Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  “Are you finished,” said Eriboth as he looked up to the mocking visage of pure evil.

  “Not even close. I have not even brought up her,” he said. “She, the very woman God set apart as the completion of your soul, whose soul can be completed only by yours, you left to a life of such treatment that it made even me proud and amazed. That a human could be capable of such brutality that it drove something as pure as she was to kill, still causes me to smile today. Again, I must commend you on your dedication to your vices, dear Eriboth, they have given me much amusement!”

  “You are correct, but all that was before,” said Eriboth, unshaken by Satan’s accusations.

  “Before what?” asked Satan.

  “Christ,” answered Eriboth.

  “Ah yes, the son of god,” he said mockingly. “Where is he? I do not see him. Is he even here?” Satan said as he looked around.

  “He is here. In the wind, in the clouds, in the warmth of the sun, He is here,” answered Eriboth.

  “But is he really? Was he there for you when you cried out to him in the stable when you were forced to put down your first horse? Was he there for you when you watched your precious Zamorinthia kiss your older brother? Was he there for you when you had to flee your precious Athlorial’s side only to return and watch her wed another man? Was he there for you when you battled your own flesh and blood?”

  Time heals all wounds, or so they say, or have said; but who said it and to whom they said it to has always remained a mystery without concrete evidence that it was actually said in the first place. Regardless of whether it was said, however, Eriboth could not deny its validity. For over these long years, his pain regarding each of Satan’s examples had diminished. Yet he could not deny the validity of another statement “they” had made extolling the sensitive nature of old wounds opened wide again. And Satan knew how to open them with a precision greater than the greatest physician wielding the greatest surgical instruments as masterfully as the greatest symphonic conductors leading the most renowned compositions of musicians there ever was, is, or will be. For he was a master of pain, both physical and metaphysical, using his unfathomable power to insert his doubts into Eriboth’s mind. Or at least he tried.

  With all his formidable skill, Satan tried to find a chink in Eriboth’s psychological armor. Yet, try as he might, he could not penetrate the thick layer of prayerful protection Eriboth had invoked. He did not know how, but he knew his faith in Christ covered him in a soft blanket of righteous warmth preventing the chill of evil from penetrating. Things like doubt, lack, loathing, condemnation could not possibly exist in the presence of his Lord. And since the man named Jesus existed within him, Eriboth knew he possessed something greater than even the legitimate power of Satan. For when in Christ, and He within, legitimacy is determined solely by the state of the eternal and immortal soul; hence, it is no longer subjected to the dictates of he who is still in the world.

  But Satan was not without his own resolve, for he knew that even when protected by Christ, it was by choice. Therefore, to undue the protection, he simply had to undue the choice. It was interesting to him that the greatest aspect of God’s love, free will and its insistence of choice, was the very same vessel he used as his greatest opportunity for manipulation. So, instead of goading the ungoadable in the moment of Eriboth’s strength, he would wait for his moment of weakness, a moment whose preparation had been long in process, a moment that was coming, and coming soon.

  “Your silence is merely a consequence of your doubt,” he said with a grin. “Soon, my great warrior, soon you will not be so silent.”

  And though Eriboth sought much more humility and modesty after his encounter with Christ, he was not without his resolve to respond when challenged. Sometimes silence was preferable, and others, it was not, “I need not give my faith to the ears of the failed Lightbringer when my Father and Lord hears the very words of my heart and the music of my soul. Take heed, the faithless vile and poison of your tongue will soon find its speech is no more potent than a shadow shone away by the midday sun.”

  Immediately after Eriboth’s final word concluded, Satan erupted in a display of lighting speed and awful power by picking him up with one strong hand around his neck and pining him against a tree. “Oh your words make my ears sing with joyous splendor knowing your power will soon be mine. Tell me, my young Eriboth, where is your god now? Would he intervene if I decided to summon my strength and snap your neck like a dry piece of kindling? Your arrogance to stand against me will soon be your downfall. For none can stand against the tidal wave of truth, real truth, untold truth. Not even you!” A moment later, he relaxed his fingers allowing Eriboth’s feet to land on the ground. “But we have much more fun planned together, you and I,” he hissed as he dissolved into a mist of blackness to be carried away on the soft breeze.

  Though the young warrior Eriboth had found his Lord, the One True Lord over whom all governance would eventually fall, and had begun to release the immortal soul of The First of the Five, he was yet young in his walk and even younger in his power. However, Lucifer was not. As Lacorion watched Satan hold the youth against the tree, he wished, if objective entities could wish, that Eriboth was ready to fully accept all that was within him. But he was not. He was still clinging to aspects of himself, inauthentic identities from which responsibilities had sprung as ties binding him to his mortal construct. And though the existence of pain was a condition of the mortal order of a mortally bound life, it was necessary for freedom, true freedom. For only though the trials of pain can mortals understand the absurdity of placing their joy, worth, and faith in mortal endeavors and definitions and identities. And though he had begun to awaken to everything God had called him to become, he was yet tied to everything he had created within himself. But the day would come when he would have nothing left within except all of God and none of himself. And on that day, the splendid fusion of a mortal man with the immortal soul of God would reign down brilliance as if the stars fell from the heavens illuminating even the darkest of nights. But since the radiance of redemption is nothing without the blackness of pain, he must first walk through a gauntlet so darkly complete, it would utterly contrast his immergence. And so, from his plane of observation, the First of the Five and Dragon King Lacorion, watched and waiting and hoped.

  Enfata

  (Betrayal)

  Although their parting was relatively brief, it was filled with the complex array of binding emotions one would expect from friends who were long in their existence, but short in their time together. Rhashana, Chief Nithock and his daughter, Nithosa, escorted them to the edge of their camp where they exchanged short words, quick but heartfelt hugs, and promises to visit each other again as soon as both time and circumstance saw fit to allow. As much as they could have, would have lingered with the their barbarian friends, the greater portion of their attentions drew them back to their own encampment in order to relay the message and prepare for the next part of their journey, a journey whose end would surely draw more protestations from Dregor, and possibly the others. While Jaro’s past was wrought with unsavory certainties akin to all thieves, and while his plan to contact the Pirate King would undoubtedly thrust them into even deeper unsavory waters, she saw no other choice.

  She felt very strongly the need to travel north, into the lands beyond the reach of the Silver Empire, in order to ensure the safety of her people; however, the only pass into them had been blocked by unseasonably strong storms with the promise of more storms returning soon as told by the barbarian weather readers. Even if the pass were open, with the threat of the incoming inclement weather, Soliana did not want to risk the lives of those who chose to follow her by leading them through any uncertainty. And yet, uncertainty is exactly what she was leading them to face.

  There was not much known about Dorgo The Pirate King except that he commanded a fleet of pirates, all of them swearing fealty to him and him alone. How he was able to accomplish this was perhaps one of the greatest my
steries Avendia had even seen, because, above all things, pirates were unquestioningly disloyal. Nevertheless, Dorgo had accomplished what none other had even attempted, such was the absurdity of even its suggestion. There had been rumors, however, suggesting he was secretly in the employ of the High King of The Silver Empire, but they were largely discredited. There was a faction of believers out there who insisted their partnership was the only way Dorgo was able to avoid the Royal Navy, and all of its power, for as long as it had. And while that once widespread view had recently been all but annihilated when Dorgo sacked the Royal Port City of Sombren, there were still those who clung to its validity.

  Regardless of to whom or to what he owed his power, and thus his allegiance, his character was primarily known for its ruthlessness. He was not brutal, though if provoked, he could access the brutality necessary to lead a group of chaotic scallywags bent upon sating their most primal desires of greed and lust. In truth, pirates would be a glutenous lot if their lifestyles lent to the plenty and profitable, but pirating was neither plentiful, nor profitable. At least, it has not been since the unification of the seven provinces and the creation of the Silver Empire. Prior to its conception, there was no centrally controlled naval force set to make the waters safe. Instead, there were seven different plans of action and seven times that many captains all with egos and self-estimations greater than the next resulting in seven times seven different plans with no one willing to follow them through to their end. But with the formation of the Royal Navy under the strong arm and sharp eyes of Admiral Killgon, pirating’s lucrative promises declined. However, the years and years that had passed since Admiral Killgon’s reign saw an inverse relationship between its financial prosperity and its desperation. And with the increase in desperation, came an increase in danger. As it is, inclusion into the bartering and dealings of pirates was highly discouraged except in the gravest of situations. And as she mounted her horse, and Jaro his, she had to admit to herself that this was the gravest of situations.

  Indeed, upon it was not placed the safety of the realm nor the preservation of an obscure artifact or relic imbued with some mystic force necessary for the maintenance of the status quo. Rather, it was a circumstance whose only source of gravity contained the lives of several unimportant people. If any of them, or even all of them, passed into whatever life existed beyond the mortal, it would mean nothing for the land within which they lived, nor would it affect any person beyond the circle they had formed for themselves. In all practical terms, the small group of people she had been charged to lead was inconsequential to the much larger conflict unfolding without their influence, not that they had any.

  But is that all they were? Inconsequential? Was importance left to be considered such based on a single prospect of influence? Indeed, when compared to the function and preservation of the entirety of the land, individuals attained their importance based solely on their ability to influence grandiose things such as overall commerce, laws and their righteousness, and the ability to govern efficiently and effectively. But that cannot, should not, and does not determine the worth or importance of an individual who is, for no decision of their own, outside of the small circles of influence. For within the small circle of their influence, wherein each of them, including her, had become essential to the others for the proper functioning of their own status quo, they had formed their own realm, their own world, and their own relics within which they placed their own hopes, their own dreams, and their own lives. And more, over their time together, they had become hers by infusing their dependence on her into her dependence upon them.

  “Soliana?” asked Jaro, jarring her from her deep-rooted thoughts enough to startle her.

  “Oh,” she said, “yes, what do you need?”

  “Nothing. I was just checking to see if you were alright. You seemed to have drifted somewhere,” he said pulling his horse up right next to hers.

  “Oh, did I?” she asked. “I had not meant to. I was simply thinking how nice it will be to return.”

  “Is that all you were thinking about? Because you had that furrowed brow you often get when you are worried about something,” he said.

  “Did I? I mean, I do not do that every time I get worried,” she replied.

  “Indeed, you do. Whenever we see it, Dregor and I place a wager on what the topic could be,” he said with a wry smile. “I usually win.”

  “I am sure that you do. A thief’s life would include such skills as reading people and their worries,” she shot back, smiling herself.

  “There it is. That is the smile so many of us like to see. I was beginning to think it had gone altogether.”

  She smiled warmly, “No, it has not left. At least not completely, but these are trying times and I feel our smiles will become fewer and farther between if we are not able to gain passage. Are you sure your friend will grant us an audience with Dorgo?” she asked.

  “I never said he was my friend. But yes, I believe he will comply,” said the thief.

  “Comply? What if he should not?”

  “Yes. Comply. And he will. I have a certain leverage he would not want to ignore,” answered Jaro.

  “That does not exactly sound good for our cause, Jaro. I am beginning to doubt your confidence in your plan.”

  “Yes, I am sure that you are. But in these desperate times, do we not have to resort to equally desperate means? Yes. There is a certain risk with my plan. And no, there are no guarantees to its success. But I contend that it is still better than our alternative. And just in case you have forgotten what that alternative is, let me remind you; we do not have one.”

  “No, we do not,” she confirmed.

  “So, it would seem that no matter how wrought with possible peril our involvement with the pirates may become, we must pursue them.”

  “Indeed, we must,” Soliana stated. Her agreement finalized any further debate regarding their next endeavor. Long had they discussed into the previous evening seeking the council of both Rhashana and Chief Nithock. Neither of them had any dealings with the pirates and certainly not the pirate king, but they were wise and provided a separate vantage point with which to evaluate their options. But just like the both of them on this chilly morning’s ride back to their camp, neither the Shaman nor the Chief could offer any other deduction leading them to another alternative. And since there was nothing more to discuss, they continued on in silence until the sun had progressed well past its apex. But it was not silence Jaro desired, for silence would not answer his questions still remaining after his discussion with Rhashana the night before. He was beginning to understand that only a discussion with Soliana herself would allow him peace of mind. However, silence was all he would have. And when silence reigned, so did the mind and its ability to journey into the troubles of uncertainty. However, it was not entirely problematic. While it did not allow him the finality he sought, it prevented him from expending much of his conscious attention to conceal his awkward emotions, emotions Rhashana had little to no trouble revealing the night before.

  Late last night, after Soliana had retired to her room on their last night with the barbarians, he sought Rhashana’s council regarding the dream trance, more specifically, its correct interpretation. After she had awakened from it, Soliana had shown no change in character towards him one would expect after sharing the intimate moment they had. For him, even though it was only a dream, it was more than just a kiss. And though he knew he was dreaming, he also knew there was something within that dream that contained both of their conscious desires. Emotions hidden deep within the mind were the field upon which the dreams often played their games. And while he had lived long enough to know there had to be some truth to the emotions his dream trance had provoked within him, he had to find out if there was any truth to those he hoped were within her. So, when the candles had burned low, and the embers of a warm fire were all that remained, he sought the barbarian Shaman.

  “Rhashana,” he said standing outside of her room. “I do
not mean to intrude, but I was hoping you had a moment to answer some lingering questions.”

  “Of course you mean to intrude, for you could not possibly have your questions answered unless you did intrude,” she said as she held aside the curtain so he could enter. “You may come in.”

  “Thank you. You have my word I will tarry no longer than what is necessary,” he said.

  “But that is precisely it, is it not. To find out what is necessary,” she said as she kneeled down on a small rug in the center of her room.

  “I do not understand. What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Necessary. You wish to know what is necessary to take from the dream trance and apply to your wakeful life,” she answered as she bid him to join her. He slowly walked over to the side of the rug opposite her and knelt down, mimicking her posture. “Tell me, Jaro, do you know where this rug originated from?”

  He took a moment to examine it by rubbing it slowly. Then he picked it up and deeply smelled it after which he said, “I would say it is of dwarven origin. Judging by its coarse weave, probably from someone other than nobility. It has a faint musty odor not unlike a dungeon or two I have been in. Perhaps a merchant or high-ranking guard within their military. I cannot say for sure, but it definitely has a dwarven feel.”

  “You would be correct in your assumption except for the fact that it is of Goblin origin,” she said.

  “Goblin? I had not known them to be craftsmen, only traders,” he said.

  “Indeed. They have a rather extensive network of distributors for sure. But they have recently begun copying the different commodities they distribute. Not the complex ones of course, but the more rudimentary ones. They found more profit in the direct sale of something they manufacture. So instead of selling something someone else makes, they manufacture a replica and sell it as if it was an original,” she said running her fingers slowly through the coarse fibers of the rug.