Phoenix Rising

by Alec Peterson

  For a moment, silence reigned in the tent. And then Sul smiled, faintly, and raised his goblet in toast "Well said. Your words have swayed me, Ceyrabeth Vallorin. But to be a member of the Legion is to put forth more than words. Deeds are required. Your final trial is a trial by combat," He held up his hand to forestall her already forming protest, "Strictly non-lethal. Two combatants in a ring of sand. Last one to remain in the circle wins.”

  The elven woman sighed. She could do this. It would be no different than the countless hours spent in the training yard with padded staves. She rolled her neck experimentally. She was drained and the old injury to her arm pained her.

  "Battle does not wait for us to be at our full potential" Sul chided gently, once again seeming to read her mind.

  "I accept your terms," She announced. What choice did she have really? "Who will I be dueling?"

  Sul's smile turned into something dangerous, "Well, we do currently have just the one opening." Slowly he turned his bandaged gaze towards Keiran.

  "Uh-oh," Keiran muttered.

  "I will not," Ceyrabeth said simply.

  "Then are words all you have to offer after all?"

  "I will not be responsible for denying his chance to be part of something he believes in deeply."

  "You would deny it to yourself then?"

  "If those are my choices, yes."

  "Very well," Sul returned his attention to the lad, "Sir Keiran you will face Reaper Maul in unarmed combat. The only rule is that you must remain conscious and stay in the circle. You may begin now."

  "What?!” Both Beth and Keiran gaped

  "Heh heh heh," Maul chortled cracking his knuckles. He took a menacing step forward, the various skulls and bones dangling from his armor clacking ominously.

  "No!" Ceyrabeth protested, "I’ll...I’ll duel him! Better me than that lunatic behemoth."

  Keiran looked between the two of them and then slowly nodded, "Okay Beth. Let's do this."

  Captain Sul and Atiya led the way out of the tent and to the mound where Sul had given his speech to the Legion just days before. They picked up more people on the way, some chattering in excitement, jockeying to get a better look.

  A circle was quickly made in the sand as each of them was given a sword. Ceyrabeth rapped her finger on the edge- dull, blunted, heavy. Sturdily made but cheap iron. Keiran was swinging his blade experimentally. It was heavier than he preferred, she could tell from his expression, the center of gravity back towards the grip. He opted for a shield, but she declined, knowing that her speed would be a better ally.

  And then it just the two of them in the ring, circling each other with trepidation.

  "I'm sorry,” Keiran said softly.

  "So am I," Ceyrabeth whispered in return.

  "Begin," Sul's voice rasped.

  Keiran came high with his thrust, too high. Ceyrabeth ducked and struck his stomach with the flat of her blade, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to stagger.

  "You're not fighting an orc!" She hissed at him, "Adjust your form."

  "You're not supposed to be helping me,” Keiran swung again and this time his aim was true. She had to parry quickly with no time to riposte as Keiran swung two more times. Whether he was meaning to or not he was striking her wounded shoulder and it was beginning to ache. She could feel the pain and with it her temper rising. He rained multiple blows upon her blade as she fought purely defensively, trying to figure out some way, anyway, that this didn't end badly.

  She was DEFINITELY not as quick, or as strong, without the wyrmscale in her blood. Her guard faltered as her arm wavered and Keiran's weapon connected with her jaw. There was a flare of white pain and then everything went red, “Beth are you all rig-?”

  Ceyrabeth charged him, her movements going from defensive to all-out attack. She hammered into his shield, holding back just enough to not accidentally kill him but no more than that. Her fury drove her, rode her as she drove her sword into his shield again

  and again

  and again

  There was a loud *crack! * as the wooden buckler caved. Keiran quickly tossed the pieces but Ceyrabeth didn't even pause. Three more heavy blows and Keiran's sword shattered. He fell backwards, landed hard on his back a hair's breadth away from the edge of the ring.

  "Beth," He held a hand up his other arm pressed tight against his chest.

  It would be so easy. She thought to herself. One last blow and he would be unconscious and she would win-

  What in the name of the gods am I doing?!

  Immediately, the red haze dissipated. "Keiran," She reached down and helped the man to his feet, hugging him tightly. She couldn't find words. If Sul held to his word and there was only one place in the Legion, she had just taken it from him. She put trembling hands on either side of his jaw and rested her forehead against his.

  Keiran pressed his cheek against hers, wet with sweat and tears as her own tears flowed down her face, “I yield,” He whispered.

  Ceyrabeth’s hands dropped and they clenched, fury starting to well up. “No, Kei. No. I yield.” This was her friend and she'd be damned if she'd allow anyone to manipulate her into-

  And then, there was applause, slow though not mocking. Sul's applause was joined by others and soon the entire group was cheering.

  "The Legion is only as strong as its bonds of brotherhood to each other," He whispered, his breath rattling in his lungs, "You have both shown loyalty to one another, compassion and restraint. You have proven that you are warriors who believe in a code, in something greater than yourselves and not simply automatons to take orders. You have both passed,” he rasped, “Well done."

  Ceyrabeth whirled to look at him, anger dissipating as fast as it had come. She heard something in his voice she had never expected to hear- relief. Sul had wanted them to win.

  Both of them.

  "I must retire," Sul rose to his feet with some assistance from Atiya, "Enjoy yourselves this evening. Reflect upon what you have learned: about the Legion, about each other, about yourselves."

  "I learned something about you as well, Captain." Ceyrabeth declared boldly.

  "Oh, this should be good," Keiran muttered, cradling his wrist.

  "What did you learn, Sir Ceyrabeth?"

  "I learned that it will not be as much of a chore to follow you as I once thought it would be."

  He smiled again, that ghostly smile, like a mirage or afterimage of happiness before gesturing at Keiran, "Have Mother Reiko tend to your wrist and then enjoy the accolades from your new brethren.”

  “Yes Sir,” They both saluted, and then turned toward the healer’s tent. Halfway there, Ceyrabeth threaded her arm around Keiran's waist. He squeezed her shoulders in reply. She tilted her head to listen to his words, then her laugh rang out as it seldom did- a real one, light and almost girlish. Sul’s head tilted toward the sound.

  “Captain,” Atiya was holding the flap of his tent. “I will go fetch the tools.”

  “Do so, Atiya. Thank you.”

  Sul had just finished pouring the wine when Atiya entered his tent, ducking her massive horned frame to clear the entryway.

  “’Evenzio Vineyards from the age of the maritime kings,” Sul explained gesturing to the wine, “A friend of mine in Sahath introduced me to it.”

  “I wasn’t aware a man in your position could afford the luxury of friends,” The Mithrac replied flatly.

  “We are not friends?”

  “No, we are not and we never will be. Your actions made that impossible.”

  Sul took a sip from the goblet and nodded slowly, “Yes I suppose they did.”

  “It’s time to clean your wounds,” She informed him shifting the conversation to a less loaded topic.

  Sul exhaled, “Past time, I imagine.” He sat in his chair. “Shall we begin?”

  Silently, Atiya unfurled the leather bundle she carried 1to reveal a bevy of gleaming metal instruments and tools. All manner of hooks, blades, and clamps gleamed dully in the soft li
ght of the tent’s vast interior, “I will require more light.”

  Sul gestured to a small brazier filled with seething coals that glowed sullenly in the dark. Atiya moved to it and, gripping it in her large hands, heaved it up and deposited it next to Sul with an audible thump! “The solvent?”

  “The locked cabinet.”

  Atiya moved to the large wooden cabinet made of wood so dark it was nearly black and engraved with a pair of dragons sinuously entwined. Their tails formed the large dark handles of the enormous piece of furniture and she lightly fingered the strange lock mounted into its twin setting: a series of concentric three disks engraved with symbols with a series of small holes.

  “Your locks are becoming more intricate,” She commented placidly.

  “The creeping onset of paranoia as my elder years descend upon me no doubt.”

  Atiya shrugged and turned her attention back to the combination lock. She regarded the different symbols for a moment then arranged the different symbols meticulously before placing her fingertips into the holes and twisting hard. The lock snapped open, a variety of bolts retracting back into main body of the lock and the doors swung open silently.

  Inside was a dazzling array of vials and bottles of every shape and size imaginable from all corners of the world in a rainbow of different colors, each filled with some strange liquid or powder. Mounted on the inside of the doors themselves were large racks that held every kind of tool and instrument one could conceive of.

  “You remain clever,” She commented tonelessly as she reached into the cabinet and removed several vials.

  “We all have our gifts.”

  Atiya turned to face him, “Though not all of us keep them.”

  “Point taken.”

  Atiya closed the massive wooden doors gently. Instantly the bolts snapped back into place and the lock was once again secure. She stood before the brazier, selected one of the vials and poured some into the smoldering coals. There was a flash of bright, blue light and a small jet of azure fire burst into existence before dying down almost immediately. The now-blue coals gave off considerably more light, bathing the interior of the tent with a strange ambiance that made everything appear slightly unreal.

  “The tools must be properly cleansed,” Atiya carefully slid each tool from its leather loop or snare and gently placed one end it into the blue coals. Almost instantly, the metal began to smoke and a strange smell like ozone filled the air. She grabbed several bowls and buckets and placed them near Sul’s feet. She then knelt before the older man seated in the chair and carefully prodded the soiled wrappings around his eyes: blood had soaked completely forming a visage as black as pitch, “I will have to cut these off.”

  Sul nodded and waited patiently as Atiya reached into the brazier and removed a pair of scissors, its twin blades now glowing faintly. Carefully, she snipped at the soiled wrappings. Every time the blades came into contact with his face, there was the faint hiss of flesh searing. Soon the scent of rotting meat filled the tent’s confines. With a final cut, the bandages fell limp, held to Sul’s face only by the encrusted blood.

  “This will hurt,” Atiya stated flatly.

  “Yes.”

  The Mithrac woman took a hold of one edge of the dangling material and began to peel it from Sul’s face. Bits of flesh soon detached as the caked-on blood formed a grisly adhesive. Soon red blood flowed followed by streams of black ichor as wet lumps of skin and fat fell into the network of bowls and buckets that had been set up, splattering like wax. Sul’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair but he remained still as strip after strip of tissue was peeled from his face in long gory lengths.

  The last bandage was removed and tossed into the brazier, the collected blood and oils of Sul’s skin bubbling and hissing angrily. Atiya dragged the fire closer to see more clearly and her eyes widened.

  “For someone of your placid temperament to look so perturbed, it must be grave indeed,” Sul said quietly.

  “Yes,” Atiya murmured softly and took out fresh bandages to staunch some of the blood as she examined the damage. The flesh around his eyes and the immediate area was black and sickly with a pulpy appearance like rotten fruit. Necrotic tissue had swollen to form bloated cysts filled with black pus. Veins pulsed and throbbed over the glistening skin and deep furrows of exposed muscle tissue, riddled with cancerous growths shuddered and trembled with each of Sul’s inhalations. As Atiya peered closer, a particularly large mass just above Sul’s left eye it abruptly burst and black and yellow pus flowed down his face. She quickly wiped it away.

  “The infection has spread,” Atiya announced, “The tainted tissue will have to be amputated and scoured clean,” Atiya gently took the man’s ravaged face, “You must control your emotions: your anger and pain only feeds the corruption.”

  “Noted,” Sul replied with eerie stillness, “Proceed.”

  Atiya removed a small length of leather and inserted it into Sul’s mouth. He bit down and nodded his readiness. She removed a large scalpel from the flaming sconce and placed the tip of the blade just above the bridge of his nose. She pushed the blade into his face. His teeth ground against the bit in his mouth and the wood of the chair creaked as he squeezed the armrests. Atiya sawed her way a millimeter at a time until she reached between his eyes.

  Flesh sizzled and popped as blood and ichor streamed from the incision as she cut around down the edge of one eye and then the other and then up towards his hairline, forming an inverted “y”. Taking a small fishhook, she pierced the flesh in several places and slowly peeled it back, pinning it in place and laying the tissue underneath bare. Retrieving several small clamps, she meticulously pinned several more pieces of corrupted flesh in place.

  “I take it your meeting with Renala went well?” Atiya asked as she took the bit from his mouth.

  Sul smiled without humor at her attempts to distract him, “Well enough considering our history. We’re confident that Tarah will cooperate, however unknowingly.”

  “You are playing with fire, Captain.”

  “How very droll, Atiya. And they say those in your condition possesses no wit.”

  “I possess no emotions,” Atiya replied placidly as she continued to meticulously dissect his fact, “I still retain wit,” Sul’s lip curled and then he winced, gripping the chair more tightly, “Are you all right?”

  “Continue your work, Atiya.”

  “Yes sir,” She picked up another, “Tarah is an extremely volatile individual, by her very nature.”

  Sul grimaced, either from pain as Atiya continued to impale flaps of his skin on hooks and pin them to his face or in irritation at her concern, “I am aware, thank you.”

  “And yet you insist on involving her.”

  “She is uniquely qualified for the task that lay ahead us.”

  “That being?” She began plucking at shreds of rancid flesh from around his eye carefully with tweezers.

  “The winters in Daymore are more punishing that almost anywhere else save for Reaverlund. Our forces will need shelter from the season as well as our stores replenished before spring.”

  “And you’re confident that the Iron Kingdom can be persuaded to make these things available to you?”

  “Exceedingly confident. The dwarves are obstinate but they are susceptible to the two most basic core tenants of diplomacy.”

  “Which tenants are those?”

  “The same tenants that all sentient beings are susceptible to: greed and fear.”

  “Innocent people will die,” Atiya replied.

  “Innocent people will always die,” Sul retorted, “And a great deal more are going to die before this is all over,” He shifted his weight, “Blood is the currency of change, Atiya, and the change we seek to manifest has a high price indeed,” He gestured to his partially flayed face, “As you can see.”

  Atiya shrugged and removed a large, curved blade from the flames. She forced the edge under the swollen masses that had taken root in Sul’s face. With a s
harp twist of her wrist, the blade sprang open causing four metal spikes to burst forth. He screamed as Atiya wrenched the spikes as deep into the gory wound as possible and then pulled with all her might. The growth and the surrounding tissue were torn nearly completely free of his skull, dangling by only a thin thread of pitted skin which she severed with the scissors. She peered into the wound: blood bright and red gushed from it and nodded her satisfaction.

  Removing a brand from the brazier she stood over him.

  “Proceed,” He commanded.

  Holding him down with one hand, she pressed the glowing brand into the open wound. His entire body shook as the pain robbed him of his ability to scream. After an agonizing several seconds, Atiya removed the brand and examined her work as Sul nearly collapsed out of the chair. A monstrous scar had already formed, angry and red, but clean. She reset the spiked tool, set it into the fire for a moment and regarded him with a critical eye, “Shall we continue?”

  Sul raised his head and nodded. Atiya removed the tool from the brazier and examined the next growth.

  An hour later, the last of the diseased tissue had been removed. Sul was breathing shallowly, the upper portion of his face a mass of bright red scars and inflamed flesh with smoke trailing away from it in thin foul-smelling wisps.

  Carefully, Atiya made a small incision into each puckered scar and nodded in satisfaction as each bled bright red. She critically examined the small shards of glass that formed the latticework replacing the man’s eyes, “The shards will also have to be removed and cleansed.”

  Sul simply nodded as Atiya removed a pair of small round speculums and affixed them into Sul’s eye socket. Adjusting the instrument, she examined the shards, “It is fortunate you do not possess eyelids, which makes this easier. Unfortunately, the muscles that would control your eyeball still react normally to external stimulation so the restraints are necessary.”

  “I do not require an explanation, Atiya, merely your accommodation. Please proceed.”

  Carefully, she removed a long thin spike from the fire, half its length glowing blue and smoking faintly and began examining the shards.