Benedict

by Jackson Bennett

  He weaved and shoved his way as best he could through the throng of people crowding in around him on the top tier of the stadium trying to see the race unfolding down in the arena. He knew they were in danger and that every second counted (he did not know how he knew), but he was unable to convey his need for haste to the people around him, who just pushed him back when he tried to get through.

  Finally he reached the entrance to the stairs that lead down to the to the next tier which he had entered through earlier, and he began to run, leaping down three steps at a time, causing the few people that were still coming up to jump out of the way with curses that went unheard by him. At the bottom of the stairs he turned right and increased his speed as the corridor curved gently following the contour of the outside wall of the arena.

  At the next flight of stairs he slowed, taking these two at a time as they were steeper than the previous set. At the bottom he again turned right and headed for the stairs that would lead him to the private boxes and the Voldiner’s dais.

  As these stairs came into sight, a gruesome scene began to unfold before Richard’s eyes. On the floor before him were the corpses and soon to be corpses of four men that rested in pools of their own blood, that seemed to cover the majority of the floor. Benedict was surrounded by the remaining six men all of whom carried large two-handed swords that had wickedly serrated double edged blades.

  He was bleeding from a wound to his left leg and several to his stomach, and was backing away from the heavily armed men towards the stairwell, which he had just come down, where his remaining attackers would only be able to face him two at a time. As he did so the dents and gashes in his armour seemed to fill out and close, stopping the flow of blood and leaving no mark or sign that they had ever been there.

  Benedict was struggling to attain the stairs and as several blows glanced of his breastplate and the side of his helm, the six attackers moved to prevent him from gaining the sanctuary that he sought.

  Richard knew he had to help, this was the protector of his people in trouble to whom he owed a life debt, so drawing his forward curving short sword from the back of his belt where it nestled unseen, he rushed into the rear of the nearest attackers without making a sound, and began to cut and slash about him with a deadly grace and elegance, born of years of practice. Before the attackers knew what was happening, for their sole focus had been Benedict, three of their number were down and one other was backing away with a severed left arm that pumped blood through fingers that were clasped over the end trying in vain to stem the flow.

  Benedict turned to face the remaining two men that were on the opposite side to where Richard had attacked, and unleashed death. Richard had only seen the man do battle once before and that had been in the darkened streets when he had seemed to blend with the shadows and half-light. Here there were no shadows and the speed and grace with which he moved was apparent for all to see. Richard gaped despite the carnage about him, not even with a lifetime of practice could he hope to acquire such skill.

  The two men fell to the ferocious attack and Benedict turned to face the badly wounded last. The wound was not mortal, not if it was treated properly, but the man didn’t seem to be interested in receiving quarter or treatment, for as he stood there in front of the entrance to the lower levels, he raised his arm and sucked on the bloodied stump. He lowered his arm and roared at the two men, showing bloodied teeth that were more canine than human, and surged forwards, his two handed sword held high in his remaining hand.

  A sword of the deepest darkest black erupted from his chest before he had taken two steps and lifted him from the ground. The man stared at the black blade that protruded from his chest with a look of astonishment and bewilderment on his face, then as his lifeless fingers dropped his sword the blade vanished like a puff of black smoke on the wind and he crumpled to the floor, his lifeless eyes staring.

  The black cowed, shadowy figure that was revealed seemed to stare, though there were no eyes to be seen, at Benedict and Richard with such malevolence that Richard felt his heart race as it went cold with fear. Then in the time it took for him to blink the shadow faded and was gone taking the coldness in his heart with it.

  He turned to Benedict, who clasped Richard’s forearm in thanks, with Richard instinctively doing the same so that their arms were locked together. “It has begun,” he said in that rich and vibrant tone, “You had better get out of here before the authorities come.”

  “What do you mean authorities?” said Richard looking around anxiously.

  “Haven’t you noticed the uniform’s they are wearing?” said Benedict inclining his head towards the now dead men.

  Richard took a second look and noticed, with horror and a dawning sense of dread that they were dressed in the red and green striped uniform of the Voldiner’s Guard and as he stared at the bodies they seemed to change, losing some of their size and bulk. He looked at Benedict with surprise.

  “They were Prith weremen,” Benedict explained looking deep into Richards eyes. “In death they return to their normal form, so that none can tell what they really were, that shadow was one of their masters. Now go and speak nothing of this, for you have done well today, do not doubt that, although many will believe otherwise. Now go, your life debt is paid,” he said, command oozing from every word.

  Richard knew that to harm the Voldiner guard was punishable by death, as an attack on his guard was as good as an attack on the Voldiner himself, and instinctively he knew that this wouldn’t end well for him.

  He nodded and turned on his heels and began to run. Behind he felt the sensation of magic, so he glanced over his shoulder and saw Benedict disappear in a flash of white light, causing him to lose his footing and to stumble, barely keeping his feet under him. Moments later the sensation returned, fainter and feeling further North, in the area known to his people as the Ice Waste’s.

  This was an area that had not been visited by any in the histories of his people, for the mountains and snow covered lands were all but impassable and uninhabitable now, though the area was rumoured in legend to have been the home of a powerful race known as the Volin, which was an ancient word that meant “Mighty Ones.”

  Richard heard the noises of people coming from one of the adjoining corridors, so in an attempt to avoid being seen, he ducked down one of the many side passages that were now empty and headed for the city streets, from there to head for his home.

  It took him a couple of minutes to get outside the stadium, forcing himself to walk casually as he joined the throng of people that were crowded in everywhere as they went about their daily business of shopping and working, for although this was a national holiday, life carried on for the majority of people as it was only on the fourth day that everyone stopped work so that they could drink and feast until they burst in the name of the Gods.

  Chapter Two

  Whispers In The Dark

  Richard travelled the streets in silence, constantly looking over his shoulder and back tracking to ensure that he wasn’t being followed. He had learned the hard way not to assume that you were safe, and it had only been Benedict’s timely intervention all those years ago that had saved his neck.

  Word had spread that day that he was under the protection of Benedict and as a result the mark on his head had been lifted. The Brotherhood of Blood however, had let it be known that none were to do business with him, for although they had lifted the mark they were still displeased with his actions that had seen half of their safe houses raided and their business’s severely damaged.

  He could hear the commotion that was beginning to bubble up as word spread that members of the Voldiner’s guard had been murdered in the defence of the Voldiner himself. He had expected something as dramatic as this not to be kept from the city for long, but to hear that one of the guards had survived the attack and was laying the blame at Benedict’s feet was disturbing, very disturbing.<
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  Benedict along with a large group of accomplices had attacked the guards from behind, screaming that they wanted the Voldiner dead. Taking the guards by surprise, they had managed to eliminate them all, except the one that had miraculously survived, and had taken the Voldiner with them, fleeing into the heart of the city. The guard didn’t know if the Voldiner was dead or alive, as his body had been limp and he had been bleeding heavily from a blow to the head, which had been inflicted by Benedict.

  Richard was astonished when these claims reached his ears, for the Voldiner had been nowhere to be seen and Benedict had left by magic and unlike himself had not entered the city. He was even more astonished that those that were spreading the lies seemed to believe them wholeheartedly, but then he, Benedict’s pet, knew from personal experience how truth could be corrupted by rumour.

  He picked up his pace and reached his home just after nightfall, having back tracked on himself several times making sure no one was following him. He had detoured around the poor sector of town and had listened to the gossip on the street as he travelled, looking for any mention of his name, and to his relief he had heard none. It seemed the accomplices had been hooded and unknown, but it was said that they were close to being caught.

  His home when he reached it was in complete darkness, which was unusual as his mother always left the lamps burning until he arrived home, for he frequently worked late and Mark was forever being called to the barracks for one thing or another. She could not help but worry, for that was who she was, and she took every opportunity to tell them so.

  Although so far there had been no mention of his name, after the events of the day Richard was feeling just a little paranoid, so he drew his belt knife, as his sword would be of no use in such close quarters, and entered the house on well-practiced stealthy feet.

  The interior was darkness itself, and where the cloud shredded moonlight entered the windows, moving shadows were cast on the walls and floors. Memories of the shadow creature began to play on his mind as he imagined all sorts of demons jumping out on him as he passed by, and all of them carried black swords waiting to be plunged into his heart.

  Their house was comprised of two storeys, with the kitchen and family room on the ground floor and the sleeping rooms on the upper floor, which were accessed by the stairs at the end of the hall opposite the front door he entered cautiously.

  Scouting the rooms downstairs in silence, the only thing he found was a half-eaten meal of bread and cheese on the kitchen table. His heart beat a little faster, as his mother never left food lying around, so heading back to the foot of the stairs that led up into the darkness above he readied himself for whatever was there.

  As he stood there a deep dread began to befall him, as if in his stomach the worst had already happened.

  He crept up the stairs, carefully stepping over the first two steps that would have creaked if he had stepped on them. They had been left that way so that if an intruder had gained access then they would be warned before they could have reached them asleep upstairs. Having bypassed them he approached the threshold to his mother’s room, which was the first one that he came, as the door was directly opposite the stairs. The door was slightly ajar, so he pushed it open and as it opened inwards on silent hinges, for his mother was fastidious and kept a well maintained house, it came to rest against the inner wall with a dull thud.

  Richard tensed, then adjusting the grip on his belt knife, he slipped into the darkness beyond.

  Although the room was in darkness like the rest of the house, his eyes had now become accustomed to it, and so he was able to make out the darker outlines of the furniture that arrayed the room.

  What the each piece of furniture was he had no idea, for his mother had the annoying habit of rearranging it all on an almost daily basis, except oddly the bed. That he knew was against the far wall, opposite the only window in the room, which had thick curtains drawn tightly across so as to block out almost all the natural light. What little light did penetrate partially lit something on the bed, unmoving in the gloom.

  Taking a deep breath he started towards the bed and the deadly gift it held, for from what he could see the rest of the room was empty. As he approached he could see that whatever it was large and to his mind human in shape. His heart beat faster and the pounding was all he could hear in his ears.

  When he reached the bed he realised with certain dread that it was a person.

  “Mum!” he managed to force out in a whisper as his throat constricted with fear.

  He reached out a shaking hand to touch the figure fearing the worse and imagining far greater, and as a tear formed in the corner of his eye a shadow shifted. The front door slammed shut causing Richard visibly jump and retract his outstretched hand as if it had been bitten by one of his imagined demons.

  He stood motionless in the darkness, listening to the night. Had he seen something? Why had the door slammed shut? He wasn’t sure, this amount of tension, he knew, could make you see and hear things.

  Moments later there was another noise, this time deeper in the house, as if someone was opening and closing cupboard doors.

  Richard headed for the stairs and saw, as he left his mother’s room, that whoever it was downstairs had lit a lamp. It cast its pale light across the bottom of the stairs, which seemed to deepen the already impenetrable shadows there. His heart beat faster still. Now this was no imagined threat, and so with his knife still in his hand, he crept down the stairs avoiding the bottom two as he had done on the way up.

  When at the bottom of the stairs, he could see that the light was coming from the open doorway of the kitchen. He edged his way towards the open door, his feet to his ears slapping on the tiled floor, and stood in its shadow listening intently.

  Above the beating of his heart he could hear faint noise’s coming from within the kitchen, clangs and bangs as if someone was rummaging through the cupboards. Whoever was in the room was directly behind the door.

  Richard edged himself slowly along the door. Everything felt as if it had been turned on its head, as it was usually him skulking around someone else’s house, to be doing it in his own was wrong. The noise’s stopped suddenly and Richard froze where he was, halfway along the door.

  “Damn,” cursed a quiet voice, “where are they.”

  A figure moved forwards from behind the door, taking Richard by surprise, as he hadn’t realised that they had been so close and he hadn’t expected them to move so soon. Recovering quickly he stepped forwards and flung his arm around its neck and raised his blade to rest on the soft underside of its chin, taking it completely by surprise and causing it to squeal in fright.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded of the now frozen figure with as much menace in his voice as he could muster.

  “I live here,” the quivering captive replied.

  “Mother!” Richard exclaimed, releasing his grip on her neck and lowering the knife.

  “Who else?” she replied turning and punching him in the chest, “what do you think you’re playing at?”

  “I thought... ” he said flinching and curling into a partial ball like a child, as he always did when she hit him, despite the fact that it never ever hurt.

  “Then who... ” he began, turning and racing from the kitchen and up the stairs to his mother’s bedroom, the bottom steps creaking loudly beneath his booted foot.

  He burst into the room and there it was still unmoving on the centre of the bed. He stood transfixed as if he was caught in a spell, whilst behind him, with the lamp that she had lit in the kitchen extended in front of her, came his mother.

  “What’s going on Richard? What did you think... ” she began to demand, her breathing easy despite the stairs and her age.

  Richard raised his hand, cutting her tirade short, and pointed to the bed in the still dark bedroom. She raised the lamp, edging forward
s through the open doorway, and as the warm lamplight fell on the bed, revealing the prone figure, she gasped almost dropping it.

  Easing the lamp from her shaking hand, and leaving her where she stood, Richard approached the bed. With the light from the lamp the shadows fled to the darkest corners of the room and the figure was revealed in all its horror. Now that he knew that it wasn’t his mother, he could see that the figure was large, and as he came nearer he could see a shock of hair that was white where it could be seen through the blood that soaked it and the bed clothes beneath.

  Placing the lamp on the bedside table and leaning slightly across the bed, he gingerly reached out and placed a hand on its exposed neck. The corpse was still warm, but it was exactly that, a corpse, for no breath stirred in it and he could feel no pulse. He hadn’t expected anything else, not with that much blood, but still it sent a shiver down his spine.

  Taking a deep breath, he placed his hand on the figures left shoulder and with less effort than he thought he would need, rolled it onto its back. As it rolled, the blood soaked hair fell away to reveal opaque eyes that stared accusingly at him.

  Richard stepped back involuntarily, the florid, dignified and instantly recognisable face, even in death, taking his breath away.

  The Voldiner, it was the Voldiner lying there in front of him.

  Behind him his mother sobbed as the face was revealed, knowing what the implications of this were, as she too had heard the rumours that were now rife in the city. Yes the country would mourn the loss of their spiritual leader and the voice of their gods, but that mourning would turn to anger and a need for revenge and justice, and in doing so they would want the blood of her son, whom they would see as the killer, as it was in his home that the body had been found.

  Richard’s mind slowed in its racing and his thoughts began to organise as the full implications of what this meant came to bear. He turned and taking his mother’s tear-streaked face in his hands he told her. “I need Mark here now. Do you understand? I need Mark.”