Holtur Stories

by Cameron Wayne Smith

  “Short man. Talks funny. Has a big nose.”

  “Oh, him. Nice fellow. He wanted some old flowers. Ale had been spilt on them and they needed chucking out. Very helpful of him.”

  “No!” Volk glared at his cousin. “He’s crazy! Ansgren left Holtur for three years. Three years, Taringa! Now he is back. He thinks himself as Tethaya’s champion! You giving him flowers fills some sick love prophecy of his!”

  “Settle down,” Taringa said while pouring three ales at the same time. “He’s just a little love-struck slayer. It’s harmless. Have you got any idea how many slayers, in here right now, are forever swooning over me?”

  “Don’t say that! You’re a good girl!” The freckles on Volk’s face seemingly disappeared into his reddening skin. “You’re a good girl…”

  “Damn straight I am.” Taringa winked to a patron. “But, I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman; if I want to be with Ansgren, that’s my own business.”

  “No! Not Ansgren, he’s so, so, so—”

  “Shut up Volk,” Taringa interrupted, then placed a couple of mugs before him. “Don’t worry, Ansgren is not my type. Here, two ales on the house. One for you, and one for Sonja.”

  “Not Ansgren!” he said, but she had purposefully moved herself down the other end of the bar. He grabbed the two ales while grumbling to himself.

  Snaking through a horde of people is much more difficult with an ale in each hand. Spilling any was out of the question; each drop lost meant a return trip to the bar would arise quicker. A spill on an ill-tempered slayer who was larger than Volk—which most of these men were—could also end in a fight. Volk would probably win. Still, it was an inconvenience all the same. After a fight, water starts to find its way into the ale, diluting the stuff until the next moon; a stupid policy. If only these men would part for him like they did for Sonja.

  “I can’t fathom why the sun was so quiet,” Sonja said upon Volk’s return.

  “Hope it stays that way next sun,” Rigst said. “I’m off to patrol the western ranges.”

  “Ansgren would have come from the north,” Knoch added. “That means the north would be nice and quiet for a change, yeah?”

  “North? West? I wouldn’t worry, Ansgren scared everything off!” Volk joked, placing an ale before Sonja.

  “Cheers!” Sonja raised her mug and tilted her head. “So, you sort out your cousin?”

  “I swear, she’s dressing skimpier every moon!” Volk took a swig. “She’s doing it to herself. Probably to spite me for being such a protective gentleman of a cousin. I swear, one of these moons she’ll show up naked!”

  The slayers at the table were overcome with smirks, nodding their heads, imagining the voluptuous red-head showing up nude.

  “Oh, fuck off!” Volk slapped Knoch. Not only because he was closest, but because a whack to the head rarely bothered the man. “She’s off limits to you filthy lot!”

  “You’re worrying too much. Ansgren isn’t her type,” Sonja repeated.

  “Fuck, you keep saying that!” Volk exclaimed. “I guess you’re right. Taringa said the same thing.”

  A low rumbling vibrated through the tavern. Volk grabbed the table and used it to steady himself. Once the shaking ceased, an odd scream erupted from outside.

  “Quiet sun…” Sonja leant back and tipped the mug upside down against her mouth. She gulped most of the contents down. Some dribbles managed to escape her mouth, seeking her furs or the floor below.

  After finishing what was left in his own mug, Rigst finished the old proverb, “Loud moon.”

  Volk grunted, it was a stupid saying. Often enough, quiet suns and moons would harmoniously dance through the sky without an issue. It did hold a little truth though, a peaceful sun almost always preceded a hectic moon—as rare as they were.

  Disgruntled slayers were seeping from the Wounded Wyvern, curious to see what had created such a commotion. Whatever it was—most likely a horror of some sort—had no place disturbing the precious drinking sessions these slayers clung to so dearly.

  The moon was full and bright, but had taken on a feint pinkish hue. It was well known in Holtur that a bloody moon meant problems lie ahead. However, Volk’s understanding of the faiths gave him a deeper understanding of a crimson-moon. He knew it meant the god of death, Necrominus, was up to something. Clouds lingered around first moon. They flowed around it, rather than over it, refusing to block its bloody-light from desecrating the Holtur streets.

  An unusually cold breeze—too icy and sharp to be blocked by furs—whipped up from the cobbles. Most of the slayers—including Sonja—were entranced by the moon’s reddening hue. Not Volk, his faith wouldn’t let him offer any awe to Necrominus. Another scream roared from the south. The distressing call prompted more slayers to rush out into the street, only for their focus to be stolen by the crimson-moon.

  “Sonja!” Volk grabbed a fist-full of furs and shook the large woman. “Rigst? Knoch?” They wouldn’t respond. “Anyone?”

  A broad slayer grunted and turned to Volk. It was Kaarm.

  Before Volk could complain—that the only other slayer drinking at the tavern with a strong enough faith to ignore the crimson-moon was Kaarm—another scream erupted from the south. Weapons clanked and boots stomped as the two of them charged for the distressed citizen.

  Clear skies assured Wyvern Road was well lit up, if a little red. The two slayers pounded across the cobbles, increasing their speed with every scream released. A distressing cry sent them racing down a narrow side-road without hesitation. The only thing more reckless than two opposed slayers fighting each other, is those two slayers hunting an unknown prey while trying to prove who is the superior warrior. A very different part of the brain was in charge, the part that has to win at any cost.

  Another scream revealed a short man, writhing around on the ground in pain. His pain ceased for a moment and he cried, “Sisters should comprehend an exigency to prosper, to flourish. Is quarreling over Ansgren obligatory? You’re splintering Ansgren! Shredding Ansgren asunder!”

  “Ansgren?” Kaarm asked, racing over to thrashing man.

  “Stop!” Volk warned. “He thinks he is blessed by Tethaya.”

  “So?”

  “You observed the moon,” Volk said sternly. “Don’t tell me you can’t put two and two together?”

  Kaarm stepped back with a grunt. It was well known to anyone who studied religion that Tethaya, the god of love—or vengeance, depending on the tales believed—and Necrominus, the god of death, had fought over the ownership of mortals since before their ascension. Volk knew Kaarm would understand, still, he wouldn’t hold back a chance to belittle the much larger Aesterus worshipper.

  “Ansgren, ignore them,” Kaarm said. “They can’t hurt you. Not if you don’t let them.”

  “Her disquisition is melodious,” Ansgren cried. “Ansgren’s impuissant to delineate where pronouncements belong, their elocution is euphonious!” He coiled up into the fetal position and screamed again.

  The tall, stone buildings blocked most illumination. Despite that, an eerie, blood-infused glow beamed from the sky, bouncing down and across the walls. The minimal light dulled the closer it crept to the ground.

  Ansgren screamed, bursting with inaudible words—even compared to his normal dribble—while rolling in pain. He must have had razors burst from his spine, because his robe split perfectly along its back, freeing his body from the confines of the purple attire. His seizure seemed to get worse, and Volk had to grab Kaarm by the elbow to hold him back.

  Once the light of the sky reached its reddest, Ansgren slumped to the ground, face down, lifeless and drained. “Ansgren?” Kaarm asked.

  “Ah… A glorious moon empowers exuviating this effete corpulent veneer…” Ansgren’s words, only rougher. Courser. Edged with grinding metal.

  A shadow coalesced from Ansgren’s body like two spears reaching for the moon. Once the shadows had grown four metres in height, they unfurled like the wings of a wyvern awoken fro
m slumber. The red light illuminated the figure materialising before them: a man—a very tall and masculine man—with large leathery wings. A single violet eye shone from the middle of his face, illuminating four horns—two which protruded from under its chin and curled up, and two from its forehead, which ran down its face, inner of the other pair. The thing’s true colour was somewhere between black and a very dark red, but it was difficult to tell given the lighting—or lack thereof.

  “What are you?” Volk asked. He had seen many disturbing creatures and horrors, but nothing like this.

  The horror took a step towards the two slayers, but kept its rear foot connected to Ansgren. “Vindratis was abducted by love, commissioned by vengeance, then ameliorated to perfection by darkness.” It stopped its advance and looked to the sky.

  “You’re bound to Ansgren,” Volk said, noticing the creature displayed no urgency in closing the few metres between them. “You need his body.”

  “That’s a conceivable conjecture,” the creature said. It rested back atop Ansgren and clawed at its horns with a set of talons that sprouted from where a foot should be.

  “You’re an angel?” Kaarm asked, a croak creeping from a serious voice.

  The creature laughed a bellowing sound like that of heavy hammers pounding against each other. “Was. Vindratis’ love was eliminated, Tethaya transfixed Vindratis into the sanguinary fate of commanding the tethalac.” Tethalac? Volk had heard of that, some horror summoned by feuding lovers. “Vindratis discountenanced, Vindratis near perished.” The horror, Vindratis, stroked Ansgren’s hair with clawed hands. “Ansgren transpired, endeavoring purpose. Vindratis agglutinated with Ansgren. Vindratis suckled Ansgren’s life. Then she came.” Vindratis, looked skywards.

  Volk cleared his throat. “Necrominus?”

  Vindratis’ purple eye flickered. “Absolutely.”

  Volk stomped his foot, angered with how weak this once-blessed creature was. “You do know she is the god of death? Opposed to everything your people—your god, Ralumina—hold sacred!”

  “Yes,” Vindratis hissed. “Vindratis fell astray. Necrominus’ embrace resurrected Vindratis’ jouissance. Vindratis uncovered resolve anew. The Tethalac will transmute to Necrominus’ pleasure.”

  “NO!” Volk unsheathed his black, hook swords. Heat—which he pushed out towards his weapons—pulsed through his body and down his limbs. The tungsten of his blades blazed to life, revealing a bright light in the dim street. “You’ve lost your way, angel, and you flirt with dark gods. I would never harm an angel, but you stand for everything blasphemous. Plead forgiveness to which ever god you choose, for now you die!” Volk charged. “Aesterus, give me the passion!”

  Fire swirled around Volk as he charged. It felt like he had conjured more power than he had ever summoned before. It proved his conviction—and passion—was Aesterus’ will. He felt a new warmth touch his soul. Perhaps Tethaya, the god of love, or Ralumina, the god of life, were loaning him their power to overcome this abomination.

  “Die!” Volk roared, sending the searing blades towards Vindratis’ torso.

  The blades halted in the air, grasped by the horror’s burning claws. “You ruminate your god of passion is qualified to terminate Vindratis? Foolish ultracrepidarian, adjudicating Vindratis’ nominations!”

  “Kaarm!” Volk urged the fellow Aesterus worshipper, then looked back to Vindratis’ eye. “It’s not always about raw power, horror!” Upon speaking out the title ‘horror’ to the creature, it staggered backwards, being careful not to disconnect from Ansgren.

  “Horror?” Vindratis repeated, as if uncomfortable at hearing that word used to describe himself.

  “Sometimes it’s about doing the right thing. Protecting the people you love,” Volk said through clenched teeth. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing powerful about giving up and giving in. There’s no pride or power in handing your soul to darkness.”

  “Your perception will diverge upon envisioning the crimson moon fusillade Vindratis with nonpareil power!” Vindratis’ eye was fixed on the crimson moon. It was just beginning to edge over the tall buildings that ensconced them. “Vindratis' tether to Ansgren shall extirpate!”

  Volk tried to free his blades, but the horror gripped them too tightly. Failing to free them, he focused on channelling fire down the blades. Vindratis didn’t care about his dark flesh burning away. Whatever power the moon was channelling into him was beyond Volk’s comprehension. “Kaarm!” Volk turned back to the larger Aesterus worshipper.

  Kaarm had summoned his own flaming tungsten blades. He roared—the way large warriors are wont to give away their position—gaining Vindratis’ attention. Volk barely shifted out of the way. The blasphemous angel managed to grab the first blade that sought its shadowy flesh. Another roar and Kaarm swung in with his other flaming hook sword. Vindratis’ wings beat, pulling him into the air. This allowed his free talon—the one that had previously clung to Ansgren—to grab the final blade.

  Ansgren and Vindratis both released a bloodcurdling, grating, horror-fueled sound. The slayers found their blades ejected from the horror’s sinewy covering. Vindratis reached claw and talon towards Ansgren, but despite his previous strength, was unable to move.

  “Lost your host, horror?” Volk taunted. He grabbed Ansgren and dragged him away.

  The creature that had lurked within Ansgren was not prepared for a full physical separation. Vindratis screamed.

  “Die!” Kaarm released another of his roars. He cross slashed both blades towards the creature. They seared straight through the blasphemous entity, shadows swirling through their wake.

  “What chaos has Vindratis performed?” Vindratis reached its arms to the sky, spread out its wings, then released a scream which morphed into a cry. “Vindratis apologises… Ralumina, embrace your recalcitrant son, please.” The shadowy being dissolved into a rising mist.

  The moon’s bloody face finally lurched perfectly over the gap between the buildings, beaming straight onto the slayers below. It pulsed a dark aura towards what remained of Vindratis, but before the two could merge, it became shielded by a faint yellow glow. A glow that reflected the moon’s dark intentions, back into the sky. That yellow chased after the red, and in a few blinks of an eye, the moon had returned to its usual colour.

  “Wow, that was unusual,” Volk said. “Even for Holtur!”

  Kaarm nodded slowly. “Ansgren, are you alright?”

  “For what cognition is Ansgren stationed in this malodorous alley? A tavern and a quenching potation is what Ansgren necessitates.”

  “What?” Volk asked “You don’t remember what just happened?”

  “With certainty, Ansgren sits the inapposite edge of a mischievous prank concerning you Aesterus worshippers.” Ansgren rubbed his bulbous nose then set off towards Wyvern Road. “My condolences, howbeit, Tethaya’s mandate is Tethaya’s mandate.”

  “Fuck! What reality birthed that man?” Volk swore, setting off after the man. “We’re going to have to watch him!”

  “We?” Kaarm grunted. “He’s your cousin-in-law!”

  Volk shook his head. “Don’t tell me you forgot what we just saw?”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not her type,” Kaarm said. His grin enlarged across his rugged face. Clearly he enjoyed Volk’s frustration. “And I don’t think we need to worry about Vindratis any longer.” He winked.

  Volk released a sigh.

  “Although, he—or it—could be Taringa’s type!”

  Volk released an annoyed sigh and shook his head, doing his best not to allow the moron beside him to flare his anger. “I need an ale.”

  A JUSTIFIED BITE

  “It happens every year. Always before the frozen suns,” Karlee said. “Children are adopted, but later, end up right back here. I wouldn’t be surprised if it happens to you two.”

  “Us?” Mitzi asked. “Why?”

  Karlee folded her arms, glaring at Mitzi and Dirk. “With Glacious’ approach, the sanctuary’s orp
hanage struggles to feed all our mouths. They’ll try to get rid of as many of us as they can. And you two? Well, you haven’t even been here a year.”

  “But why?” Dirk, Mitzi’s brother, asked.

  Karlee raised a brow. “I just told you.”

  “What we mean to ask: why do the children return?” Mitzi said.

  “No one knows…” Karlee took a breath and her lip twitched. “The returners never say anything, and the apothecaries never pry. The returners are always shaken up for a while. Eventually they get over it and seem content with our chores. Never the same, but content.” Once finished, Karlee stalked off towards her bed. It wasn’t yet sleep time, but chores had been completed and Karlee had been given a new book.

  Dirk looked up to his older sister and said, “Mother will be better soon. She’ll be back for us in no time!”

  “Yeah!” Mitzi nodded, infected by the cheerful expression on Dirk’s face.

  Mitzi might only be twelve, but still old enough to realise there would be no coming back from what their mother had seen. Mitzi heard it—all of it—while covering her brother’s ears. The wailing, screaming, tearing, chomping; she’d never clear it from her mind. At least she didn’t actually witness it—the monster that slaughtered their father. Mitzi thought it would kill her. She didn't understand why it had left her and the rest of her family alone.

  “But!” Dirk said, grabbing his sister’s arms. “If one of us gets new parents, we must both be adopted together!”

  “Of course,” Mitzi said. Her brother had a firm grip for a six-year-old; he’d most likely be even stronger than their father when he grows up!

  “Now father is gone, it is my job to protect you,” Dirk said, grinning ear to ear. He held his head high and proud.

  “You’re not a slayer,” Mitzi said.

  “Nope, I’m your brother!” Dirk still stood proud, as though the title of brother trumped that of slayer.

  Mitzi laughed. A laugh that was cut short by Mother Atius bursting into their dormitory. Her chubby, red face scanned the room.