Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic

by A. L Butcher

  “...Laight descend upon ye in its mercah...”

  * * *

  “...give us peace in tha face o’ adversitah...”

  .: Six days later... :.

  For six days and nights, he waited.

  Well wishers had come, from all over the countryside and even from across the great river, but all were turned away. All save family were barred entrance, Jol’s withered but stubborn frame forcibly sending some on their way. The anger and frustration that coursed through him in torrents was felt in each of their seven children.

  Six days, and none from the cathedral would see her.

  He would have taken up the hammer and broken that damnable church apart stone by stone, but for the invisible tether that held him to Miahala’s side. His desperation grew, forcing him to seek the old incantations himself, trying desperately to call for the Light. But after so many years, it was as useful as grasping at air. He could only sense the poison that had invaded her system, using her knowledge of the arcane to strip her life away. It was maddening.

  The question hung around them, without need to be asked: Why? Why now? Why her? Why, after all these years? It was no secret that the former paladin had a falling-out with the church. But he had settled in his ancestral home, rebuilding the lands where he had been born, taking the wealth that he had earned over years of adventuring and building a proud family who prided themselves on good works. On family above all else.

  The paladin and the archmage had wanted no more of the outside world; their only wish was to grow old together, to be happy together, to live in the Light that was their children. Tarven was bound for the service, just like his father; he already looked forward to joining in the fall. Sadie glowed like her mother, already well schooled in the arcane arts. Their two eldest shined just like the parents that bore them had in their younger days.

  The alchemist had told Jol of the poison; poison slipped into her tea as she entertained a guest from the north who had sought her guidance. Where this guest had gone, there was no sign, but did not matter as much as who had done the deed. The maid had hung herself in guilt, her tear-stained confession written out in a shaky hand.

  Six days. All he had were wild guesses and faint traces on the wind. The town’s militia had joined the search for this unknown visitor, and trackers were brought in from throughout the region. Nothing, as of yet.

  “Jol?”

  His head lurched up, leaping from his chair as fast as his old bones would carry him. Shambling over, he knelt beside his wife, taking her hand in both of his. “Mia, love, Ah’m heah. Ah’m heah.”

  She turned her head slowly, gracing him with a smile, but he could see the strain in it. “I know,” she uttered softly, her voice crackling like dried leaves. “I’m so tired, love.”

  “Rest, darlin’. Ye ain’ gotta do nothin’ but that, Ah promise,” he said, trying to sound strong. “Tarven! Sadie!” he bellowed as he turned his head towards the antechamber.

  The door opened quickly, and their eldest son and daughter came rushing to her side. “Mother!” they both exclaimed.

  Miahala turned her head and lifted her hand weakly, which both took in one of theirs. “My darling children. I’m so proud of you. So proud.”

  “Mother, you’ll get better soon. I promise you will,” Tarven said fervently.

  Jol sat silently, trying hard to hold back the wetness in his eye. “Sadie,” he said softly. “Gather yer brothahs an’ sistahs. Go, quicklah.” She frowned at him in puzzlement, and he knew that his words could only spark alarms in her bright head.

  As Sadie hurried out as fast as her skirts would allow, Jol pressed Mia’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly. In the center of his soul, he could feel the oathspell. It was beginning to fade. And quickly.

  “...give us peace in tha face o’ adversitah...”

  * * *

  “...strength in tha face o’ feah...”

  Deep into dusk, light rain fell. Within the walled gardens of Taborwynn Manor they gathered, huddled in oiled cloaks beneath a broad willow, one many years older than the master of the House.

  Jol Taborwynn knelt his old bones beside the open grave as they began to lower her shrouded form in, sobs wracking shoulders thickened by so many years in battle. Behind him, seven children, ranging from eleven to twenty-four, watched sadly as their mother was laid to rest.

  As the laymen began shoveling the half-dry dirt, Sadie lent her voice to the breeze and the rain. The lament she began was tremulous at first, but her siblings joined her, until all of Miahala’s beautiful children sang out her memory.

  Jol felt his sobs lessen as the mound of earth grew over his last love, as if his own heart was being smothered. And, in a way, it was–as with any loss of a loved one that is so dear. A part of his mind tried to comfort him by telling him to begin to accept, and move on. There were things to be done, things which had been neglected for the last few days.

  But there was a smoldering that began to grow where his heart was, a slow ember that made that rational sense of himself truly afraid. He recognized that ember for what it was, and feared what he would sacrifice to feed it.

  He remained there in front of the fresh grave long after the service had concluded. The rain did not grow worse or better; it simply remained the steady pitter-patter that kept him company. The lamplighters made sure that each lamp outside the manner was lit, and someone had been thoughtful enough to place one near the giant willow. It was in this light that Tarven arrived, with a concerned look on his face.

  “Father, the courier you dispatched to city has returned. And the captain of the watch has brought someone from the town to see you.”

  Jol slowly looked up at his son, part of himself lost in a haze of thought. “Help mah up,” he grunted softly as he tried to pull himself up. Tarven offered a firm grip, and carefully led his father back to the manor.

  Once inside and freed of his cloak, Jol made his way to the front of the manor. “What news?” he asked tiredly once his guests were in view.

  “Lord,” the courier saluted, a rumple-faced youth who looked a little squeamish in the paladin’s presence. “No real news, sir, save for an announcement from the Church of the Scarlet. Word of the Lady Taborwynn’s passing has already reached them. An announcement was made to...” The youth gulped, looking back and forth between father and son. “...to ‘send emissaries to exhume and properly dispose of the body, so as to fend off the attempts of the Lord Taborwynn to raise her again using demonic means’.” He gulped again, averting his eyes. “Not my words, my lord, taken straight from their proclamation. Light send it, I wouldn’t...”

  “Easah, son,” Jol said, offering a comforting hand on his shoulder, which was at odds with the flatness of his voice. “Ah’m nae surprised. Cap’n, readah tha militia. Just in case. Ah don’t expect ‘em tae try, but Ah ain’ lived sae long without a li’l defensive plannin’. On yer way, son.” He dismissed the courier with a gesture.

  Once the young man had gone, Jol turned to face the weathered captain of the town watch. “Sarah, what ye got?” he asked stonily, not bothering to acknowledge the cloaked man behind her.

  “A messenger, Master Jol,” she replied, then reached into her armor and pulled out a parchment. Her eyes were tight as she handed it over; no doubt she had already perused the message. “This man says he was told by his master two weeks ago to deliver it on precisely this day.”

  Jol eyed her and then the messenger for a long moment in equal measure before unfolding the slightly crumpled parchment. What he saw stoked the embers in his chest.

  Oathbreaker,

  I never forgot. Broken oaths are broken oaths. It was nice of your wife to entertain me...a pity she fell ill more quickly than even I expected. Remember, all those years ago, when I said that I don’t hurt a man’s family?

  It was written in a quick and simple hand, and without a signature, but Jol knew whose it was. The parchment shook violently in his grip, and Jol did not dare to look away from it
. In his mind, a beacon of light began to pulse, something which had not occurred in many years. Desperately, his anger reached out to it, touched it, drank it in like mothers’ milk. The fury that had seen him through battle time and time again had returned.

  Without a word, he looked up to his son and gave him a slow nod. Turning away from the captain and the messenger, Jol strode down the hall, his aged steps gaining a little more confidence and strength with each step. Those old feelings were returning, for perhaps the last time.

  The change that was brewing left what remained of his heart cowering in fear.

  “...strength in tha face o’ feah...”

  * * *

  “...courage when tha dahkness rises...”

  Four years, he waited.

  Four years, unable to let go. The spite of the act had sparked a brooding flame in his heart, unable to be chased away and forever lingering on the edge of reason. His only recourse against it was to use it in feeding his new sense of purpose.

  The cellar of Taborwynn Manor had become a dungeon of a different sort; not to keep one held within, but to keep the rest of the world out. For the first year, his children tried to learn what he was doing down there in the darkened burrows beneath the manor.

  Some folk in hamlet began muttering that the decree from the Church of the Scarlet had been correct, that he might try to raise his dead wife again. All of this was nonsense, as Tarven made sure to patiently inform the townsfolk. Once word of the decree had reached the hamlet, the town militia had placed a twenty-four hour guard on the Lady Taborwynn’s resting place, to ward off anyone who might seek to desecrate her body, no matter who they were. But what of the Lord of Taborwynn? No one knew for certain, save one.

  Beneath Taborwynn Manor, Jol was honing his vengeance.

  Four years, he waited, but not idly standing by, wondering when the murderer of his one heart would strike next. No, Jol was busy, quite busy. In the burrows beneath the manor, he had returned to old ways taught to him so very long ago.

  Tarven knew. He had helped his father gather the multitude of wooden practice weapons and iron weights to relearn his old fighting form, to regain the strength to face his nemesis one last time.

  Four years of waiting with poised blade, working through forms that came to him as swiftly as knowing to breathe. Four years of fanning the embers of his frustrated rage by inflicting damage to one after another of man-sized wooden constructs.

  Four years of stubbornly refusing to resort to anything but the blade, despite the mournful whispers that haunted him.

  Jol Taborwynn remained patient and methodical, though the fury of righteousness tried time and again to consume him. It made him more resilient, more willing to push himself, to strike harder, to move quicker through the forms that he knew would one day end the man who took the rose of his life away.

  It was insanity to dwell on it so much, to be certain. But despite the love of his children and the needs of his community, he felt he had nothing left after the loss of her. “Such devotion only lives in legends!” Tarven once tried to tell him, but Jol would simply regard him with a level eye, and then resume his training. Nothing but training; eating and sleeping were necessary, but only to continue rebuilding what years of age had wasted away.

  Tarven did not sit by and watch. He used his time out in the world, sending riders and messages of influence to those who might know anywhere that the assassin might be. Tarven did not know the name of the man he was searching for, and Jol would not tell him. It was almost as if Jol knew the day he would meet the man again, and all of his preparation was for that day.

  Four years of training. Until one day, when Tarven carried himself down the steps to the burrows, only to find it still and quiet. Searching fervently, his father was nowhere to be found. Only a sword, stabbed into the center of the practice area, centered on something drawn in the dirt. A runic emblem of some sort, though what it was Tarven could never be certain. Wherever it had come from, it had to have caused his father’s disappearance.

  The torches in the burrows snuffed out, one by one, until even Tarven’s own began to wane. A soft glow began to eminate from the packed dirt floor, reflecting off the sword and sending light glimmering throughout the burrows as it grew in intensity. As the blue-white light grew, Tarven came to realize what it meant.

  Goodbye.

  “...courage when tha dahkness rises...”

  * * *

  “...an’ Justice when mah dutah is done.”

  .: Now... :.

  “I’m tired of waitin’ for it,” Thellan said finally, with almost a hint of resignation in his voice.

  “Let’s be done with it, eh?” He flourished one of the knives, the metal glinting sickly in the light.

  “Aye. Let’s be done.” Straightening slightly, Jol relaxed the deathgrip on his sword, lowering it partway to his side.

  A sharp intake of breath. That was the only signal needed. Without the roars and battle-cries that might have plagued their younger years, the two ancient warriors charged. Time stretched as they prepared to meet for the last time, and in that stretching, all of the moments that had led up to this flashed in Jol’s bitter memory. He whispered softly.

  “Tha Laight bless thee an’ keep thee...” Blades met with the sparking of steel from the force involved, Jol’s own sword warding off the dual overhanded swings of Thellan’s. The pair rebounded a half-step, but both pushed forward again, trying to seize the momentum and use it to their advantage.

  “...Laight descend upon ye in its mercah...” The precious few reserves of mental energy Jol had imbued his blade, and he used it to turn aside another overhand strike, while his left hand left its grip on his sword and reached to block Thellan’s offhand at the forearm. Both men exposed and yet locked at the same time, Jol grit his teeth and threw his large head forward, knocking Thellan in the teeth and breaking some in the process.

  “...give us peace in tha face o’ adversitah...” Thellan recovered more quickly than Jol anticipated, kicking out and catching the weathered paladin in the jaw. The rogue used the momentary dazing to slice into the chain mail guarding Jol’s abdomen, exposing flesh and letting blood run. Jol did not grunt or show any sign of the pain of the attack, his mind absorbed by an inner calm.

  “...strength in tha face o’ feah...” Jol spun away from another swing of quick hands, the Light suffusing him. His blood coursed, his wounds healing with flares of light until his skin shone golden. Something bubbled up within, something he was unable to contain. Thellan lunged again, but Jol simply sidestepped him, turning to keep himself face-on to this long time enemy. Within him, Jol felt as if he was being split in two, a mixture of pain and golden purity that he could not begin to fathom. Outwardly, his face was a mask of stoic calm.

  “...courage when tha dahkness rises...” his lips breathed, and then a bellow sprang forth. Charging, the Light exploded from him, and for a moment it looked as though an archangel had descended into the world, golden wings raised and shimmering as he charged. Jol’s consciousness briefly recognized that he was no longer in control of his own body, instead it seemed he floated behind his own eyes as his soul unleashed itself on his old adversary.

  The avenger within knelt at the last moment of its charge, bringing his sword around in a side-strike that dug deep into Thellan’s gut. The rogue doubled over with a shout of pain, but unable to fall over as he was held up by the paladin and his sword. In Jol’s mind, everything snapped back into place, and he felt the weight of his form settled back around his consciousness. Golden wings shuddered briefly, folding back as he remained kneeling there.

  “...an’ Justice when mah dutah is done.”

  Jol withdrew his sword, standing as Thellan collapsed onto the ground and writhed in pain. With a sense of wonderment, Jol looked over the gore on his blade, and then reached up to run his hand over the golden feathers that were now a part of him.

  A wracking cough from Thellan captured his attention, and the once-paladin
turned and knelt by the man’s side. Thellan looked up at him with eyes wide in fear, unable to say anything, though his mouth tried to form the words.

  Calm had washed over Jol; all of the anger and hatred and thirst for revenge had cleansed itself from him before the blade in his hands had struck. He felt pity and remorse for what lay before him now, but animosity had been washed away.

  Jol placed his hand upon the rogue’s forehead, smoothing away the sweat which beaded there. “The Light bless thee and keep thee,” he said, his voice changed and reverberating with otherworldly tones. “May the Light wash away your wrongs, and those wrongs committed against you. Let the last embrace of the Light welcome you home. “

  Thellan’s eyes softened, and the fear disappeared. His eyes turned glassy, and his breath came to a shuddering halt.

  Jol—what was once Jol, now something more—knelt there for a small eternity, feeling the night’s breeze whisper through his wings. There was no way to truly understand what had transpired, and no witnesses to try and apply words to the actions.

  Finally, he drew himself up, running a hand lightly over the edge of his sword. Where blood and gore remained, it floated apart in the glow of the Light, leaving steel that shone as if newly forged. Silver hair changed, returning to the rich black of his youth. The worn and dreadful patch that had covered a wicked scar fell away, revealing a blue eye returned, shining with wisdom and inquisitiveness. What had once been, was now remade.

  “Absolution looks good on you, love,” a voice–was it one, or was it more?–spoke behind him. He turned to see the air shimmering, and saw there a face and form more beautiful than he could have hoped. She stepped forward, her dress simple enough for a country farmwoman, but elegant enough to hint at being so much more. Her eyes were lit with memories shared, of a past enriched by the presence of the man standing before her.