by Ben Stivers
Holding out his hand, Daemon’s sword returned to him with a whiff of thin magic, but his breath limped.
The next man lunged with his sword straight at Daemon. He parried the man toward the right with his left hand and rammed his forehead downward into his combatant’s collarbone, and stamped a break. With the opponent’s sword arm numbed, Daemon thrust his sword through the man’s kidney and then kicked him solidly in the chest. His opponent toppled backward, tripping the man who ran up behind.
Daemon took advantage of that clumsy moment to bash the tripped man’s skull with the pommel of his sword. He dropped the sword and pulled his own knife. Exertion burned his arms and that triggered his inspiration.
Two men charged Daemon at once. He dodged to his right to force their paths to cross, and then closed the distance with the first man, swiping at the man’s face with his left hand. The soldier turned his head slightly right to avoid the slap, and Daemon stabbed him once in the ribs and shoved the fool into his cohort. The second man tried to withdraw, but Daemon had not slowed his charge. He crushed his larger size onto the second soldier and stabbed him through the cheek. A rip of the knife back toward him extracted at least three teeth.
Battle fever rushed into Daemon as adrenaline reached his heart and urged him onward. He had faced worse opponents. He could do this. If only—
He spun toward a whirring sound. The thick black arrow struck him hard in the high right side of his chest.
Time froze. He could not see the arrow’s head. It had lodged against the back of his ribcage. The shaft was cut from blackthorn.
Quite beautiful trees. He had nurtured many during his life in Drybridge. Those trees sprouted wrinkled leaves and the bark was dark brown like this arrow. The arrow’s length had been well crafted and the deep brown feathers at its furthest end were smooth and cared for.
Time skipped and fidgeted as two more arrows landed near him, but did not strike him.
He glanced down the hillside. The dozen or so men had stopped charging toward him and three archers stood around a young man whose magic smacked of Mrandor’s malignant nature, but that could not be. Mrandor was shrunken, misshapened the last time they had clashed.
How could he be here? They had killed him in the valley of Wizard’s Tower decades before.
A round of arrows took flight toward him and Daemon casually stretched his hand outward, calling forth a warding spell. The arrows skid in the air, slid hummingbird fast back along their original paths, and struck the three archers that had fired them.
Daemon grasped the arrow in his chest with his left hand, snapped off the shaft and regarded the thing. When he looked up, four more men charged toward him. One carried a spear, one carried an axe and the other two had swords.
Daemon’s right hand grew slick with his own blood. The men approached him carefully; the one with the spear would be the most dangerous because he had distance on his side. Daemon strode purposefully toward the spearman. The soldier had seen the others fall, so he did not lunge, but slowly herded Daemon in a circle, hoping to get his back turned to one of them.
“Come on, boy,” Daemon taunted. “You are not going to let an old gaff cower you.”
The goad worked perfectly. The man shoved his spear at Daemon’s chest. Daemon feinted right as the spear cut through the left shoulder of his cloak. He lunged forward and drove his sword down through the man’s neck, but lost his grip on the slippery hilt. He grabbed the spear and shoved blindly to the back, skewering a second man expecting to stab Daemon in the back.
The man floundered to the side and wrestled the spear from Daemon’s tired fingers. He stood with his back to his enemy and felt his life sliding toward the Wheel. Sluggishly, he faced his assailants. They spread out and gained ground.
Had he taken longer to recover than he thought?
One man threw a spear. Daemon slapped it away, but the throw had been low, and the tip slashed Daemon’s left thigh before he deflected it. Another man plunged in from the left. Daemon met him head on; thankful that the man had been far enough away that Daemon had time to position himself.
He turned his vision inward, reached deeply, feeling the thread of his life frayed and ready to snap, but still he summoned a spell of beseeching to the Mother.
His breath fractured as an enemy sword pierced his back and protruded through his chest, severing his spine. His legs lost control. He sunk to his knees and then to his back. Yet, the spell remained clear in his mind, forming, building to a crescendo, the seed of Baltane. He summoned and prayed while Mrandor blathered.
“I told you that I would have my revenge. Bornshire, I see disbelief in your eyes, but you know it is me. I will torture and kill your witch, your son, his daughter,” Mrandor grated into Daemon’s ear. “This world is mine, not yours. I am the most powerful, not you!”
Daemon felt the ground dig into his robe. Blood gushed, but Mrandor had not pierced Daemon’s heart. Still, the wound had undoubtedly killed him.
Still, he had readied himself for such a malady. A new spell blossomed. Mrandor wailed as his own sword flash burned his hands. He cast the weapon aside, not yet aware of the danger he had brought upon himself.
He looked into Daemon’s eyes and hauled the elder druid up to his face. “You are done, old man. There are no heroes left, no place for your kind of magic.”
Daemon blinked slowly, taking in Mrandor’s words, but not allowing them to pierce his concentration. He ignored the syllables and focused. Mrandor had been magically altered and that ill-gotten sorcery rotted his soul. It ate him from the inside instead of nourishing him as magic should.
Daemon knew that his remaining moments avalanched through his personal hourglass. He blinked slowly and prayed without words; Allow my son my gifts, Mother. He will need them to protect you. Burn me that Lieala may know my passion and that I might pass to the Wheel.
With a final surge of strength, Daemon uttered “Grant me this.”
Realizing that Daemon’s clothes smoldered, Mrandor sprang back and his men stepped further away. Daemon’s flesh erupted into a ferocious blaze. The flame intensified, drawing the breeze from the sea, magnifying, spun and grew toward the sky.
Mrandor’s men fled toward the ship as Mrandor seethed. Daemon had robbed him of a portion of his revenge and Belial had wanted the druid’s body for her own ends.
She would have to make concessions.
Skyward the flames climbed, cracking stones and setting the vegetation ablaze. Air thundered from the heat. All of Britannia would soon see the ascending pillar. Mrandor turned his back and hurried to his ship, setting sail toward the northwest.
Despite being robbed of the mutilation he had hoped to dispense, he had killed Daemon Bornshire. With that, he could settle the day. Fortifying his fleet, he would return to dispense with the witch.
“What of the wounded?” his captain asked.
“Leave them,” Mrandor growled, starting down towards his quarters and ignoring the casting off of the ship.
Later that same day, he threw a surviving shipmate overboard for mentioning that the black and white fish followed them.
Pestilence and Thanatos remained on the ridge, having seen the pillar of fire rise to slice a signature on the sky and finally withdraw.
“I am unsure what we have witnessed, Thanatos. Is this what the Creator wants?” Pestilence asked.
Thanatos replied, “A quandary to be sure. Still, I have Daemon’s soul in safe custody. I will return him to the Wheel he so cherished.”
“And what then, Thanatos?” Pestilence questioned. “What will we do?”
Thanatos inhaled, trying to contain his frustration. “We will unleash Arthur.”
“When?”
Thanatos grinned, his face changing to cast metal, his teeth sharpened and his eyes afire.
Mars tucked his chin, attempting to hide his pleasure.
Chapter 4
In Drybridge, Joanie and Lieala sat near a clear and chilly stream where Arthur h
ad fished when but a boy. Joanie scribed spells as her grandmother recited them.
Lieala’s magic was much different from Joanie’s own, but Joanie recognized similarities and the foundation of each. She had arrived in Britannia approximately twelve seasons past by her reckoning. Wondering if they would be welcomed when they first arrived, both she and Octavus were accepted as naturalized Drybridgers by her grandparents’ flock. The villagers and student druids adored her grandparents. By the count, not a single person had abstained for helping build Joanie and Octavus’ house, and then they had assisted them in turning that house into a home.
Octavus spent a quarter of each day in sword practice, claiming that combat was a perishable skill. He spent the rest of the daylight and early morning hours hunting, but he spent his nights with Joanie, discussing the day’s events and the lessons Joanie had learned from Lieala.
Thunder ruptured the clear day. Surprised, both women turned their attention to the northwest where a magnificent pillar of flame arched toward the heavens. Orange and yellow, for its brief existence, the pillar challenged the sun.
Thus, pain enthralled both Joanie and Lieala when they felt Daemon’s spirit depart. They did not doubt that he had gone, nor did they delude themselves that he had left of his own volition.
Lieala wept. He had known this could happen. His sleepless nights before had forewarned, and for that same number of days, she had felt an old familiar queasiness return. With no sound but tears, she and Joanie hugged one another, knowing that whatever had forced Daemon’s hand would not stop its advance.
In the night, countless stars pinned the sky to the heavens, a veil to keep him from glimpsing the face of God, but Arthur did not despair. His hands rested upon Blade’s saddle, one over the other. Together, the comrades watched a singular star blaze a long and fiery streak across the speck-splattered canvas of night’s sky. Blade snorted and Arthur understood. Daemon had passed into the After, something that could not be undone. Eventually, death came for everyone, but Arthur wished an extended moment to confess to his father all the things he wished, as a son, he had said.
He climbed from the saddle. As his boot touched the rock-strewn dirt, he felt a surge. Whether emotional, or of some other origin he did not inquire, but he felt less tired and more hopeful than he had in months.
Fate did not ask men if they comprehended. She did not deign to explain herself. His father had vacated this world. For that, Arthur refused to mourn, though he felt both remorse and personal attachment.
Yet, his father had touched him in his last moments, and Arthur regretted the years had passed so quickly. For most of his life, Daemon had been a strong father and a man of peace, but he had never left his sword or magic sheathed in the face of iniquity. Perhaps that lesson was Arthur’s inheritance. No son could ask more.
He knelt and prayed for God to shelter his father’s soul. As usual, he received no discernible reply. Satisfied, he climbed back into the saddle, “You have earned your place, Father. Claim your mansion and may the Lord embrace you.”
To Arthur’s way of thinking, God heard all prayers whether he answered or not. Joanie and Octavus would care for Arthur’s mother, or perhaps he would bring her back to live with him, if she would agree to come.
He trotted Blade down the trail and then broke into a gallop. He took no notice of the blue flecks that trailed behind.
Belial held her grandness in the invisible realm that humans could not see and regarded her indentured familiar. His stern face had weathered on the waters and he had followed her guidance, though the details she had left to him. He showed robust capability, and, for a time, she shadowed him as she felt.
Guidance here. Nudge there. She learned the malleable nature of humans under duress. They would sacrifice anything to feel safe. They would kill their own family if it might save themselves from discomfort.
She materialized behind Mrandor and spoke his name to startle him. He did not look surprised. That disappointed her.
She said, “I am.”
“You are what?” he asked. She rooted through his immediate consciousness. His mind lay along other paths.
Months before, he had defeated the Bornshire patriarch, but he had not been able to retrieve the corpse. Belial had chided, but not scolded him. In the intervening time, he struggled to rebuild his fleet. The bloodletting required to stiffen his subject’s spines had been costly. If his own personal slaughter had not been enough of a drain, he had lost several shipbuilders, master artisans, to those scornful black and white whales. They did not come often, but when they did, they never announced. They simply plunged from the depths and snatched the workers right off the shore or over the rail of a ship. The shipwrights had grieved him about the dangers, but had not insisted to stop work. Still, they had slowed, being overly cautious not to cross into an orca’s reach. He had expressed frustration when she refused to strike the sea giants down. Angered, he had sent four ships to hunt the beasts, but the ships had never returned.
Belial felt the depth of her opening announcement wasted her words, so she moved on. Apparently, Mrandor distracted himself with lesser thoughts.
“You appear well. What is your plan now? Will you return to Britannia? Slay his mother? Kill his daughter?”
With a smug smile, Mrandor replied, “It is too soon. I wish their suffering to ferment. Next, I go to Overlord City.”
“Your army has yet to reach—”
“I said ‘I’ am going to Overlord City,” he interrupted, and Belial suspected that he expected reprisal for his impudence. He tested her, but she did not rise to his challenge. Better to let the fool be the fool that thinks himself wise than to create a need for a new fool.
“Then what are your plans?”
“I journey in disguise to visit the governor, a pompous man whose name is Nerva. I will convince him of his need for an advisor and I intend to fill it. He needs help with his growing city. He will annex additional territory to increase the labor base. For that, he will levy mean taxes.”
Belial intently regarded Mrandor. “And how do you know this?”
“Because,” he replied, “I will convince him.”
Belial radiated a piercing smile, but she knew that Mrandor must not be underestimated. Lucifer had underestimated a different wounded human and his life had been forfeit.
“Do not betray me, underling,” she warned.
Mrandor smirked, unconvinced that he could keep a credible lie on his lips.
Six more moons would pass before Belial and Mrandor met again. By that time the wheels turned. In the Black Forest, Belial’s magic rampaged through the forest roots. Under the dirt, under the roots and under the trees a fortress she carved from stone, scattering what she had removed until she felt ready to assemble her mark.
For the first several months after Blade’s return, Arthur could not help but remain on edge. Every sense warned him that danger lurked, but he could not distill the sensation into tangible intelligence. Overlord City struggled amongst civil unrest. He had declined an audience in the city and its general welfare did not involve him.
He spent the summer months expanding his homestead, scouting the woodlands of the Eastern Mountains, and even traveled further east to visit the place he had discovered that had once been home for trolls. He found no threat, no evidence, and no substantiation for the burning restiveness that steadily churned his gut. He and Blade returned home that evening. Shanay sat on the edge of the crooked porch he had built.
Admittedly, Arthur had done his best to erect a more substantial structure than the temporary quarters his father had constructed. Originally, he had intended that he and Shanay remain secluded and away from trouble.
A hammer and chisel felt awkward in his hand. He had proven himself an inadequate carpenter and even less competent as a stonemason. Despite Shanay’s encouragement otherwise, he knew haphazard work when he saw it.
He dismounted, removed Blade’s saddle and bridle and laid them on the porch agains
t the front of their home where the weather would need struggle to reach.
Winter was distant, and the clear air pinked her cheeks, a slight scar here, and slight scar there did not reduce her beauty to his way of thinking.
Shanay’s red hair glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. She handed him a smile as he sat down beside her. Unlike him, she had not donned her leathers, but a simple pair of britches and a linen shirt. Her short leather boots covered her ankles and if she had a weapon, he did not notice for her eyes steadfastly held him.
“Nothing?” she asked as an open and Arthur knew his woman well enough that that one word meant a lecture. He had felt it coming the previous days, and had hoped to find something that could justify his uneasiness. Yet, here he sat. She had him in the place where she always held sway, a place of rightness.
“I found nothing,” he admitted. His armor creaked with leather well worn. He unfastened his sword and laid it on the porch. He traveled the woods one day per week, an agreement between him and Shanay, and the rest of the time, he worked on their house, mostly cursing at his lack of aptitude.
All days, he started and ended with a short, thankful prayer for his blessings, although he had begun to question what those blessings just might be. After Cleola’s crucifixion, God’s will had been clear, though it had taken Arthur two years to learn of it. Perhaps this was another such occasion.
Shanay leaned forward, placed her left elbow on her knee, two fingers on her temple, and turned her head to look at him.
Blade swished his tail twice and trotted across the patch to where their meager garden struggled to coax anything to grow. Shanay mostly tended the vegetables through spring and summer as Arthur’s mother had, but Arthur knew that she, too, felt restless. Farming did not suit them.
