by Dan Brigman
Holli began, “Well, I wish we could have visited under better circumstances, but I’ll wish you luck on your way. You both will need luck of the Originators, if I didn’t know better.”
“Strangely, Holli, I doubt we would have visited under any other circumstance,” Einar replied. He placed a hand on her arm. “But I will remember your hospitality and ensure Ellia doesn’t know you helped us. I’m sure your relationship with her would suffer otherwise.”
“Very well. Be off with you both. Hopefully, I’ll see you all on the way back home.”
Saen simply nodded in appreciation and walked out to wait for Einar. He turned to give Holli a hug, but she simply stepped back away from him and held open the door.
“Go Einar, before I forget what you’ve done.”
Waving to his cousin, Einar walked out the front door next to Saen. “So, North Sacclon. Three days. That’s not so bad. I’d say—”
Holli heard only a replied scoff escape Saen’s lips before she closed the door and lost sight of the two odd companions. Odd, but much closer than I remembered. Soliphi, if you do exist, be with them and at least to guide them to Ellia and those three children, Holli silently prayed while she walked back to the kitchen to clean up the few dirtied dishes. Her eyes down, she didn’t notice the man sitting at her table as she worked at the small porcelain sink.
After grabbing a pot hanging over the cook stove’s fire, a familiar, loathsome voice uttered, “Now, Holli, you know better than to not offer a guest something hot to drink, specifically on a day like this.”
The voice startled her and caused her to trip over one of the squat legs of the cutting block. The pot’s liquid, near to boiling, splashed her hands. Cursing, she spat out, “Whatever you want, take it. I’ve no time for nonsense today. Not today.”
“I only wanted your cooperation. The cooperation you promised your master, Holli.”
The voice flooded in memories of pain. His emphasis upon her name, given to her years ago by her master, forced in a tremor of fear.
“Oh, gods,” Holli mustered in whispered tones. The thought of running out to catch Saen and Einar flitted away as quickly as it had formed. Run? I wouldn’t make it out of this room.
“While your master has not joined the ranks of the gods yet, you know he is reaching that point. Soon, perhaps, but probably longer than even he is hoping. No matter. Blighting takes him far, as you know well.” The man, if Holli could call him that, was of another world, another time. His voice, eerily like a frozen wind slicing over ice-covered prairie grass, offered no hint of mercy.
Composing herself somewhat, she looked at the unwelcome intruder and shuddered. Holli had never learned his name; she had never asked, nor had he offered it, yet she knew him simply from his mere presence. No matter how many times she had seen him, she could not suppress the near-paralyzing fear evoked by his loathsome appearance. His face was hidden beneath a sheer black cloth which seemed to not diminish his vision in the least. He sat swathed in a hooded cloak made of tangible blackness, like the deepest recesses of a forgotten cave. She couldn’t make out any ends or folds to the cloth, which caused her stomach to flip if she tried to focus for too long. Even light itself seemed to dim around the man.
Holli licked her lips and replied in barely-heard tones, “Master Amant does not know the power Einar carries. I could not have stopped him; I forget how strong he is. Strong enough to elude you, Unnamed.” She paused, feeling fear flush her face. She swallowed, then continued, “I did give his family horses. To delay Einar and his friend on the road. I sent one of our men to guide them. One I hired.” The excuse rang weak in Holli’s ears, and all she could do was stare helplessly at the near-featureless creature.
The Unnamed’s voice, if frozen before, became glacial. “You were to keep them here. Here. You agreed and swore the rune-vow, Holli.” He pointed a finger down on the table, tapping it gently. Holli realized then she would not leave the room alive. She had never even seen the smallest bit of his actual body before. His blackish-gray fingers, though, captured her gaze. The other hand lay on the tabletop holding an empty glove. The darkness emanating from the man’s clothing seemed like the brightest day in comparison to the appendage. Even so, she could see details of the fingers despite the blackness—the finger’s flesh barely held onto the ivory bones beneath. So, I still have some of my true sight left. She could not fool herself into thinking that the finger’s supposed decomposition held no strength.
Holli’s vision narrowed to the fingers. Stalling for time while trying to think, she asked, “If you wanted Einar so badly why didn’t you just take him yourself? He was here just minutes ago.” Even through the paralyzing fear, she heard the pleading tone. She could feel her will draining away. A clay cracked pot ready to be discarded.
“Master Amant enjoys assessing his subordinates, which I enjoy, in turn, implementing.” He paused. “You could have gone far, Holli, but you chose to follow your own path. I’m here to ensure you don’t make such a decision again.”
Steeling herself, Holli gritted her teeth and resigned herself. Fear fell away like a popped bubble. “At least before you do what you came here to do, at least call me by my true name. The name our master gave me. I deserve that in the next life.”
“You deserve nothing for disobeying Master Amant,” the man replied. Hatred laced with disappointment etched itself on each word. He strode to her with such swiftness that Holli barely made out three of his black fingers scribing a rune. Three fingers? The thought took hold, and confusion flashed through her mind. Why so many?
Gentle tentacles of blackness streamed off the lines he scribed, fingers moving too fast for her to follow. The room’s air became frigid, the fire’s flames flash-frozen in place. Her rasping panting breaths came out in small white clouds as a counterpoint to the blackness enveloping her. The man stood one step away while finishing the three scribed lines to finish the rune, and she recognized it. Even as Holli felt her brain slowly freezing, she remembered enough to know the rune he scribed had been deemed forbidden by their master. By Master Amant. The rune could cause too much damage in its afterimage; flashes of world-wracking events she remembered reading about which had been caused by this very rune flashed before her almost-absent vision. What could be worse than death?
A scream erupted from Holli’s nearly frozen throat. She heard the kitchen windows shatter and glass tinkling as pieces fell upon the floor. The man’s index finger, shrouded in pure blackness, casually touched her forehead. The scream cut off as if it had never been. The rune’s afterimage flashed outwards, but Holli never saw it as her body shifted from its human shape into a pile of black ooze frozen in place. The Unnamed looked down at the woman’s remains, and heard the wood of the home, petrified by the freeze, begin to crack.
“You wanted your true name spoken. And so it shall be, but not my lips, Holli.”
He stepped lightly on the ooze, fracturing it until it shattered like a bottle left too long outside in freezing temperatures. The home’s wood’s cracking grew, and he watched at the glittering pieces with satisfaction before stepping to the exterior wall. Flicking one hand on the wall, a human-sized piece shattered into countless pieces and he stepped outside. The damage to the wall, however slight, amplified the structure’s failing integrity.
The man stepped a few more paces away and turned to ensure the entire structure suffered the same fate as the blight-stricken woman. Smiling, he recognized the afterimage had done its job; he saw what once had been a person looking through the empty kitchen window. The person stood frozen, apparent surprise had flashed upon the face before the end. And as the house collapsed it brought the frozen being with it. The Blighter turned—the house, the failed woman, and the dead human forgotten—and he departed the village in the direction of the two companions.
“I’ll not be Unnamed much longer,” the Blighter, still Unnamed, rasped. He smiled at the thought, despite being unable to catch sight of his quarry.
16 �
�� The End of the Olst
Melek ran to the window to look out on a scene he never imagined would happen in his clan’s home. Men and women, he had known his entire life, fought in the street. Blood intermingled with the mud exacerbating the slippery footing for those struggling. Dozens of men, women, and children lay unmoving on the ground, with men sometimes stepping on the bodies, pushing them further into the mud. Neither Melek nor the Alterator could seem to bring themselves to speak—the carnage had transfixed their entire consciousness.
They watched Ol’ Tanar, one of the village’s blacksmiths, wielding a wicked hammer against his best friend, Balner Joss, of over thirty years. Balner worked as a town guard to keep his family and the clan safe, and Melek could not think of a more honest pair of men. A rictus of fear belied Tanar’s steady composure as he swung mightily at the man in front of him. Balner brought his longsword up to parry the hammer. If not for his training, his skull would have been smashed. With a blur of movement, the guard riposted with a single swipe at Joss’s overextended arm. His eyes took in the movement and they widened with fear of the impending blow. As the sword cleaved through the arm at the elbow, Tanar screamed in pain while grasping the pulsating stump. Balner gave him no time to recover.
Seeing the sword flashing toward his head, shock etched itself into Tanar’s face. His last word rang in Melek’s ear: “NO!” Then the sword cut cleanly through the top of the head above the man’s eyebrows. From Melek’s perspective, Tanar’s brains came into full view, and his eyes rolled back into his ruined skull before he collapsed where he stood.
“Die, you traitorous scum!” The words escaped from Balner’s mouth, shocking the two men above him into action.
A breath later the light around Melek and Malkari dimmed considerably, and a sudden blinding flash to Melek’s side caused him to step backward while raising an arm to protect his eyes. A startled cry of pain issued upward from the street, and the flash left as quickly as it had formed. Melek lowered his arm to witness Malkari beginning the motions for a rune with his right hand. Concentration etched itself on the Alterator’s face as he inscribed a symbol almost too quickly for Melek to follow. Melek blinked as an arrow streaked past Malkari’s head to stick into the wooden ceiling.
Paying no attention to the attack, Malkari continued inscribing. At the rune’s formation, a trail of white light followed the finger as if it cut through the very fabric of reality. Melek could not tear his gaze away from the tracer of light, and to his surprise his body became completely rigid. I cannot move, Melek thought. Anger flushed his face. Why’s he holding me? Meanwhile, light in the room dimmed almost completely for the span of a heartbeat. Light flooded back into the room with no visible signs that the Alterator had performed anything out of the ordinary. As the runic tracer disappeared, Melek felt his limbs loosen; he gingerly flexed his fingers.
Malkari turned and yelled, “Go, Melek! I have put a hold on most of those in the street who are fighting, but the effect will not last long.”
As he finished speaking, Malkari stumbled backward to the floor. An arrow bristled out of the man’s right shoulder. Despite the wound, Malkari shifted himself to look at Melek. “I will be fine. I will stay here to protect the stranger. Kill any men who have the look of fear. You know our law. Or I thought you did.” Melek saw in the Alterator’s eyes a hardness allowing no argument. Melek’s mind shifted back to his duty, as he brushed aside the thought of the Alterator attacking him.
Melek spun and moved to the greatsword lying on the floor close to his friend’s corpse. The flow of blood from his neck had stopped, but it had formed a large reddish-black pool already soaking into the floorboards. Stepping lightly around the blood and the body, Melek found his daggers still stuck in Loken’s chest. Melek grimaced with distaste and flipped the body over. A sickening sound issued from the wounds when he quickly pulled the daggers from the chest. He wiped the blades across the body’s cloak, then sheathed them. The massive greatsword Loken had always been fond of lay partially in the pool of blood.
“Let him find peace,” Melek whispered when his hands grasped the hilt.
Without thinking, Melek turned and stalked to the bottom floor, taking the steps three at a time. The vestibule door stood open, and he stopped short in the doorway before exiting. Cries of pain and sounds of battle intermingled throughout the street, as the fighting had seemingly increased. The village had never been very large, yet to Melek’s eyes, the entire male and female population either still fought one another or lay on the ground wounded or dying. He quickly scanned the many fallen bodies and realized few of them moved.
Malkari’s rune still held Balner’s legs in place. Now, the man’s face twisted from panic, instead of one of victory. The longsword still raised upward in a protective stance, Balner had noticed Melek come from the shadows of the clan leader’s home to stand in its doorway. Both men locked eyes and Melek sighed heavily. He knew what he needed to do. Balner’s eyes grew large when his gaze met the sword in Melek’s right hand. The man cursed under his breath; his face portrayed unwanted memories of Melek’s proficiency with blades. Melek’s relatively calm stance, not five paces away while holding the weapon effortlessly, did nothing to assuage Balner.
Melek watched Balner’s fear escalate with each breath, and his stomach turned at the sight. Melek could almost taste the fear at the roof of his mouth. Balner appeared to be ready to run, yet his legs could not cooperate, which brought another more pronounced curse. Melek’s gaze took in actions seeming to move more slowly while he moved closer to Balner, almost as if time itself could not fathom the horror on the streets. To reach Balner, Melek stepped over the body of a woman face-down in the mud. Then moving with the gracefulness gained by years of practicing martial arts, before thrusting forward with the greatsword, striking at the man’s chest. Again, Balner’s training and natural speed protected his life as he barely deflected the thrust upward. The deflected sword still caught the edge of his jaw, spraying blood on both men. Balner cried out in pain and rage at the wound.
The training of village guards had saved Balner twice today but Melek had anticipated the parry. As Balner’s parry carried the greatsword’s momentum upward and away from himself, Melek used the momentum toward a half moon swipe at the man’s torso. Sparrow’s Kiss. Melek knew the training of the guards did not include any weapons larger than the longsword, so Balner could not anticipate the strike. He did not initially realize what happened until the riposte he had used earlier did not follow through: Balner’s sword came down into the space where Melek had been, and Balner suddenly coughed blood as surprise flushed his face.
Then pain washed over Balner when he looked upon the damage. The greatsword had entered directly below his ribs and cut into his spinal column. Balner’s legs finally became free and he slumped to the ground without a noise. Melek held the blade as his enemy slipped off and he placed the blade’s tip on the man’s neck. Without looking, he thrust downward for the coup de grace. As he felt the blade touch the ground, he twisted the blade and pulled it free.
Melek scanned the street to take in the carnage. Several buildings had fire licking up their walls with others were fully alit. The roar of the flames almost drowned out the sounds of battle. Some buildings had only smoke issuing from the front door or windows. Bodies seemingly lay everywhere. Twenty or so small fights still persisted, but many were as one-sided as Melek’s. His legs felt mired to the ground while he peered around. He did not want to move because he knew he would have to kill. I need to stop the fear. Somehow, insanity and fear had fallen upon a community that had spent generations disciplining themselves against such behavior.
Five paces away a fight between two guards ended quickly with one man being impaled. The victor expertly pulled the blade free while the dying man fell backward. A quick hop to the man’s side and a blurring diagonal slice to the top of his head finished the death. Then, without stopping, the guard charged at Melek. The nimble movement in the mud allowed Melek the ti
me to wait for the man’s attack.
In the span of a breath, the guard thrust his shortsword in one hand in a feinting motion, only to swipe a scimitar at Melek’s throat. If he had not been paying attention, Melek would have had his head removed, but years of honing his senses gave him an edge. And, as the man had charged, Melek caught the fear in the man’s eyes. The guard visibly paled when he noticed no glimmer of emotion on Melek’s face.
Melek hallowed himself just as his mentor had taught him through endless practice sessions. Melek pushed those painful thoughts away, and the childhood meditative practices learned to remove fear and other emotions fell into place. Melek’s emptiness contained his very being, which also simply melted away, leaving only what he had to do. Bazen allowed him to do so. The thought flitted along Melek’s consciousness; bazen became his only existence now.
Even the strength of Melek’s stout heart, furious with adrenaline pumping through his veins, faded in comparison to the battle focus shrouding the barrenness of bazen. The greatsword in Melek’s hands seemed to come alive as he swung at the guard. The guard’s cunning, yet desperate charge at Melek had nearly worked until the greatsword moved. It was all the guard could do to just keep the sword from skewering him while he blocked and parried Melek’s rapid blows.
A sudden rumble of thunder followed by several intense flashes of lightning to the north shocked the guard, causing him to hesitate. Melek’s mind shifted at the guard’s hesitancy; the guard’s death became inevitable to Melek through the bazen. A drizzle of cold rain began to fall upon the village and the people still fighting in the street. The rainfall intermixed with the blood-strewn ground, forming a slick red mud within moments.
The guard took several glancing wounds as he backed away from his Melek. Melek noticed that the man struggled to hide the fear, but the guard panted fiercely—his pale face had shifted to pure terror and hate. His defensive posture became weaker and a single thrust caught the guard in his right leg. He knew his life was over then, yet he attempted to escape.