Pulling off the leather glove beneath, he exposed the burned and scarred hand within. Life within the Order of Redemption carried with it certain expectations and commitments. Their knights were ever at the forefront of hostilities with the forces of the Abyss, regularly tasked with some of the most dangerous missions their people were called upon to undergo, and they were even required to work alone on rare occasions. Flexing his fingers, Aldous felt the itching fire spread along where they had restitched the skin of his palm, its constant irritation flaring into one of outright pain. Over time, he had learned to manage it; keeping the disfigurements that marred his body hidden from view helped when it came to interacting with others. His skills with the sword were superlative, and his armor granted him great prowess in the field, but even these could not protect one from the flames of the Abyss indefinitely.
The knight plunged his hand into the small stream next to him. Feeling the cold water soothe the injured flesh, he tried to banish the memories of how the sorcerous fire had bathed him in pain and agony, finding its way through the seams of his armor and tearing at his muscular form beneath. Closing his eyes, Aldous concentrated on the texture and smell of the liquid. His enhanced connection to the life-giving element, bestowed upon him by his armor, allowed the knight to detect even the smallest of particles that flowed through the medium between his fingers. Normally, this far from civilization, the water would feel clean and pure, but something about this particular flow felt sickly and strange.
Reaching out with his mind, Aldous pushed against the current, slowly feeling his way back up the tributary toward the river’s source. The further his spirit traversed from his body, the darker and fouler the sensation became. It started to overwhelm his senses, the fetid stink filling his nose and mouth as he ventured on. The knight started to feel dizzy and thrust his other arm out to stop himself falling forward into the watercourse, all sense of his true position utterly fleeing him. In his mind’s eye, he became surrounded by a deep ocean of blackness, its viscous nature clinging to his body, pulling him down. As his flailing attempts to stay afloat weakened, he could feel something vast and terrifying, an entity that had lain deep below the surface, starting to rise upward, attracted by his ineffective struggling.
The knights of the Order of Redemption had indeed been bestowed incredible powers, but they were a far cry from a true master of the mystical arts. The abilities that Valandor had gifted to Aldous’s ancestors were largely martial in focus, and he could feel himself being swept under by the sheer force of the being he had encountered. Whatever he had disturbed was far beyond his capacity to understand, and the knight could feel his ability to resist its strength diminishing with each failed attempt to escape its inexorable pull. The man tried to focus on thoughts of home, his people, and their noble undertaking; but the shadows were too all-encompassing, their pall binding his spirit to the damned place.
Suddenly the world turned sideways, his inner ear sensing the falling movement of his body in spite of the pitch blackness. Aldous panicked, certain that whatever presence had been lurking below was finally seizing upon him, dragging him down into the soulless oblivion that lay beneath. He tried to reach out and strike it, but instead he felt a hard, inert surface greet his flailing limbs. His hand came back bloody and cut, the metallic smell of the slick fluid triggering an unusually visceral response from his senses. As if awakening from a long slumber, he began to pick up other smells and scents too. The darkness began to fade, and he noticed the air becoming cleaner; the strength was returning to his muscles and his lungs were able to breathe once more.
“Aldous!” A voice that he recognized punched through the haze clouding his mind. “Aldous, get up.”
An armored man stood over him, someone familiar, someone trusted.
“Come on, slow your breathing now. Steady yourself,” the other man turned to a figure beyond Aldous’s sight. “Grant, you keep an eye on those hills. You see anything move, anything at all, call out.”
The reassuring sound of a steel blade scraping against the metal locket of its scabbard cut through the air. It sounded dimmer and further away than the man who had spoken to him, yet Aldous could tell his hearing was beginning to return. Slowly his awareness of his surroundings also began to recover, and he struggled to suppress the heavy shaking that rattled through his strained musculature. Realizing that he was lying sprawled out on the bank of the river, with an immense effort Aldous rolled over onto his back, hauling his arm out from the insistent pull of the stream's current.
The knight forced himself to take a deep, heaving breath, his voice sounding ragged and drained. “Quaid?”
The face swam back into focus, its owner's concern evident, even in Aldous's disorientated state. “I'm here, brother.” Quaid started to reach for the fallen knight's helm, attempting to release the strapping that held the faceplate in place. “Aldous, what on earth...”
Before he could finish his question, the Redemption knight slapped his fellow's hand away. The sheer physical effort of the act caused Aldous to burst into a coughing fit that pained his already ravaged throat.
Quaid recoiled from his cohort, his voice failing to suppress the emotional pain he felt at the surprising rebuke. “I did not mean to... I just...” He faltered, striving to find the right words for the man that he had once been so close to, and yet now seemed so utterly distant. “How did this happen?”
Aldous tried to compose himself, attempting to breathe life into a body that had seemed close to shutting down. His nerve endings sparked semi-randomly, limbs gradually responding more and more to his own control as their feeling returned, but every part of him felt unbelievably cold. A pervasive echo of dread still filled the knight's entire being, impairing his cognitive functions and making it difficult for him to pull himself up, out of the mud.
At last, after what seemed a pain-filled eternity to Aldous, he managed to summon sufficient strength to answer his one-time friend and compatriot. “I cannot explain it. Not to someone outside the Order.” His words came out slow and labored, interspersed with heavy, rasping breaths; and even in his injured state, Aldous could see the hurt they caused the other man. The knight struggled to find a less harsh way of explaining himself. “I just mean that you would not be able to comprehend the significance of it. Here, help me up.”
Quaid lowered a leather-wrapped forearm and, bracing his back leg, heaved the fully armored warrior to his feet. His voice and demeanor having hardened in the face of Aldous's slight, Quaid coldly addressed the man before him. “If you do not wish to explain events to me, you can at least provide some reassurance that you are fit to continue leading this force, and perhaps inform me as to whether we should be concerned of any immediate threats.”
Aldous's expression was unreadable, hidden behind layers of hardened, tempered steel, the whites of his eyes being the only things visible through the darkened recesses that were cut into his helm. Tension filled the air as he stood silently appraising Quaid, and when he spoke, it carried the full weight of his authority as a member of the Order. “Grant can rest easy for now. And with regards to my efficacy when it comes to command of these men,” his tone took on a deep, threatening growl. “Never bring that into question in my presence again.”
“Brothers,” both men turned at the warning inflection within Grant's voice as he approached the pair. “Remember that we all walk the same path, each and every one of us. Do not let our proximity to the wicked twist what and who we are.”
“Hmph. Well said,” Aldous's gravelly reply had lost much of its venom, but undercurrents of anger still swirled below the surface. “Too long out here can... wear... on a man's soul. In any case,” he gestured upstream of their current location. “There is something out there, something immense and powerful. I have never come across anything like it in all my years. Whatever it was felt utterly different to any Abyssal power I have encountered before, and I do not believe that to be a good thing.”
Upon hearing Aldous's w
ords, both of his compatriots developed looks of deep concern. As the silence dragged on, it was Grant who eventually spoke. “Is this something we can even handle? Our troop is not equipped for a pitched combat.”
“It will have to be,” Aldous turned to each of them in turn. “The Brotherhood does not flinch in the face of evil. We cannot let something of this magnitude go unchallenged so near to our lands.”
As the three men paced back to camp, the fiery pits of the Abyss continued their endless burn in the distance, leaking sickness and corruption out into the world, poisoning the surrounding earth, and seeding their malady for leagues around.
* * * * *
Warner finished wolfing down the last of his meager scraps of meat. The food’s stringy texture, a result of the corrupting influences of the Abyss on nearby fauna, left an acidic, rank after-taste in the mouth, despite any attempts they made at seasoning it. He and Randall had been the last of the rangers to report back in, leaving them little time for rest before their group would once more be on the move. His compatriot was slumped next to the fire, catching what brief moments of sleep he could manage, a trait that Warner had always marveled at. This close to the home of the Wicked Ones, he could never quite shake the restless irritation that crawled its way beneath his skin. It was not unknown for the ranger to go days at a time without proper rest, and similar effects could be seen in many of the other men as expeditions dragged on.
The three dozen or so other villeins that made up their party busied themselves stowing the camp’s baggage and securing their own personal armor and equipment. The majority of the men comprised a spear company that had been pulled from one of the defensive watches at the Brotherhood's fortress, called the Crucible. They were capable fighters but lacked his men’s experience when it came to operating out in the wastelands far from any support. As such, Warner’s rangers had been tasked with accompanying them at the direct request of the Redemption Order.
He watched as the three Brotherhood knights walked back down to their encampment, the men’s armor glinting through the weak rays of light that fell between the threadbare trees. The villein could not help but marvel at the ornate, ancient relic that was Aldous’s suit. It stood in stark contrast to the more easily manufactured, utilitarian plate of his other knights; a sad indication of the toll this endless conflict was taking on their small nation’s industrial capacity to keep their forces armed and in the field.
Warner shook his head bitterly at the thought of their neighbor states, always happy to let the Brotherhood stand watch over their boundaries, yet rarely to be seen whenever the call for aid went out. His loved ones, the people he cared for, had to die out here while the pompous Basileans politicked and debated in their ornate temples, so desperate to curry favor from what little, fickle goodness remained within the Celestials. And the dwarfs, so content to bury themselves in their dank tombs, unwilling to take responsibility for the pain and suffering caused by their twisted cousins upon the peoples of the world. It was such weaknesses that had allowed the forces of the Abyss to propagate unchecked, and if it was necessary for the Brotherhood to bear the burden of responsibility for all, then they would do so. Because as far as Warner was concerned, they were the only ones with the strength to face such a challenge.
The one known as Quaid approached the center of camp, and the assembled soldiery came to a respectful hush, awaiting further instruction. “We have discovered some,” the knight faltered, trying to find the right words, and, glancing briefly at Aldous, a look of concern momentarily flashed across Quaid’s rugged, battle-scarred features. “Some new information. If this is as serious as we expect, then we cannot allow the Brotherhood to remain ignorant of such a threat. This will, however, be an undertaking of information gathering only. Our goal is not to engage whatever we find out there. Is that understood?”
As the men around him nodded in understanding, Warner could not help but wonder who that last part had been directed at. Having worked alongside the knights of the Order of Redemption before, he knew they were prone to sometimes reckless, independent behavior, but the codes of knightly honor and conduct were a complete mystery to him. With the surrounding camp suddenly energized, he gave a sharp kick to the unconscious form of Randall lying next to him.
“Urgh. What the hell?” His bleary-eyed compatriot was not at his best upon awakening.
Warner bent down to pick up his gear. “Come on, we’re getting ready to move out.”
“Fantastic,” Randall’s humor was as dry as ever. He stood, dusting himself down and stretching out the taught muscles of his upper back. “When do we leave?”
The other ranger laughed, indicating the spearmen already falling into a marching column. “Now, from the look of things.”
Randall looked around, staring at the camp’s detritus with confusion. “But what about all this?”
As his friend gestured at the discarded remnants, Warner easily caught the man’s meaning. Any foe that came across such a large swathe of debris as the one that they were leaving would find little difficulty in picking up the group’s trail.
Pointing to the wide tracks being left by the soldiers, however, Warner shrugged his shoulders with resignation. “Doesn’t really make much of a difference when we’re dealing with that, does it?”
“Bloody lead-footed clods,” Randall grumbled under his breath as the pair moved to rejoin the rest of the men.
* * * * *
The small Brotherhood patrol force wound its way along the gravel-strewn riverbank, heading toward the tributary’s source. At some point along their journey, in spite of all his misgivings, Quaid did expect to find whatever unclean presence had so unsettled Aldous; he just had no idea what they would do when that moment came. His horse whinnied suddenly, the animal spooked at nothing in particular, and he pulled sharply on the reigns to settle the creature once more. The diseased air around them was taking its toll on everybody, and he ran one hand down the beast’s neck to try and help calm her, receiving a half-hearted flick of the tail in response.
Still lost in contemplation, he barely noticed as Grant pulled his mount in beside him. “So, are you going to tell me then?”
Snapping back to the present, Quaid barely heard the other man’s words. “Hmm?”
The knight raised one eyebrow inquisitively. “You and Aldous, I need to know what history exists there. If this thing is as dangerous as he suggests… Well, this is hardly a crusading army that we have at our backs.”
Quaid sighed, knowing that this moment had been inevitable. “We were initiates together.” The knight’s gaze became unfocused as his thoughts reached back into his own history. “We were both born on the very same day, if you can believe that. And then we grew up together, so, naturally, we ended up starting our training alongside one another too. During those years, we walked every step of the Order’s path as if we had truly been brothers.”
“We all share a bond, you know that,” Grant interjected, his tone mollifying. “Any one of us would die for another.”
“Not like this though,” Quaid grimaced. “From all those years we spent together, we were utterly in sync with each other’s thoughts and movements. Fighting became like a symphony to us, an intoxicating mixture of bladed precision and martial prowess. I knew everything about that man; every fear, every dream. I knew his very soul, Grant. And he knew mine.”
The other knight’s mood softened upon hearing the pain in his friend’s voice. After a moment of silence, he eventually spoke again. “What changed?”
Quaid was staring down at his own gauntleted hand, unable or unwilling to make eye contact. “The calling.”
“Ahh,” a look of understanding crossed Grant’s face, his tone somber. “I have never known a knight on a personal level before he donned the Armor of Tides. For one of us to be chosen is such a rare event in and of itself.”
“He changed almost overnight, pulling away from everything and everyone that was important to him. For the last few years, it
has been rare for him to spend any length of time at the Crucible, always out here in the badlands. I know the trials he has been through must weigh heavy upon him, but it does not help ease the void left by his sudden absence,” with a look of resignation, the knight pointed to Aldous. “That man over there, I do not even know who he is anymore, or what he has become.”
* * * * *
The areas surrounding the Abyss were far more than just a desolate wasteland of destruction and devilry. Existing so close to the home of the Wicked Ones could change a being all the way to their core. Entire nations had been known to fall to the will of the dark demigods, turning from their past deities to find renewed strength in service to the twisted, broken shadows of what had once been Celestian souls. Unless one had hardened their resolve against such depredations, it could be all too easy for any sentient creature to fall under their sway, let alone the simple animals of nature that still remained.
As the armored column moved through the constant, quasi-darkness of the region, their passage did not go entirely unnoticed. Their observer was clad in plates of blackened steel. A myriad of rough gashes on the surfaces exposed bare metal beneath, the mixture of oxidized rust and stained blood lending the armor a faint, reddish hue in the dim light. Vicious-looking spikes adorned many of the jointed panels, turning the man's every movement into one of potent lethality. A large, double-handed axe was chained to a vambrace and hung, resting against his side, the edge dulled to better suit its role as a tool of violence. Cold eyes stared down the rocky incline at the troops below, black ash-paste hiding what little of his skin would have been visible above the helm's cheek-guards. His unmoving vigil failed to mask any of the man's capacity for murderous brutality, his body's absolute stillness a testament to the muscular strength it contained and the focus with which he could wield it.
Tales of Mantica Page 2
