by Ben Stivers
“Gracen and his family, he had a wife and a son, were dirt farmers. They worked that farm before their son was born and they worked the farm until the boy had nearly become a man. They never prospered. Those years embraced punishing seasons. They went hungry many days during the winter. They planted beans and gourds, though Gracen desired more such as livestock. If he had any, the animals would have starved for sure.
“He traded with me often for knitted items or wool. Sometimes he bought corn, but he never planted that crop. After one particularly dismal winter, he was a broken man. He came to me about purchasing his land. Our blacksmith then needed an apprentice. The work as a smithy is arduous as you may know, but the apprenticeship came with a humble house and food supplied. Gracen desired to shed the farm and assume the position. This was ages ago when I held my youth about me. I thought I might hire a hand or two to work the Gracen’s farm, perhaps at least gain back my money, maybe a shard more. I have never been wealthy, but I trade in wool and barter the things I need, including help. My loom is seldom still.”
“I see,” Mrandor lied. He had stopped listening and practically fell off the conversation before catching himself.
“So, Gracen and I struck a deal, but, the week before the agreement sprouted, there was a fire. Gracen and his wife perished in the flames. Even the trees around the place lay charred, although it was too damp to blaze.”
Mrandor tilted his head with interest. His voice dripped remorse as he replied, “You said Gracen and his wife. What happened to the son?”
Adele leaned further forward and regarded Mrandor’s expression. “Sabinus, allow me yet another tale. This one of the Black Forest.”
Irritation crept up into Mrandor’s eyes. “Fine, but I want to hear about the boy.”
Adele drew herself up. “Do you think me a foolish hag?”
Mrandor leaned back.
Adele’s voice condescended, “You look just like your father. I don’t know how you have retained your youth, but I know the stench of necromancy when I smell it. The sorcerer you murdered in the forest all those years ago was a friend to me. What are—?”
Mrandor sprang from his chair, propelling the rudimentary piece of furniture against the far wall. He dragged Adele backwards out of hers and onto the floor. His left hand clamped her mouth and his blade slid effortlessly between her frail ribs. With a swift twist of his knife and a morbid convulsion of his victim, the old woman’s life absconded.
Askew on the floor, Mrandor contemplated. Heaviness had lifted from him, the conscience of his dead father riding on his shoulders for decades. At last, that pathetic voice grew silent.
He licked her blood from his blade, shoved it back into his belt and stomped her face with his boot heel. It may be a day or two before anyone in the village came to investigate. Using the crudest of implements, a fractured vase, he returned to Adele and severed her head from her neck, sawing roughly through skin and bone. When he had finished, he sat the head on the table next to the burning candle. A vile smirk gripped his face.
His mother had been avenged for his father’s treachery. With that, he pushed the curtain aside.
Aemilius lay sleeping on a straw cot, covered with wool blankets. With a touch of his finger to her head and an uttered and twisted magic, he sent her beyond slumber to oblivion.
Several days after Arthur’s encounter with Thanatos, Wolf stood at the Lusty Wench propped against one of the five poles supporting the roof above his porch with a mug of ale in his hand. He pondered if he wanted to wade out into the street and break up a fight between two drunken mariners.
They were his customers—regulars, but then again, they had failed thus far to do much damage to one another, and neither of them carried weapons. They had been brawling for a quarter of an hour and still neither had managed to land a solid punch. Mostly they pounded each other with lewd curses.
The crowd that had gathered from inside the tavern, and then swollen by passersby, loved the show and that meant they would hang around to drink as night drew on. The nights had been cool and the air provided clear breath. Why not relax and take advantage of a little extra patronage?
He idly walked to the edge of the porch and gazed down the western road, looking out over the harbor where two ships sailed toward the horizon. One slid slowly into her slip, and six others moored there, leaving one open berth. Ploor’s commerce flourished, and with it his good fortune.
A loud yell broke out from the fight. The two sluggers had still not managed to punch one another, but they had struck one of the local strumpets in the mouth. She had a stick in her hand, and Wolf felt that a reckoning for two drunks might end the entire affair. The right edge of his mouth tugged, attempting to keep him from outright laughing, but his gaze turned to the south road and the smile miscarried.
Vendors lined both sides of the rutted street, selling vegetables, sausages, shackles, weapons of various shapes and sizes, and other types of items in a massive bundle of loud bartering. Suddenly, however, like a tide easing in, a silence marched ahead of two armor-clad riders. Both carried enough weaponry for a contubernium and a demeanor that warned everyone to stay from their path.
Both man and woman wore a grim expression, not exactly a frown, but certainly not a smile. The woman’s red hair gleamed in the late day sun and the man’s black hair reached to his shoulders. A neatly trimmed black and gray beard stitched his rugged face. They were deadly in a battle, but it was not those two that held Wolf’s attention. He knew the Bornshires well, and they were a welcome sight.
Shanay rode a saddled, deep grey warhorse, a thick-legged stallion from the northeast. The stallion carried her easily, fit her well, and Wolf had seen the horse in battle. His name was Lethe, named after the river in Hades that caused sinners to forget their past. If he and Shanay were to encounter you on a bad day, you would never forget them, if you survived.
It was the stallion that Arthur rode, a full two hands taller and a third again in bulk muscle that captured Wolf’s attention. His jaw started to hang, but he held it in abeyance, though he dropped his pewter mug as he stepped off the porch. Horse and rider looked as though they were molded together. At the soul, they were.
Even the drunks abandoned their feud. The crowd dispersed back into the Lusty Wench as the pair of horses reined in front of the tavern.
“What the—?”
Wolf muttered as he reached his hands out to put them along the horse’s head. “Blade?”
“He might bite you,” Arthur gruffly chuckled, but Blade only bumped Wolf in the chest with his head, pressing Wolf back onto the porch.
Shanay dismounted and threw Lethe’s reins over a rough railing in front of the Lusty Wench and came around toward the men. “For a reason yet to be realized, Thanatos felt like he owed Arthur some ‘thing’. As usual, a Horseman does not reveal his true motive. The exact terms of the trade remain unclear, but what is certain is that the master of death has returned Blade.”
“Just like that?” Wolf said with wonder still in his voice. He had seen necros, ghouls, trolls—but he had never seen a horse rise from the dead. “Is he—uh—?”
“He is fine,” Arthur replied. “He needs a new saddle, but he is as strong as the first day I rode him out of the Eastern Mountains on my trip to Rome with Marcus.”
“Arthur, this is not—normal.”
“Lazarus was buried for four days before Jesus reached Bethany. There is precedent.”
“But Blade is a horse,” Wolf began, but Arthur caught his friend’s eye.
“You know that he has never been just a horse, right?”
“I know Thanatos is not Jesus.”
Blade reared on his strong hind legs, kicked his front legs through the air and whinnied loudly, causing the entire street to cease trading and look his way. When he came down, he pranced a small circle and shook his head vigorously, ending by shoving his nose up under Arthur’s sword arm.
Wolf shook his head, believing, but amazed, “I have seen
many things, my friend, but this miracle is one of the greatest.”
Shanay interjected, “Well, Blade was raised by Thanatos, not the Son of God, so we have come to talk to you on that account.”
“About the resurrection?”
“No,” Arthur replied, “About the consequences.”
Morning welcomed the sun with a banner of orange. In the Black Forest, Mrandor constructed an altar at its center. Belial hovered over the ceremony. “You dedicate this to me?”
“As good as any,” Mrandor replied with no lack of spitefulness. “I have something special in mind.”
He checked Aemilius’ condition. Her sleep would last for another few hours. So, he set about carving runes into the stone. His skill with such artisanship had grown throughout his life. Carefully, he etched a “6”, then moved a third of the way around the base of the number, and etched another, scribing over the base of the first number, but trailing out the top so that the base of the number deepened and the symbol had two tails. He did so a third time, ending with a symbol of three sixes that fused as a spiral.
He felt satisfaction settle. Each time he bent a knee to another deity, his hubris grew. This symbol would one day bind Belial more than it commanded his followers or himself.
He took his knife and carved the symbol into the middle of his hand, his face emotionless as he did so. As his palm bled, his blood filled the symbol, allowing the rune to bond with the altar. He went to a small fire he had built and withdrew a brand that matched that symbol and cauterized the wound on his hand with only a minor grimace.
“With your permission, I will adorn you with this, Belial.”
She regarded him and nodded her agreement. “If you betray me, Mrandor, your death will languish beyond eternity.”
“I would not,” he lied. The falsehood slid easily from his tongue.
Why accede fealty to anyone, acquiesce power to one who thought themselves greater?
In the past, he had drawn strength and knowledge from Lucifer, but Lucifer had claimed omnipotence. That had proved nothing more than his fallibility. He died as certainly under Bornshire’s blade as Adele had under Mrandor’s knife.
Still, Belial had restored his youth and truth be told, he did not know that spell, or how to discharge her presence from his fabric anymore than he had known how to dispel Lucifer’s.
Moreover, the question remained—if he could have, would he have?
He finished his work, performed a dedication ritual and then turned to Belial.
“You and I, we are going to strike a new deal.”
“Another deal? You have yet to fulfill the first.”
Mrandor pointed his dagger at Belial. “I am modifying the terms. If you intend to destroy the entire world, my slight amendments will not impact your plot.”
Belial pulled herself up to her full height and spread her wings, a show of power and intimidation, but Mrandor smirked in response. “Propose what you will. If what I hear displeases me, I will kill you here and now.”
Mrandor waggled his dagger at Belial. “You fallen angels need to practice creativity when issuing threats. Despite what you say, your type prefers to leverage torment rather than death. So, don’t improvise a threat that merely bores me.”
“State your terms,” Belial said.
“I want this girl. I will bleed her and fill your flask, but I will keep her alive. I have something useful for her to do that may further our cause.”
Belial’s eyes narrowed. “She will die when you drain her.”
“No,” Mrandor replied. “She will not. I will fill her veins with this!” He pointed to the black ooze that bubbled in the Artesian well.
“For what purpose?” Belial asked. “Tell me why I shall not have this soul?”
“Because, “Mrandor replied, “I will take her away from here. I will condition her. When she is crafted as I wish, I will use her. What I need from you is simple.”
Intrigued, Belial said, “Indeed.”
“Let me execute according to my own plan. I have survived many years and been a somewhat reliable utility to Lucifer. Leave me be. Keep your golden eyes off me. In return, I will bring you satisfaction.”
The tips of Belial’s wings tilted inward.
As the evening drew a blanket of night sky over Ploor, a few ships backed out of the harbor to chase the sun while others sailed north. Only two ships remained in port and the docks assumed a silence that Ploor did not usually experience. The night started cool and hinted that a light frost may settle in before morning, but Blade stood at the end of the street near The Lusty Wench with his head down, pretending to doze.
Born of a purebred mare and a supernatural sire, Blade did not simply exist in the world. Quite to the contrary, his intelligence rivaled most humans and his loyalty to those he considered friends was undeniable. He loved combat and relished warfare. Every aspect of confrontation he admired. For Arthur, Blade had given his life. At least his current situation deposited him with that recollection.
He had been in the midst of a conflict when a compelled and determined pack of wolves had pulled him down onto the battlefield. There had been a sharp pain and suddenly he had stood in a beautiful field of grass, the opposition and Arthur gone from view. Thanatos had stood by his side with his gloved hand on Blade’s shoulder.
“I know you understand me, Blade,” Thanatos had said. Blade understood human language more clearly than most and he knew Thanatos. They had met on a few occasions. “You are in Elysium. Do you know what this means?”
Blade nodded affirmation and pawed the grass under his left forefoot. Well, hell. He suspected he would die one day, and no human talked about Heaven and horses in the same breath, but this felt more like being put to pasture. That for Blade was worse than Hades.
He threw his head sideways; bashing Thanatos in the chest with his heavy warhorse skull, but Thanatos only took a single step back and did not lose his balance.
“Wait, wait, keep that famous contrariness bridled, I have more to say.”
Blade snorted, trotted away for several yards, then turned and trotted back to face Thanatos. If they were to engage in conflict, Blade preferred a head-on approach. Thanatos’ helmet hid his face as it always had. Because of that, Blade did not bother to speculate what might come next. Surprise, not a common emotion for him, crept up his withers when Thanatos said, “Time has no meaning here. I have the means to insert you back into the world. God had me do so for others twice before, and in a much shorter order. He has not done so this time, but I am not content to leave two warriors separated when iniquity proliferates uncontested on my watch. Neither of us is eternal, Blade. I fashioned your existence. I snatched you from oblivion. With your permission, I will rejoin you with Arthur, but do not misunderstand. For you, there is no other Afterlife. Like I, all that waits for you at your death will be Nothingness. Do you understand?”
Blade closed the two steps between them and nuzzled Thanatos with his broad nose. Thanatos smelled faintly of crushed myrrh and cassia. Blade snorted again, but loudly and stepped to the side. Arthur had exposed him once to the same smell while burying a dead warrior. He did not care for the scent. Backing up, he pawed the ground and trotted a small circle around Thanatos.
“We are agreed then. Time in Arthur’s world has passed, but his grief will cease when you arrive. Prepare yourself.”
That had been but a blink before Blade manifested in a known clearing. Thanatos had vanished while Arthur and Shanay appeared. Blade had spent little time closing ranks with Arthur. Whatever came for them would have to come for them all. He did not know when that would be, but in the meantime, he kept his head down low on the dark night and blended with the shadows and stood guard. While he did, Arthur, Shanay and Wolf consulted one another inside.
Not long afterward, another face that Blade recognized exited the tavern and approached him, carrying a wooden bucket. A young woman, Elizabeth, called to him, “Do you remember me, Blade?”
Well, if
he had not, he probably would have bitten her, but he knew her. Wolf called her, “Daughter.”
He pulled his lips back, showing his steel dentures, but tilted his head upward and away from her, then closed his lips and stepped toward her. She had ceased her advance at his display. He had frightened her, which had not been his intent.
She placed the pail on the road near his feet and he sniffed deeply.
Ale!
Blade extended his neck so Elizabeth could pet the bridge of his nose. She gleaned his intent and rubbed his nose vigorously, stroked his ears, and then spun away and practically skipped back into the tavern.
“Blade let me pet him!” she called as quickly as she had opened the swinging gates and taken a step in.
Blade put his nose down into the broad bucket and sucked in the ale. Humans were an eccentric species. What Thanatos was defied definition. Still, the girl had brought him a big round bucket of happiness and soon he had emptied it.
That done, he returned to the shadows and vigilance. Arthur had mentioned saddles and armor. That would come after the congregation. Blade waited earnestly for that time.
He particularly derived pleasure from scaring the wits out of the grooms in Ploor. Why not have a tad of harmless fun? After all, his life could end at any time. At least that was what Thanatos claimed.
Wolf, Arthur, and Shanay hunched over a corner table inside the Lusty Wench with their hands folded in front of them. Wolf had sent Elizabeth outside with a bucket of ale for Blade and she had already returned without being bitten.
“Guess he is in a good mood,” Wolf grinned.
“He has his moments,” Arthur chided.
“Like his rider,” Shanay countered and passed Arthur a charming smile in answer to his fake frown and her remark.
Wolf sipped from a pewter mug, having traded it for the one he dropped in the dirt. “So, Thanatos is back to his old tricks.”
Arthur furrowed his eyebrows and replied, “I don’t think this is a trick. He hinted that trouble brews without violating whatever rules constrain him. Always a serious one, Thanatos.”
