the Order of the Purifying Flame and wielder of the Blessing of Imperius Militant. She had not smiled then, intent on keeping the decorum befitting an officer, and neither had Carmilla, not until later that night when their laughter rang off the walls of her quarters, for once not caring who heard them.

  But here in this place of old ghosts and echoes, Carmilla pinned the medal to her chest, smiling. Ceyrabeth's eyes widened as the pin grew, lengthened, became a blade that pierced through her heart...and still, Carmilla smiled. Ceyrabeth dropped to her knees, tried to remove the blade but she couldn't.

  And suddenly Yulian was there, grinning his enigmatic half-smile as he pulled the blade from her chest. She braced herself for the wound, but he started bleeding in a torrent of red, growing taller with each pulse of his life that spilled on the floor while Ceyrabeth was getting smaller and smaller...the room swirled around her as her heartbeat slowed...

  "Child?" Her eyes flew open and she found herself facing a stone throne in a room covered in dust and cobwebs. The ceiling soared overhead, and frescoes of unfamiliar scenes adorned the walls. The room had probably once been breathtaking, Ceyrabeth decided, but that time was long since passed. "Child?" The voice was familiar, but Ceyrabeth couldn't place it. "You are lost?"

  "I don't know," Ceyrabeth replied honestly. "I think I know where I am...but I don't know where I've been. I can't get back."

  "There is no going back," A giant rose from the ground. It was a woman, lovely but coarse, aged as though she had lived a hundred lifetimes. "There is only forward...or the end." She reached behind the throne, pulled something out, and offered it to Ceyrabeth. In her left hand, she held a sword and a shield. The shield was scored by a thousand blows and the blade was dull with age. Just looking at them made Ceyrabeth droop with the weight of the battles they had seen. In her right, she held the shattered pieces of what used to be a magnificent crown, gems falling from his fingers. When they hit the stone floor, they immediately turned to drops of blood that beaded and ran toward Ceyrabeth's feet.

  ‘Choose,’ the woman demanded. ‘Choose!

  Ceyrabeth jerked upright in the cot with a start, "What--?"

  "My name is Mother Reiko," a voice at her side informed her calmly, "You are safe."

  "Am I?" Ceyrabeth's eyes narrowed, "No fire breathing cat demons, elven berserkers or flesh melting monsters?"

  "None,” The woman was older, her voice gentle. Ceyrabeth took in the equal parts strength and weariness in her almond-shaped eyes, the thinness in her angular features. She was a Ghen almost certainly, a divided race that hailed north past the mountains. She also concluded that she was a woman who had paid a heavy price for her temperance. "I am a healer. I am also unarmed. If you wish to leave, I cannot and will not stop you but I urge you to remain under my care until you've recovered completely."

  "My men?"

  "Are all accounted for as far as I know. You and your injuries have commanded almost all of my attention."

  "How long have I been down?" She fervently hoped she hadn't spent too many hours in the camp of that blind maniac unconscious and vulnerable.

  "You have been asleep for the majority of three days."

  “Three days?!”

  “Yes, regeneration magic as powerful as the Captain inflicted upon you in his anger puts a terrible strain on the body.”

  “’Inflicted’ upon me,” Ceyrabeth was taken aback by her tone. Mother Reiko sounded almost...irritated. “Don’t tell me you’re not in awe of the Captain like everyone else around here appears to be.”

  Mother Reiko smiled benignly, “Like ‘everyone else around here’ I am in awe of him. However, like everyone who knows him well, I am not blind to his faults. There are few things that shake his control or provoke his temper,” She pointed toward Ceyrabeth’s freshly pointed ears, “The story of your commander's crimes and then the tale of your own personal plight may have done just that.”

  Ceyrabeth gently brushed her ears, flinching at their unfamiliar shape. She remembered the tone of Sul's voice and touch, a shiver working its way between her shoulder blades, “I see,” was all she managed. She took a deep breath, let it out. "Is that why I feel so drained? The regeneration?"

  "Some..." Mother Reiko's voice was suddenly cautious.

  "And what's the rest?"

  “Your body was cleansed of its dependency upon wyrmscale.”

  She froze, “What?” she whispered.

  “The strength that the drug gives you helped keep you alive despite the burns and other injuries Osen and Reaper Maul inflicted upon you but the side effects...” The older woman shook her head, “It’s too dangerous. The Captain asked that I make removing it from your body a priority.”

  “The Captain knows?” Ceyrabeth felt sick to her stomach, shame compounding self-loathing. Many Hammers used the scale as a way to occasionally bolster their powers, before battles and such. But Ceyrabeth had found early on that her gifts were noticeably weak without it. When her teachers had started to notice, she found a way to adapt as she always had- small doses over longer periods of time instead of all at once. She had taken it for so long that it was a part of her. She felt...cold, without the heat of it in her veins.

  “Yes, he deduced it from your behavior and physical resilience.”

  “Who else knows about my…addiction?”

  “Your former addiction,” Mother Reiko corrected gently, “was known only to the captain, myself and one of your compatriots, the older gentleman who has been demanding regular updates regarding your condition.”

  “Quinlan,” Ceyrabeth's face relaxed into a smile and she settled back against her cot, “I’d like to see him please.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Mother Reiko bowed.

  “And Mother Reiko? Thank you. You’ve been the first decent person I’ve met in this madhouse.”

  “I assure you I am not, but you are welcome,” Giving the young woman a warm smile, she bowed and exited the tent. Less than a moment later, the tent flap opened again.

  "Quin!” Ceyrabeth greeted him with a wide smile, which he returned after a fashion. But Ceyrabeth could feel the tension in the air as he sat on the foot of her bed. “What happened? What's wrong?”

  “You mean other than we're still here?”

  “We are all here aren't we?”

  “After a fashion.”

  Ceyrabeth crossed her arms over her chest, “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “The others are…” Quin paused, searching for the right word and came up with, “Scattered.”

  “Scattered?” Beth repeated. “Scattered like…?”

  “Mathias, Tregan, Corellan and Keiran have decided to renounce their vows and not return to the Witchhammers.”

  For a moment, Ceyrabeth couldn't form thoughts, much less speak. “Toliver?” She asked numbly.

  “Already gone. I stayed behind to make sure you were alright.”

  Suddenly Ceyrabeth found words with a vengeance. “If that eyeless whoreson thinks that he can get away with stealing my people out from under me, I will make whatever blinded him seem like a damned caress compared to…!”

  “Ceyrabeth!” Quin finally broke through. Oddly enough, he was smiling. “I'm so glad you're you.”

  “Of course I'm me. Who else would I be?”

  “An imitati
on. Something wearing your face.”

  “An imitat...Quin, are you fully out of your mind?” He had said it so seriously, was still looking at her as though deciding if such an absurdity were true. “Javan Quinlan, do you think I'm possessed?”

  “Not after that truly Ceyrabethian speech. But the others….”

  “They think I'm a demon,” Ceyrabeth finished flatly.

  “Not just you.”

  “They're turning on each other?”

  Quinlan's silence said it all. Ceyrabeth tore the blankets off her body, planted her feet on the floor. “Where in the Void are my boots? If they think I'm going to let them shirk their vows because some self-proclaimed Captain made their tiny minds believe that they were infiltrated by a demon of all things…”

  “It's not as absurd a thought as you're making it out to be, Beth,” Quin said quietly, “And Captain Sul has had nothing to do with it. We reached, of our own accord, the conclusion that some of us might not…be who we are.”

  She looked in his eyes, saw the worry lurking there and felt worry tingle at the base of her spine. For a veteran like Quinlan to show that much concern…

  “Quin, do you think I'm possessed? Or infected or whatever it is?” She asked again.

  “Not you. You and I have been together the whole time. Besides...pity the poor demon who tried to consume you.”

  She gave him a lopsided grin, “Then let's get our boys.”

  They stepped out of the infirmary into the bustle of midday camp. "How many people does he have dancing to his tune?" Ceyrabeth muttered.

  "I'm sure far too many for comfort," Quinlan replied dourly.

  "Hey, it's a Hammer and his pet!" Ceyrabeth looked around at the raucous bellow. A hulking brute of a man easily a head taller than Quinlan stood watching them from across the rough square that formed the center of camp with a lewd grin. "Drop the stiff. I can show you a couple things about hammering, girl."

  "Ignore them, Beth." Ceyrabeth nodded tersely at Quinlan's words and raised her chin as they continued walking.