The Maker of Entropy

by John Triptych

  “If you wish to strike, Fumal Led, then I would suggest you do it quickly, for your remaining allies are now numbering but two, and the guards will be here soon,” the Oracle said.

  “I am sorry,” Fumal Led said. The exiled Magus used his mindforce to leap up into the air several paces above her as he swung his sword on a downward arc, hoping to cleave her skull with one blow. He didn’t want to kill a defenseless creature, but he figured it was better to strike a single, mortal attack to end her life without too much suffering.

  With uncanny speed, the young woman got into a fighting stance as she held her bare right arm in front of her face. Fumal Led’s sword struck the palm of her hand, but the blade failed to penetrate her pale skin. The exiled Magus took a few steps back in shock, his mouth wide open. He instinctively ran his other hand along the edge of the blade, feeling its sharpness. My weapon can cut, but how did she parry it?

  Fumal Led quickly recovered his wits as he used his mindforce to slide forward for a few paces, using the blade in a thrusting attack, but the woman quickly sidestepped from his charge as she once again parried the blade using her bare hands. He moved sideways before facing her once more. “What are you?”

  The Oracle gave him a faint smile. “My name is Atrexs. I serve as the Oracle in behalf of the Maker of Entropy, and you will now experience your final duel before you are to be sacrificed.”

  Fumal Led’s eyebrows shot up. “What is the meaning of your words?”

  Atrexs gave him a blank look, as if this whole affair seemed boring to her. “We knew of your plan the moment it was conceived. I allowed your group to ambush the curates and take their weapons. I even made sure the door to the armory would be open for you.”

  Fumal Led scowled. There must have been a traitor in the tribe. But how were the Exalted able to get that kind of information so quickly? He pivoted to her flank and swung the blade in a downward arc to slice the tendons in her left leg, but Atrexs parried his blow with her left arm before it could connect. He backed away a few steps as he ran his hand along the length of the sword he was holding. It was clear the blade was sharp, but her skin was somehow made of denser material, and his attacks were having no effect. How was she able to do this? He had never heard of a Striga with that kind of power. “What kind of Vis is this?” he said. “I have fought Strigas before, and your power is completely different. What are you?”

  Atrexs seemed to regard him as a mere plaything. “A few have been given the gifts of Vis in this world of ours. Each aspect of the power manifests itself differently, determined by lineage.”

  Fumal Led kept backing away until he stood near the smoldering torch lying on the floor. He grabbed it with his free hand and held it out in front of him. If his blade couldn’t hurt her, then perhaps fire would. The exiled Magus began a slow circle as he moved sideways, and he felt dismayed when she matched his movements, her catlike agility mirroring his own tactics. With a snarl he lunged forward, swinging his sword in a downward arc towards her left thigh, while at the same time thrusting the torch towards her face. Atrexs leapt backwards, somersaulting in the air and landed a few paces away, completely evading his assault.

  The exiled Magus strode forward to make another attack. Atrexs held her arms out in front of her, and Fumal Led’s eyes opened wide in shock and awe as the Oracle’s hands suddenly lengthened themselves, her fingers fusing together. Within seconds, Atrexs’s arms now resembled flat, flesh-colored blades that seemed to naturally protrude from her elbows. It was as if parts of her body had somehow transformed themselves into living weapons. Fumal Led had stopped in mid-stride as he could hardly believe his own eyes.

  “Let us finish this, Magus,” Atrexs said. She pounced forward, her arm blades swinging in from opposite directions. Fumal Led began to give ground as he parried with his arming sword and left vambrace, the Oracle’s attack barely missing his exposed throat and elbow. Atrexs used highly aggressive moves as she continued her advance while attacking from two different planes, one attack coming from shoulder level, while her other arm blade would sweep towards the lower torso.

  Fumal Led continued to parry her incessant attacks, but he knew he couldn’t keep this up for very long. The moment Atrexs made another attack, he did his usual high parry with his sword, but right after his blade blocked her thrust, he used a small spurt of the mindforce to thrust his own weapon through the gap and drove it at the base of her throat. The point of his blade tore through her pale skin before it cut into the lower throat muscles and pierced the carotid artery. Atrexs made a choking sound as she staggered backwards, blood oozing down her chest.

  Time to finish her now, he thought. The exiled Magus lunged and made another thrusting attack, this time jabbing at her left breast as he aimed for her heart, using a generous amount of Vis for extra force. The point of the arming sword drove itself through the Oracle’s ribcage and got wedged in tightly. Atrexs seemed to go limp as her knees buckled. Fumal Led dropped the torch as he used his free hand to grip her right shoulder while driving in the point of his blade deeper into her. His face was practically inches from her own and he could see the flickering reflections in her pale blue eyes.

  Just as he began to pull his blade out from her chest, she looked up at him, her once desperate eyes now blazing with a fearful intensity. Fumal Led realized too late it was a trap as she transformed her arm blades into thin, wiry claws that curled around his back, penetrating the chainmail and piercing his kidneys and spine. The exiled Magus cried out as he used his Vis to push himself away, leaving his sword embedded in her body.

  Now on his knees and bleeding from multiple punctures in his back, Fumal Led slowly got back up on his feet. Atrexs transformed her arms into mere hands once more and pulled the blade out from her ribcage before letting it fall to the floor with a metallic clattering. He could see her skin had closed over her supposedly mortal wounds and the Oracle had somehow healed herself through some unknown power. In his desperation, he noticed a large granite boulder at the lower base of the sloping hall. Fumal Led held his trembling hand in front of him and concentrated, using the last reserves of his Vis to hold the man-sized slab of rock up into the air.

  Atrexs began to walk slowly towards him. The pain from the wounds in his back was intense and highly distracting, but Fumal Led knew his final chance to kill her would still be possible if he could just hold out long enough. As the Oracle got closer to him, he was able to levitate the boulder high above her head. But just as he was about to bring the rock down to crush her skull, the chunk of granite just seemed to hang in the air, as if some invisible force had countered his own.

  Fumal Led’s eyes nearly bulged out from their sockets. “What … kind of creature are you?”

  “My lineage is superior to yours,” Atrexs said softly as she transformed one of her arms into a pointed blade and drove it into his stomach, easily piercing the damaged hauberk and tearing into his innards. Fumal Led fell backwards, his head slamming onto the smooth stone flooring. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the floating boulder had lowered itself gently to the ground beside the Oracle, and now an invisible force had somehow lifted his body and began to carry him aloft.

  He was slowly bleeding to death, and he knew the cause was lost. Atrexs walked alongside of him as the mindforce continued to carry him further up the inclined hall. He closed his eyes several times, and each moment he opened them, he was being brought closer to the pale, bloated thing that lay near the edge of the pit. In a matter of moments, the mindforce had gently lowered him to the ground beside the rotund form. Fumal Led’s weakening consciousness caught a glimpse of the being’s face and he let out a soft gasp.

  It was a grossly obese woman. The layers of fat resembled fleshy segments that drooped over her paunches. Her tiny feet seemed to have retraced into the folds of her stomach, making them vestigial. The woman’s long, matted dark hair hung in limp strands, reaching down below her nonexistent shoulders. Even her arms were tiny compared to her immensely bloated tor
so, for she seemed to resemble a giant pale grubworm, and the stone floor had given way to a slight depression that served as some kind of nesting place for her. The woman’s pointy head appeared to jut out of a throat that had expanded to become one with her shoulders. It was clear she was unable to move or even turn her head, and all this woman could do was shift her heavy-lidded, yellowish eyes down onto the intruder who attempted to defile her sanctum.

  The sheer terror of seeing her up close brought a bit of new life into Fumal Led. A last spurt of adrenaline somehow kept him awake as his eyes met with that of the corpulent creature looming over him. Her pale yellow eyes focused on his, and the woman’s mouth opened, revealing a set of blackened gums. Fumal Led let out a silent scream as a long barbed tongue emerged from the woman’s mouth and extended itself well past her own body before it thrust the sharp point into his throat. As soon as the long tongue penetrated the artery, it began to drain his blood. Its saliva had anti-coagulant properties which prevented any clotting.

  Atrexs smiled while standing over the dying Magus. “Meet Elayris, the last of the First Three.”

  Chapter 2

  The fair-haired young boy scowled with intense concentration as he held the spadroon just above his right shoulder, the narrow, double-edged blade ready to swing in an earthward motion to attack. His taller opponent had a much longer weapon, and he held it pointing downwards while resting the basket-hilted broadsword on his thigh. It was late afternoon, and the sun’s heat had cooled enough for them to do a bit of dueling at the outskirts of camp.

  Zeren smiled as he continued to keep his sword pointing down while in a casual stance. “Go on, boy. Have at me.”

  Rion lunged forward and brought his blade down towards Zeren’s chest, but the much taller man quickly brought his broadsword up and parried it away towards the orange sky. Zeren quickly followed up his defensive movement by using his body’s momentum to push at his opponent with his elbow, thrusting his body into Rion’s exposed torso. The boy lost his balance and fell sideways onto the dusty ground. Rion growled in frustration as he rolled away and speedily got back on his feet again.

  Zeren chuckled. “Your attack was good, but you leaned into it too much, boy. I have told you this many times. If you have an awkward stance, then you shall lose your footing in the event your opponent charges at you. A mistake such as that could be a fatal one in actual combat.”

  Rion snorted. “This is not fair. You drove your body into mine, and you are a much larger man than I.”

  Zeren grinned as he shook his head. “You must be prepared for any eventuality, Rion. Your mind was completely focused on my weapon, and you did not anticipate what the rest of my self would do.”

  Rion frowned as he edged closer, his sword thrust out in a middle guard position. Zeren was an excellent teacher, and the boy was eager to learn as much as he could. Nevertheless, the older man could also be annoying, for he seemed to regard even real fighting as nothing more than a game, and Rion hated it when Zeren was in one of his more jovial moods. In the boy’s mind, fighting was supposed to be a serious matter, for it dealt with life and death.

  Zeren thrust his right foot out while keeping his blade pointed backwards and down to the ground, ready to swing it to his right. From the base of the stance, Rion knew his opponent could only do either an upward or side swing from that direction, and he quickly formulated a plan. The boy used a little bit of Vis to slide forward, his small boots skidding along the sand as he closed the gap. Zeren swung his blade in an upward, diagonal direction, expecting the boy to bring up his own sword to block his attack.

  Rion instead used a portion of his Vis to throw up a small cloud of dust, right into Zeren’s eyes. The man staggered backwards as he tried to wipe away the bits of dirt from his face, and Rion thrust his sword towards Zeren’s chest. The point of the blade made a muffled clang as it impacted onto the riveted steel plate of his opponent’s armored torso. Zeren blinked his eyes open as he brought the length of his broadsword beside Rion’s throat.

  “Too late, Zeren,” Rion said triumphantly. “I have already slain you with a stab to your chest.”

  Zeren let out a laugh as he pushed the boy away. “You did not kill me. It is I who has slain you.”

  Rion rolled his eyes while wagging his finger. “No, no, no. It is I who struck you first.”

  “Indeed,” Zeren said. “You struck first. But you placed your blow against my armored chest- the most protected part of my body. You therefore failed to even wound me. I placed my blade at your bare throat. If this was an actual battle, I would have cut you wide open, and left you bleeding your life out on the ground in front of me.”

  Rion grimaced. Zeren was right. He should have placed his sword point at his opponent’s throat or at another exposed part instead of trying to thrust where the armor was thickest. The boy let out a frustrated groan. “There are too many things to consider in all this.”

  Zeren continued to laugh as he walked over to the boy and placed a reassuring hand on Rion’s slender right shoulder. “Do not despair, young one. You have learned much so far, and you will learn more in the coming moons. You must always remember to find your opponent’s weakness. Do not strike at his most protected part. Rather, you should attack his unarmored side.”

  Rion shook his head in frustration. “But fighting that way seems so dishonorable.”

  “Listen, boy,” Zeren said. “The only rule you should follow in battle is how to stay alive. Honor and glory means nothing when someone is trying their best to take the life from you. Use whatever you must in order to keep on living. If your opponent does not wear gauntlets, then strike at his hand. If he does not wear leggings, then attack there. If he does not wear a helm, then strike him in the head. Always going for a direct blow may get you killed. I have witnessed a number of duels in which both opponents had slain each other at the same time when they both struck mortal hits all at once. It is sometimes better to strike at your enemy’s arms and legs first to make him helpless, then you may finish him off at your leisure.”

  Rion nodded. “So I must fight like a caged canis then?”

  “Yes,” Zeren said. “The only dishonor is when you die. Shall we do another round?”

  Rion sighed. “My arm aches. I do not have the strength for another duel. I am but a weak little child.”

  Zeren tousled the boy’s blond hair. “Worry not. In time you shall grow up. I can see you have the makings of a very good fighter- all you lack is the experience, a little bit of height, and the strength of a fully grown man. In due course you shall have those. The gods have blessed you with good speed, and that is usually the hallmark of an effective duelist, for one cannot train himself to get faster. You seem a tad quicker than I was at your age, and this only means you could very well be a legendary battler, provided you keep up with your training.”

  Rion couldn’t help but smile. Zeren could be annoying sometimes, but there was no mistaking his abilities. When it came to praising another, the renegade Magus would only reveal it when it was truly warranted. “Do you really think I could grow into a good duelist like you?”

  Zeren winked at him while sheathing his blade. “You nearly have the physical attributes. And let us not mention your gift of Vis and the power of your blood. If I had your abilities I would have used them to singlehandedly conquer Lethe and live in luxury for the rest of my life.”

  It was Rion’s turn to laugh. “I have seen you fight, and it seems only Miri may be your equal. Why did you even bother to accompany us when you could have easily become Grand Magus for the Order?”

  Zeren sighed and looked away. “A number of reasons. First of all, I like my loins and I do not wish to be parted from them. Second of all…”

  Rion placed his own sword back in the scabbard at his waistline. “You are in love with Miri, are you not?”

  Zeren blushed. “She reminds me a lot of another woman whom I have once lost. Alas, the more time I spend with her, the farther apart we become.”
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  “In that time when you dueled with your brother,” Rion said. “I remember you used a strange fighting technique when you gripped the middle of the blade with your other hand.”

  “Ah, that is called half-sword fighting,” Zeren said as he drew his broadsword once more and held the middle part of the blade with his free hand in a horizontal position. “It is used when you need a more precise and powerful attack. This skill is effective against heavily armored opponents, and you could use this strike to pierce the weak links in their armor- such as the visor in their helmets, or in the spaces in between the joints of their knees and elbows. Every armor-even those with solid plate mail- has gaps, and that is where you strike. Just be careful with your own hand, for it is best to use this if you wear thick gloves or armored gauntlets- though with enough skill you can use your bare hands to grip the sword, just keep the fleshy part of your hands away from the edges of the blade. You may even take an opponent’s sword from him, but that is a matter for another time. You should also take care to use this in only certain instances, for it leaves you open to attack if you tarry too long with it.”

  “So it is best to only use it when your opponent has been weakened?”

  “Use it when an opportunity presents itself,” Zeren said. He placed both hands in the middle of the blade and began to swing the basket hilt and pommel around like a weighted club. “This is another technique to use against those with metal helms or heavy armor. Grip the length of the blade with both hands and use the bottom of your sword as a weapon. We call this the murder-blow. If the blade of your sword cannot penetrate the armor of your opponent, then the blunt pommel or crossguard strike to his head will be enough to stun him, at the very least. You can turn your sword into a mace or warhammer with this technique- making it effective against enemies wearing heavy armor.”