by T. A. Uner
I just got back from Eolus’ office. Why would he want me back so soon?
“What is wrong, Aurelius?”
Aurelius paused, then said, “The scouting party just returned with their report, The German tribes are massing for an invasion.”
{IV}
Yeshiva and Masego’s condition did not improve.
Artia searched through her medicinal scrolls for an explanation that could shed light on their illnesses. After all, this was uncharted territory for her as well. Yeshiva’s wife had made a few visits to her husband’s bedside. The results were not good. They disagreed on everything.
“Find anything useful?” Vulcan asked while she studied the pages of one of her tomes.
“Nothing,” she said, “but most of it is written in archaic Latin. It has been some time since I last studied it, but I believe I can find the cure.”
There was a loud banging coming from the door of the warehouse. Ashi ran off to see who it was.
“I wonder who that is?” Vulcan said sarcastically. Artia had a feeling he knew.
“Probably Yeshiva’s wife again.” Artia sighed. “Her interruptions are not helping.”
“She’s worried about her husband,” Vulcan said.
“I’m worried about him too,” Artia replied sternly, “but I have a job to do.”
Aravah stormed into the room. Vulcan turned around.
“Hello, Aravah,” Vulcan said.
Aravah ignored Vulcan and pointed at Artia. “Stay away from my husband, you witch.”
Artia looked up from her Tome and sighed. “Can’t you see I’m trying to save him? These interruptions are slowing my work.”
Aravah ignored her words. “I will take care of my husband.” Tears streamed down her face. “If you do not leave, I will contact the Vigiles and tell them you are practicing sorcery. They will take you away and have you executed!”
This is the type of thinking that led to the destruction of the Air Paladins and their respective Elders, Artia thought. Father you were right, ignorance poisons the mind.
“I’m no witch. I am a potion mistress, who is trying to save your husband’s life.”
And Masego’s.
They heard a loud noise coming from Yeshiva’s pallet. Artia rushed over to where the merchant was passing in and out of consciousness. “Father!” he mumbled. “Father!”
“It appears that emotion is the most painful for him.”
Aravah pushed Artia aside.
Not only is she ignorant. But rude as well.
“Husband,” Aravah cried, “I’m here…I’m here. Please come back to me. The children are scared!”
Artia looked at Aravah through mournful eyes. Having lost her own family, she knew what Aravah was feeling.
Father. Mother. Anna. She reached into her pouch and pulled out some crushed roots. After mixing it within a cup of water she brought it to Yeshiva. Aravah stared at her, her eyes wide with horror. “What are you doing?”
Vulcan gently pulled Aravah away from Yeshiva’s bedside. “It’s alright. Artia is a potion mistress,” Vulcan said calmly, “she knows what she’s doing.”
Artia knelt by Yeshiva’s bedside. She gently lifted his head with her left hand while slowly feeding him the potion. “This will help calm his fever. But I need the roots that will heal him.” Yeshiva’s eyes opened slowly and his breathing slowed.
“Thank you,” he said to Artia.
Aravah’s sobbing decreased. “Yeshiva?” Vulcan released her and she took Yeshiva’s hand.
“I am alright,” Yeshiva said softly, “thanks to the skill of this remarkable woman.”
Artia turned to face Vulcan. “Please get Gansu. I’ll need his expertise when I go gathering supplies. How is Masego?”
Vulcan walked to Masego’s pallet. He leaned over and eyed his friend’s condition.
“No signs of a fever yet.”
“It will come.”
“I’ll get Gansu.”
Gansu arrived.
“Where were you?” Artia asked the easterner.
“Meditating, of course.”
“At a time like this?”
“It is how I stay calm.That, and green tea.”
Artia shook her head. “Come,” she said. “I need you to help me gather roots.”
“For a cure?”
My he’s astute, Artia thought. I wonder if he knows Elemence.
The dawn rays serenaded Rome, creating a yellow glow which glinted off the rooftops. Artia and Gansu trudged through the streets. The Vigiles had taken their leave while the urban cohorts stood watch on every street corner.
It has begun. Again. Artia had heard about what Caligula was doing to the Dryads. She had known a few. They were a kind and gentle people. In touch with nature and the world around them.
They left the city limits without anyone questioning them. Apparently an easterner and a strangely-dressed Belgian woman were of no concern to the Urban Cohort. The Via Aurelia took them outside the city limits until they came upon the outskirts of a forest. The sun rays filtered through the tangled branches above them while patches of snow lay clumped in islands where the sun’s rays hadn’t reached. It would be challenging to locate the roots. But there was no other alternative. Yeshiva and Masego needed her.
Artia reached inside her leather bag and pulled out the spell tome.
“I sense something,” Gansu said.
I don’t.
“Gansu, have you ever studied…”
“Wait,” Gansu said. He held up his hand.
Something was wrong. She noticed him staring at a bush.
Artia followed him. He had his staff out, ready for whatever awaited them. She saw a faint rustling in the thicket ahead of them. Above her, a raven cawed as if warning her of some unseen evil. The twisted branch it sat on resembled a sinewy arm attached to a fist.
Gansu stopped. He sniffed the air.
“What is it?”
Gansu poked the bush with his staff. The rustling grew louder. The bush expanded before parting and a large buck exploded from within it. Gansu ducked quickly to avoid being trampled before the creature bounded off.
“Goodness,” Artia said.
“Are you alright?” Gansu asked.
Artia nodded. “Let’s get to work.”
They spent the better part of the morning gathering what medicinal leaves they could find. Artia had created a checklist on a small, wax tablet, with yarrow leaves being their top priority. Gansu had proven to be an effective ally. He was taciturn, so Artia wanted to know more about him. What was his secret? As morning turned into afternoon they rested in a clearing. Despite the frigid air, Artia felt warm as sweat stuck to the back of her undershirt. She scratched one of her breasts that itched and offered one of her potions to Gansu.
Gansu took the potion. Sniffed at it and stared at Artia. “What is this?”
“It’s a potion. It will warm you.”
Gansu looked at her suspiciously.
“What’s wrong, Gansu.”
Gansu’s taciturn expression didn’t change.
“Gansu?”
“All of my life, I thought that I was the best healer,” he said. “But then you appear and make me look like a novice.”
Artia tried not to smile, but one appeared on her lips.
So there is emotion beneath that hard exterior, she thought.
“My father once told me, long ago, that no matter how good you may be, there is always someone out there who could be is better.”
“Your father was a wise man.”
Indeed. But he was taken too early from me.
Artia stood up and stretched. Her muscles ached from disuse.
I need to get back to my exercises once I find a cure and the Door is destroyed.
Her thoughts turned to the Door. She felt a dizziness in her head. Before she collapsed Gansu had sprung from his spot and grabbed her body. Images invaded her mind. A man with a spiked skull mask behind another man. This one had a na
sty-looking serpent coiled around his shoulders.
His face. I cannot see his face.
“Artia,” Gansu said urgently. He picked her up and carried her out of the forest.
Who was this serpentine man? What did he mean? Why didn’t I study Elemence? Yes. I had the Gift. Father always said so. But I wanted to take up potions. Gods damn me.
She felt her body vibrate as Gansu continued to run. Despite his gait his hold was maternal.
I never knew my mother.
Artia opened her eyes. The dizziness receded. Gansu rushed her back to Rome.
Part III: Stratagem
{February 25th to June 15th, 38 AD}
“Latet anguis in herba.”
“A Snake lurks in the grass.”-Virgil
Twelve/Duodecim
For the first time in his existence, Maelstrom had a mission.
His new master had roused him from the abyss.
Weren’t all snake lords dead? He had first thought.
It had been years since one of his kind had been summoned to this world. Earth. Even its name disgusted Maelstrom. Where he lived there was no sun, no stars. Only darkness. It had been his home for eternity
But he had waited for ages. While his brothers had been summoned to duty, Maelstrom waited. Now, the wait was over. He surveyed the land beneath him. Patches of green fields and thatch-roofed homes came into view.
Disgusting! No black! Perhaps my new Liege will allow me to bring darkness here one day.
The ruins of the old Paladin outposts flashed beneath him. His brothers had told him of the old wars between the Air Paladins and the Serpent Cult. The Cult had lost, but later the Paladins had met their end. So revenge had been exacted.
He searched for shadows to hide in. The light was his enemy, but centuries of waiting had made him strong. The light didn’t pass through him, or faze his judgment. He would fulfill his master’s dream.
So Maelstrom searched.
There were many humans to choose from. But few were worthy enough to serve Serpentus.
Maelstrom flew over a village. He lurked within the shadows, his red eyes probing.
He saw a human with a gruff exterior. Maelstrom read his thoughts. This one had raped a pregnant woman. Then murdered her. But he was also a drunkard and a gambler. Weaknesses that could affect his performance. He sought another. He passed over a field where livestock grazed. Young men were working alongside them. Maelstrom read their minds. Ahhhggg!! Kindness. Love. Compassion. These were not traits he sought.
Another village. Again nothing. Except he observed a young woman fingering herself in her house while her husband watched. Lust. A worthy trait but this woman was no warrior.
Night arrived. Darkness! His eternal companion. The darkness caressed his essence and his muscles tightened. His senses guided him to his first worthy prospect. Maelstrom smiled even though he had no mouth. Yes. This one would do nicely.
{II}
After his meal of mutton and cabbage soup the Minotaur closed his eyes to sleep. He licked his lips and stretched out on his bed. The food felt good inside him and had been ample reward for a day well spent. He had captured two slaves that had escaped from their masters and brought them back to their owner. One had been a large Dacian like himself. The other a Thracian with quick features. They had both proven elusive, but the Minotaur was used to snaring such men. Atop his steed, Bulwark, they were easy prey. When the Thracian had seen his axe he had surrendered. The Dacian was another story. He fought against The Minotaur as if his life depended on it. But eventually his desire to live had defeated him. Once again, the Minotaur had prevailed.
It was another profitable mission. But The Minotaur craved an opponent who could challenge his skills. A true nemesis. He opened his eyes and stared down at the curly hairs on his muscular chest. Next to where he slept stood a desk where his helm stood. Forged in the shape of a Bull’s head, it was an imposing sight and concealed his identity, which was Brasus Avinzor. Its eye sockets stared back at him gloomily, as if it too relished a worthy opponent to face. The Minotaur understood.
He belched and stood up from his bed. A lone taper emitted an orange glow that reflected off of the helm’s bull horns. Feeling the pressure on his bladder, he undid the laces on his breeches and started pissing inside a pot.
Something rustled behind him. He finished his business and spun around. In front of him was a dark mist that floated like a river current suspended in midair. Two red eyes glistened from what resembled a misty, black head.
The Minotaur reached for his axe with one motion and swung it at the intruder. The blade passed through the creature’s body. He swung again. A miss.
What type of evil is this?
A dark sword extended from the creature’s hands (if you could call them that) and waited for the Minotaur’s next move. He studied the creature: Dark wispy wings unfolded from its shadowy back; thin muscular legs with clawed feet hovered above the floor.
He summoned his Vigor again and brought down his axe on the creature’s head. The dark sword recoiled and parried his blow.
“Conventional weapons cannot hurt me,” it said.
It speaks?
“What are you?”
“A messenger.” The shadow sword retracted. “My name is Maelstrom, I am an Erebus Demon in the service of my Liege, the Snake Lord Serpentus.”
“Snake Lord?” The Minotaur thought hard.
Weren’t they all dead?
“No,” Maelstrom said, “this one lives.”
It can read my mind.
Maelstrom nodded.
“I come bearing news. The great Serpentus wishes to meet with you and offer you a proposal.”
“What type of proposal?”
Maelstrom handed The Minotaur a coin. It felt cold in his palm. He looked at it closely. A striking serpent picture was minted on it. “Whisper Serpentus’ name five times while holding this coin and you shall appear before him when he summons you.”
The Minotaur looked at Maelstrom as if he was insane.
“What if I don’t wish to accept this challenge?”
A sinister laugh coursed from Maelstrom’s mouthless face. “Then you may keep the coin for your trouble. It is worth a small fortune.”
“Farewell.” Maelstrom slid through the wall and disappeared.
“Finally a challenge worthy of my skill.” The Minotaur smiled and fingered the ribbed edges of the serpent coin.
{III}
He began carving up the corpse. The woman had once been a prostitute he had fornicated with. She was young, and reminded him of his lost identity. Since his unceremonious arrival to these lands he had done many strange things: lain with prostitutes, both alive, and dead, smoked opium, killed when he had lost at the gambling tables. But beneath these uncharacteristic actions his true identity fought to reestablish itself.
As years went by, he had forgotten his real name. The Bloody Ripper they called him. It was a name much feared in the countryside. Many had tried, but none had been able to catch him. He couldn’t allow that. He was on a mission. A mission to cleanse himself of evil.
He had carved the body up neatly. Separating organs from bone and hair. The girl once had blue eyes that lit up her face. Now she was a dead whore.
Whores. They soiled my body. A body born from the sacred womb of my mother.
After digging three separate graves, The Bloody Ripper buried the organs separately from the hair and the bones.
He looked up at the heavens. The bleeding sky reminded him of the first cleansing he had performed. That was a young male whore. The boy was no more than sixteen, but his guilt reverberated within The Bloody Ripper’s mind.
I killed that boy in cold blood. No! No! It had to be done! I must be cleansed of the filth that has corrupted me.
After the burial he muttered a prayer for his latest victim and unraveled the scarf around his mouth. He scratched his long nose and stared at his bloody blade. The blood glinted off of its surface and reflected
his image. He felt the winter air around him as it nipped his cheeks. He did not like winter. Not many whores would be out. They were tucked in their brothels. He welcomed spring. That season was always the best for cleansing.
He heard the rustle of branches and stared at the thicket next to him. The sound of someone stepping on dried leaves greeted his ears.
Do you like to kill? asked an alien voice.
The Bloody ripper said, “It’s not killing. It’s cleansing.”
As you wish. I have a mission for you. A mission that will cleanse you of your sins.
“Sins?” The Bloody Ripper replied.
A thin, black mist filtered through the bushes and formed in front of The Bloody Ripper. Two red eyes emerged and stared meticulously at him.
“You have no right to judge me; I am my own judge.”
“I am not here to judge,” the black mist said, “only to offer…salvation.”
Salvation? The Bloody Ripper thought.
Yes. The mist replied in his mind.
“I have sinned,” the Bloody Ripper said, “help me.”
“My master can offer you absolution for your sins. But, he asks for a small favor in return. You must come to him and when you do he will give you a mission.”
“A mission?”
“Yes,” the mist said, “a mission.”
“Of course.” The Bloody ripper wrapped the scarf around his face. “A mission.”
“Absolution can be yours,” the mist said before handing him a coin and whispering instructions into his ear.
“Five times?” The Bloody Ripper asked. He held up the strange coin to the mist.
“Yes, now, farewell my friend.” The mist sprinted off with its legless body.
“Ohh…yes!!!” The Bloody Ripper said. “Absolution…my sins cleansed.”
He kissed the coin and felt its smooth surface caress upon his lips. He would do as the mist commanded.
But first, he needed to find another whore.
{IV}
In the desert, they called him Hyena. He was good at finding things. People. Lost animals. Treasure. Much like his namesake he was a predator and a survivor. Deprived of his hearing when he was a boy, he treaded upon the sand dune alongside his wild dogs, Quick-Kill and Slow-Death. The three of them were brothers. United by a common cause, survival.
