by Sean J Leith
Silence and wind took them both. They stared into each other’s eyes, and Saul felt his knees shake, and sweat collected everywhere. The way his father died. The way Saul escaped. Over the past weeks, he learned fate was fickle. “I wish to choose my own fate.”
A proud smile grew across the face of his goddess. Glancing to his shield arm, she said, “I can see why she chose you as well, you stubborn fool.” She laughed, meandering back to the center of the platform, where she entered. “I am glad we had a moment to speak.” She gritted her teeth, and clenched her fists. “The Dragon murdered my people, you saw it. He deserves to burn in the Hells under Azoran’s trident.” With a smirk, she backed into a gateway of light that appeared behind her.
“Let me ask you one final question, Saul.” She turned with strong posture, hands held behind her back. “If you had to choose between joining forces with an orderly and strong Hydrian society or a dishonorable, backstabbing Broken one, which would you choose?”
Saul had no response. To him, Hydris were traitors. They all betrayed the Broken. But if she believed them trustworthy…
“You do not have to answer that.” She gave a sly smirk. “Do take time to consider it. The tides of fate carry us all out to a sea—it is there we accept our fate and drown, or we fight against it and survive.”
Fight against it, Saul thought. Am I fighting against my fate? He stared out toward the sea beyond the Risen Isles, before looking back down to Renalia beneath.
“Rai soli moria, gadoras faust,” Gadora said from behind.
His goddess spoke in a strange tongue—one Saul never heard. He looked to her with a raised brow.
“It is the language of old. A Forgotten language. An important lesson. It means, ‘Where warriors fall, heroes rise.’”
With that, she passed into the portal and disappeared.
He was left alone to contemplate the words of his goddess. Where warriors fall, heroes rise. His father fell before the Dragon, hoping others would be inspired by his bold sacrifice. Maybe I will rise up a hero from my father’s ashes. His father told him the strongest warriors were protectors. He wished to be a slayer.
“Sometimes,” Saul said, looking at his left arm bearing the mark of slayers, then to his right to see the mark of protectors. “We must be both.”
The rumble of thunder came from above him. Is this a sign from her, the goddess of storms? The rain fell with a sudden might, building from clear skies to torrential downpour within moments. A crack of lightning came down to strike one of the crowned points on the tower, then another and another, in turn. They went around until each was struck, and a mighty rumble came from the black clouds above him.
Lightning streaked down from the sky and struck him with a continuous bolt, turning every vein within him ablaze. Saul writhed in agony and screamed for it to stop, but it did not. He shook as his skin burned until he could bear it no longer. Gadora’s voice echoed though his bones: Where warriors fall, heroes rise.
* * *
As he closed his eyes he felt nothing, and smelled something very different: damp stone, decaying flesh, and shit. The putrid stench of the mix was disgusting, almost causing Saul to vomit.
He opened his eyes to see slimy green stone walls dimly lit by torches. His arms were held up, and rough iron grinded against the skin of his wrists.
Chained.
His armor and blade were gone, and his father’s brown cloak hung on the wall. All he wore were the same beige linen pants from his dream. He saw two other Broken across from him, one marked with yellow, the other with red. He couldn’t make out the marks. They seemed weak and lifeless, save for a slight bit of movement here and there.
“You,” he said roughly, trying to call to them. “Broken!” Saul yelled. They didn’t respond to his words.
A slow, dragging set of footsteps echoed from down the way. “Seems you have finally woken. You must have enjoyed the tea.” Gorum’s honeyed tone rang through the hall. He wandered into sight in his long robe, dark eyes shining in the torchlight. Eyes of a traitor.
“What the hell is this? Where am I?” Saul growled.
“Oh, a nice little place I keep beneath the town. I am quite the alchemist, you know. Khoria crystal, Ravager teeth, and a drop of god-blessed blood. In the right amounts with the right incantation, you can make a lovely little bloodstone. We have one keeping us happy and prosperous, sitting in the middle of town.”
What the hell is a bloodstone? The middle of town—where he felt pulled toward it. The blood calling to him. Looking around the dungeon, he thought, they were calling for help. Saul wrenched forward and pulled at his manacles. The chains clattered as he tried to free himself. “Let me go! You said I was welcome here!”
“Oh my, yes, I did—yet you disregarded my invitation. I was so polite, and even my tea didn’t convince you entirely. I must commend you, not many can resist its charm. I am a talented alchemist, after all.” Gorum smiled slyly and stared deep into Saul’s eyes. “The Vale is a corrupt society, and I have created a perfect one here. A man such as you would smash my lovely town and my people’s lives for your gods, your honor, or whatever excuses you may make. I gave you a chance to join us, but you had to ‘think about it,’ which means you will leave. Instead, I have chosen to keep you for a more important purpose.”
Pulling on the chains again, he beared his teeth in rage. “And what purpose would that be, you traitorous wretch?” Saul growled. “Something disgraceful.”
“Well, you asked how we keep our people safe. I might as well tell you now, why not? I enjoy the reactions.” Gorum chuckled. “We, as a people, have a shield that protects our town. Those with ill intent cannot pass it. One cannot see it, though.” He slowly strolled to the wall, feeling the tattered cloak. “The markings you bear contain power, that much is true. If one feels passion for their gods and their purpose, it flows within them.” Gorum slowly looked to Saul with a smile. “We use your blood to power the bloodstone. You are the reason we live, the reason we thrive in a happy society of free Broken. Is that not an honorable cause?”
“We are not slaves!” Saul yelled again, the sound of his chains clattering through the mysterious dungeon. “You will not get away with this. I will not allow it. I cannot!”
“You are not a slave, my boy, but a martyr! Your passion will be celebrated with the life of your people!”
“My people?” Saul snarled. “You are not one of us. What of the others, do they know about this?” Saul could hardly believe his ears. People like him, Broken, were using the life essence of their unwilling prisoners to live.
“Oh my, yes. Everyone in the town knows by adolescence—the farmers, the soldiers, the merchants. We keep you here so that we never have to see combat. It really does seem as though the pen is mightier than the sword—or at least, a gentle, polite hand is. Everyone here agrees with this practice. They know the brutal, horrid ways of the Vale, and also that their happiness functions on the power of alchemy. That, and blood magic, are the saviors of our people.” Blood magic. Magic of the abyss.
Saul’s fists clenched so tightly that his nails almost cut the flesh of his hands. He foamed at the mouth and became more and more enraged with every honeyed, vile word from Gorum’s lips. “I will kill you. You—no, everyone in this town—are all a disgrace to our people. To any people.”
“My friend, we are not a disgrace. We are the future! We build upon the ashes of the Vale to form a new society, one of peace. Do you not agree? Your blood is most valuable. Two sets of markings—my, that is rare. We may not need another soul for years. How could you be so selfish? You could provide a full city with health and safety for years on your own. There’s only one way to find out. Let me first show you what will happen, and then it will be your turn. Did you not see the society above? There were happy people, running and laughing. Farmers tilling the land, winemakers squishing their grapes. This is all because of you, all of you, making this possible. Do you not want peace? Do you not want your people
to be happy?”
“I want my people to be free.” Saul growled at him again. “I want them to live freely, all of them! This is wrong, don’t you see? This violates our very nature!”
The man Saul saw the previous night was not as he expected, not at all. His tone was sweet, his tea was somnolent, and his words true, but he’d said only half of what he meant.
Gorum’s smile faded as he slowly walked back to the other end of the hall. He went to the enclave with the other two nearly lifeless Broken. He unsheathed a sharp, curved obsidian dagger from his robe, and stabbed it into the red god’s marking on one man’s shoulder, just beneath the skin. The man writhed in pain; his cries echoed though the dungeon. Saul saw crimson light seep from his mark into the dagger. Saul stood and watched, wishing he could do something to stop the wretch. The Broken became weaker and weaker until he fell limp, dead.
“Pity,” Gorum said, strolling over to Saul. “He had been here quite some time—a year, almost. Luckily, we have you. Now, what do you say we see what those marks can do?” He gave a crooked smile as he lurched over to Saul.
He won’t take me. He can’t, Saul thought desperately.
The dagger shone with red light as he approached. “The gods won’t help you now. They never have, and they never will, my friend. Your fate is here, with us.”
Saul was frozen, unable to move as the dagger pierced his skin in the center of Gadora’s mark. “I will not be enslaved!” Saul yelled. The dagger flew out from the wound and clattered on the ground. His marks glowed red and blue from his arms. Saul bared his teeth as his greyed skin darkened with his rage.
“What’s this?” Gorum exclaimed as he fell to the ground.
“I cannot be stopped!” Saul’s entire body tightened; the veins in his arms and body swelled, as if ready to burst. His chains clattered as he pulled them forward, growling fiercely like a beast. He dragged his arms forward with all his strength, his roar growing louder and louder, enough to match Obelreyon himself. His eyes bulged out as his scream reached its peak, and the sounds of shattering steel shot out from the slimy stone wall. Saul breathed heavily as his chains dangled to the floor. Fists still clenched, he ran at Gorum without pause. Saul grabbed his old frail arms, breaking each one with ease. As Gorum screamed in pain, Saul snatched up the obsidian dagger.
“No, my people! They depend on me!” Gorum pleaded, tears flowing from his eyes. “You can’t do this, we are innocent!”
Saul grabbed him by the neckline of his robe, pulling him in. “You did this. You all did. You sat by, watching innocent people be drained of life so that you could live. You are despicable. Every single one will pay for this atrocity.”
Saul took the dagger to Gorum’s throat and sliced it with ease. His traitorous blood oozed from his neck and pooled upon the floor. Then he heard a yell coming from down the hall, and the clomping of leather boots.
“Hey, what’s going on down here?” a guard yelled.
Saul shot up, his marks still bright. “The dishonorable must pay.”
The guard came around the corner, meeting a swift hand and dagger. The man fell to the ground, bleeding from the neck and gasping for air as he clawed at Saul’s leg.
Saul took up the sword the guard carried. Vengeance was at hand. He grabbed his father’s cloak, tying it from his left ribs to right shoulder. He walked the halls, seeing Broken after Broken, marks of all three colors and various gods. Each one was drained and barely alive. The townspeople will pay for this, Saul vowed. The town above was armed, but no match for him. He trained for years for this, trained to fight against chaos, for honor, and for glory. Saul walked up the spiral staircase to the city above. He arrived in the south end, and recognized a few of the houses.
“A farmed one! A farmed one! It’s free, it’s free!” a man pointed, running into his home.
Many others ran from him into their homes, and quickly shut their doors. Four guards came to surround him, wearing nothing but leather and linen; Saul felt it was a joke. In plate, he fought normally. In no armor, he soared like Gadora’s lightning.
He clashed blades with two, and swung his sword so hard that he easily disarmed one Broken and caused the other to stagger. He ran outside the circle, checking a strike from one Broken and slicing his elbow, then his back, and finally thrusting the blade through his shoulder. Then, while the first guard went to pick up his weapon, Saul parried blows from the two remaining men, slicing the wrist of one and the neck of the other. He stabbed the final guard through the chest as he dodged around his sword. Saul felt a great surge of energy flow through him, from mind to blade. He powered through the city from one Broken to the next, rarely contested by a guard.
Citizens of the city ran at him, winemaker, blacksmith, and merchant alike. They were disgraceful, but Saul didn’t truly need to kill them all. But they came for him. “Kill the runner!” they yelled. “We need to keep ourselves safe!”
Each one knew what went on here, as all had been aware of Gorum’s treachery. Saul spilled blood in slow motion, it seemed. Each enemy he faced had not picked up a blade in months or years, but Saul was born with a blade in hand. Where they moved slowly, Saul fought almost unseen. The glory of combat burned within his soul, and it was released upon the betrayers in a brilliant slaughter. The old, the sick, the healthy—all kinds of Broken who sat on their high horses of better purpose and false righteousness—came at him, attacking him. He spared all who did not come to kill him.
Saul slayed all those who attacked. Many escaped, but the wastes would take them soon enough. He left children alive, but if they came at him with a weapon, he gave them the death they asked for. Saul’s rage was inexorable.
As the bodies piled, Saul slowly tired of swinging through flesh. He was beaten with clubs, slashed with pitchforks, and pounded by fists and tackles, but he would not relent.
A man, sliced up and near-death, croaked a plea. “Please, we only wanted to live in peace.”
Saul stood over him and pointed his blade at the man’s neck. “You lived in disgrace, not in peace. Now, you die for it.” He sliced the man’s neck without a pause to hear his next words.
It came time that no more chased Saul; inhabitants only ran from the city in fear of death for their crimes. He walked to the small stone structure at the center of town, by the well. He broke the lock and ripped it open, finding a large, blood-red well-cut crystal sitting atop an intricate golden setting. He picked it up and threw it to the dirt.
Saul raised his blade, and with all his might, he smashed the bloodstone to bits, causing an explosion that blew him back to the ground. Shaking his head, he looked to see the crimson pieces turned black. The people drained, he hoped, would now be free. The only innocent in this city of disgrace.
Saul returned to the dungeon, retrieved the keys from the wall at the end, and unlocked all the Broken imprisoned there. Their energy returned.
“Who are you, what happened?” a Broken asked. His marking was yellow with the sign of the Hydris, the rounded, four-point star. His skin was pale and rough as ash.
“You are free. The people of this city shall no longer live from your blood,” Saul said.
There were twenty of them, all staring at Saul in wonderment. “What happened to the townsfolk?”
Saul turned to face the stairwell, then looked back to them. His heart beat wildly from the exhausting battle he just endured. His muscles burned like poison; he was in need of a rest, but there was no time for one. “Either dead, hiding, or retreating.”
“How could you do that? All those people—”
“Are dishonorable cowards. Disgusting plagues, who leech life from the innocent, from you, without care. They died quickly. I don’t torture.” Saul was not a fool. Any man who tortured others without a just purpose was a coward.
Some of them seemed thankful, others confused, and the rest fearful. “Where will we go?”
Saul thought on where he wanted to go. He could not go to Alin or Kalidor, the Hydrian militar
y bases. He had one option left: south. “You can build here, in hopes that none will attack.”
“What about you? What is your name?” The yellow-marked Broken asked.
“My name is Saul Bromaggus, of the Gadora clan, in the Vale. I am going south. North is not an option. Maybe the plateau will bring more than death, as the Vale certainly would.”
The small Broken walked forward. He had scars down his arms, where he had been bled much from the ritual. His yellow marks bore the waves of Urikar, the four-point star, and the blade. “I am Drofar Kollen. I wish to go with you.”
Two more came forward with Drofar. “We, as well.”
More and more joined the group, until they’d all agreed. Broken of red, blue, and yellow marks, crashing winds, stars, blades, and drops all came forward together.
Saul was shocked at his sudden following. “Why do you wish to come with me? What could my fate possibly offer you?”
“You freed us from this hell,” Drof said. “Perhaps our fate lies with yours now.”
Saul fought with the idea. He would be responsible for these people now. He freed them, but what if they died because of him? They sported proud looks and strong stances, each arisen from the ashes of death. You are born to lead, his father said. Saul felt the cloak tied around his torso, and knew he must bring them.
“We gather food and supplies,” Saul commanded. “When the sun reaches midway from high noon to dusk, we ride from the south gate.”
Each Broken struck their center in salute, Saul included. Then they separated, each moving from house to house. Some were flabbergasted at the bodies in the streets, others unaffected. Saul walked by the dead, seeing them as nothing more than a nuisance now. They gathered clothes and what weapons and armor they could find.
