TWELVE UNHOLY NIGHTS
Part the First
Tholjin waited. Silent as stone.
Then it happened.
The sky streaked with a blaze of melting red light. He pushed off the ground with his knees and palm, coming to a sprint in seconds. Eyes wide, throat opened, fists clenched, feet pumping furiously at the ground. His voice was gruff at first, raising to a full cry pressed by the strain of misuse. Around him compatriots took his lead. There was a crescendo, a moment of charging fury. Blood pumped through his veins, rage seethed through his skull.
He cranked his arm over his head, and the Long-sword glinted in the morning light.
The collision was horrific. Though he was vaguely aware of remaining on his feet, he couldn’t remember the seconds following the event until his blade slunk deep into the flesh of his first victim. The blood that oozed, brought clarity back to his soul. He screamed his battle cry, a small word that his company had sworn to say everytime they knocked one down.
“DIE”
His voice was quickly followed by his comrades around him. DIE DIE DIE DIE
There was a chorus, a surge of energy lifted his spirits; sent power to his limbs. The power flew from his limbs and through his sword. His sword fly through another man’s thigh. The snap of bone, the squalsh of muscle. His mouth was open in a cry of victory. “DIE!” The man’s eyes were alive with shock, but death would soon grab him. “DIE DIE.”
There was someone next to him, a beast of a man. His black chainmail flickered red when Corna’s ray licked across it. The man threw his weight behind his mace, and knocked a man backwards off his feet; flipping him onto his skull. “DIE!” The man’s voice was like a Rhodian crashing into mountains. Forsten, the black-brother.
Tholjin turned to a man who had gathered his wits about him. The man held a blade in hand, a small thing used to flay fish; it snapped easily in Tholjin’s steel gauntlet. The man’s nose crunched feeling against Tholjin’s helm; and his ribs popped like mushrooms underfoot. “DIE!” The others were running, Tholjin paused for a moment and wondered who actually had more wit about them. A smile broke across his square-jaw. This was going better than planned.
“KILL ALL. LEAVE NONE ALIVE.” The voice boomed across the field, the gold-knight astride his Black-stallion shouted orders. His Lance was twisted steel, a construct of beauty and death. Hensford, the magnificent; not even the black brother could wield that lance for long. Tholjin turned back to the fleeing platoon, and smiled. They were in full panic, many dropped their weapons in an effort to put an extra yard betwixt their crucifiers. In the end it wouldn’t make a difference. “DIE DIE.”
Forsten dropped two limp bodies to the ground, their heads mashed between his massive fists and each other. He hoisted his mace from the bloodstained ground and crashed it down onto his right shoulder. Tholjin and the others had mocked the man for the weight of his weapon, but they all knew he was only stronger from using it. The black brother flipped up his visor with an armored pinky and glared at Tholjin.
“Can I help thee, Fire-face?” Tholjin spat, grinning. Fire-face, a jab at his red-beard. How clever.
“Just admiring how dainty you looked with your pinky holding your visor such.”
“Takes a small effort to have dignity; on for off the field.” Forsten dropped his visor over his frown. “Someday you’ll learn that, Flame-Fucker.”
“THOLJIN, FORSTEN. MAKE HASTE!” Hensford was barreling past them, his steed Carnage took off with thundering hooves. The gold armor shone brightly, a long blue cape dragging in the wind behind him.
“Easy for ‘im to say, e’s got the only Fuckin’ ‘orse.” Jiltin was beside him, small enough to fit in Tholjin’s shadow. He smiled up at the taller man and his sharpened teeth just peeked beyond the scars he once had for lips. “Ready?” Tholjin nodded.
And they were charging again, Jiltin was off like a deer; nearly as fast as Hensford’s mount. Tholjin passed Forsten with ease; but it was a good hour before he managed to catch sight of the fleeing company again. They were backed against a river. The same river then had used a bridge to cross. The same bridge that had been cut loose and sent sailing miles downstream. Tholjin stopped at the top of the bluff that overlooked the scene. Hensford’s Cavalry were creating an encompassing arch around the trapped enemy troops. Bodies lay where the bravest had tried to push back, no match for the armor and capability of the horsemen.
The only other way out was to swim. Tholjin smiled; the late spring ice caps had melted off the Wisemount, and carried with it a coldness that was paralyzing. There was little chance of survival, and still there were bodies diving in. For a brief moment he pitied the rebels, so hopeless that they voluntarily threw their lives away. But the feeling passed when Forsten ambled up next to him, clutching his side and panting.
“Getting soft, black brother!”
“I’ll be a Wench’s tit! Corna’ll be in full reign by the hour!” The man panted between words, holding his visor with his pinky. “Oh stifle your humor. You attempt being the black brother in full day!”
“We’ve got them held up, trapped between Wisemount’s drainage and Hensford’s charge. It should all be over shortly.” There was a pause, Tholjin pulled his gauntlet on tighter and readjusted the cinches. “If you are done weeping, we may get back before we’re missed.” Forsten spat.
“Back? Bah! Let them know where we are, with this many dead rebels they are sure to overlook our folly.” Tholjin watched Hensford lean right in his saddle, extending his lance just long enough to stab an unfortunate rebel square in his face. Even from this distance the violence of it was apparent, the man fell. The farmer’s scythe slipped from his shaking hands. There was a validity in that statement, but Tholjin didn’t let it show.
“You think?”
“Ah, sure. Must of slain a hundred myself.”
“Ha, if you knew how to count that far you would have never become the brute you are.” Forsten turned at the rebuke, pinky still holding his visor up at the hinge.
“I will rip thine neck from thine body.”
“Fair enough.” Tholjin turned his attention back to the carnage below. A small cell of rebels had lunged forward into the sweeping row of cavalry and managed to topple some riders. The bolstered moral gave enough momentum for a push, and a battle cry arouse from the ragtag throng of peasants and farmers. The swarm, though thinning quickly, was retaliating with the sheer force of its numbers. “Look there, black brother. It appears as though the tide has turned—”
Then as quick as that, he was gone; horse and all dragged to the ground. Hensford the magnificent disappeared under the swarm of limbs and angry shouts.
“Brother!”
“I see!” The two were off again, charging down the bluff with renewed vigor. The Magnificent-Men had converged on the area where the gold knight had fallen; hacking limbs and splitting heads. Despite their efforts, the rebels were growing fervent throwing themselves to their own deaths. Another knight went down; his horse ripped from under him. “HASTE BROTHER! MAKE HASTE!” How could this had happened? How many skirmishes had they watched just like this one? How many straws had they drawn to see who would be one to lead the charge?
Forsten pushed ahead, his bulk like a boulder rampaging down-hill. His voice rose above the candor of battle, his mace lifted even higher. Suddenly they were weaving between cavalry, dodging powerful legs that tore at the ground and sent clods of earth in tiny eruptions. The scene was chaos, bodies littered the ground at every step; so Tholjin ran on top of them. A blade caught his shoulder, but the armor deflected it easily. The red-haired knight swung low as he passed a stunned rebel rising from the ground; a chuck of skull and gore snagged his blade. “DIE!”
Forsten crashed into the wall of rebels, and they went toppling like a child’s toy, grabbing at each other for support. His mace came down like a falling oak, and crushed men underneath it. “DIE!” The rebels faltered in their new resolve, fear playing across their gore strewn faces. Eyes wide like gaping targets, Tholjin aimed for them. He made broad strokes, like a painter covering a wall. His blade was sharper than most; and still it took effort to drag through flesh. His arms were sore, they shook with the lives they struck down. He screamed over and over, cutting down two at a time. Pain stung and bit at him from the sides, but he didn’t falter. He just swung with abandon, creating a circle of death around his feet.
Forsten was yelling now, having given up on his massive instrument he pounded away at unprotected faces with his spiked gauntlets. “DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!” He screamed over and over, but the words were different now. Twisted by rage and fear. “DIE DIE DIE!” he screamed as he plowed through the carnage. Tholjin spun in a low circle, and threw his shoulder behind his blade. It snagged and dragged as he pushed, but with his back behind his swing he was able to continue.
When momentum finally stopped, he found his energy had faded fast. “Steady brother! Stay standing!” To fall was death. But Forsten didn’t hear him, he just pounded on with his fists; cursing his mantra and crunching bone and muscle under his strikes. Tholjin rested for a moment, switching to defense. He grabbed at a hand prying at his plate, a farmer’s boy was using a skinning knife to search for purchase. Tholjin grabbed a hold of the boy’s hair and whipped him to the ground. There was no purchase of course, because under his armor was a mail of chain. Under that he wore a suit of exotic silk, a material so dense that even arrows couldn’t penetrate.
Yet he was tired, panting for breath under the irrationality of his exertion. “BROTHER PACE YOURSELF!” Forsten had stopped shouting now; using his mouth to suck in mouthfuls of air. Tholjin backhanded a rebel that prodded at his face with the end of a broom. She went flying to the ground, landing on the corpses of her fallen loved ones. And then it hit him, seeing her collapsed in the carnage; struggling to rise through the slick of gore. A woman, no more than a girl really; dressed in clothes, wielding a broom.
Part of him wanted to laugh, yet inside his stomach turned.
He felt like a monster. But monster or not his instincts brought his sword to bear once more; he skewered a charging man on his broadsword and cast him aside like trash. A horse adorned in golden fabric thundered to his right, protecting his flank even without a rider on its back. He quietly thanked the animal and turned to catch a rock to the helm. The crash dazed him, but he was trained to fight through such haze. It took him but a moment to find the man’s windpipe and crush it in his powerful grasp. “Die.” The man collapsed.
The field spun on its side for a moment, but Tholjin knew the folly of showing weakness; so he pushed ahead. Using his sword to ward back a group of advancing blacksmiths. They still wore their aprons. What could they have possible hoped to accomplish? Yet Hensford was down, likely lost. Hadn’t they accomplished more than more small armies already? The red-haired knight grit his teeth and threw himself against his rage again. The blacksmiths struck him with hammers, but their blows were ignored in his state of mind. In a matter of moments they were fleeing or dead.
The horse darted forward, pouncing onto the back of one with bone crushing force; a well trained beast. Tholjin turned abruptly, but a wedge of cavalry had dove into his exposed flank and were murdering innocents. His head throbbed, his rage slipping. No! Not innocents, rebels. Anarchists. Vigilantes. He shook his head, trying to focus on the battle at hand. But the field was clear around him, only the dead were within striking distance.
“BROTHER! HELP!” Forsten was on his knees, hoisting bodies from a thick pile on the ground. He was frantic in speech and movement, yet he pushed aside limbs and corpses like they were leaves. Tholjin ran forward, sword in his offhand; scanning the distance. The rebels were being pushed back to the water’s edge, this was as good of time as any to see if there was any hope left. When he arrived at the spot he could catch glimpses of blood streaked gold glinting up from him through Corna’s full reign.
The body wasn’t moving. Tholjin’s stomach dropped.
The minutes dragged on like days, with each removed corpse there was a clearer image of what lay beneath. Yet like children on Mirth they needed to see the object unhindered. They refused to believe what clearly lay before them until all the wrappings were torn away. At one time, Tholjin had to use his broadsword to cut a man in half. His weight was trapped under a blanket of others, pinning him to Hensford’s torso. The man’s dead eyes were wide, Tholjin felt sick looking into them.
When all was cleared away, Forsten pulled the body from the ground and laid it on top.
There was a silence. A silence filled with screams and death and violence. A silence of the heart, one that lacked the words to say. A silence that searched for an explanation; that screamed loudly the refusal to believe what was clearer than day.
Hensford the magnificent, Grand-Commander of the King’s Company, Captain of the Magnificent Men, leader of the Holy-Dozen, brother in arms, and a dear friend; lay dead at their knees. Forsten pulled off his helm, his face twisted in grief and disbelief. Tholjin stared on in somber silence, he grasped his composure like a lifeline. Suffer in silence. Suffer in silence. He repeated the mantra over and over; a mantra used by the Holy Dozen for centuries before.
Forsten had never been known to follow that code. Tholjin placed a hand on the blubbering man’s shoulder, and the black brother shook in silent sobs. The golden plate was nearly undamaged, but the body beneath it had been crushed by the weight of the rebels. To fall was to die, an edict that every knight knew. Tholjin stared down at the motionless body, remembering the prowess and power that had once filled its soul.
Rest easy, my brother. May the Lords or eternity count you among their finest.
Then his eyes snagged on something else, a twisting design of black and gold steel; so strong that even trapped under the weight of dozen men it still refused to buckle. Tholjin reached into the mass and pulled it free; the Lance of Law. A weapon so legendary that only the finest in the land were permitted to touch it. Even then, Tholjin felt unworthy. Forsten looked up at him, his face shifted from grief to neutral consternation. But like the shifting of the winds it was gone, slowly twisting in the dark expression of rage.
The black brother stood, turning toward the remaining rebels.
Not a word was said, they both knew what was to come next.
Revenge, the only temporary relief for a knight of the Holy-Dozen.
Tholjin flipped down his visor. He was beyond exhaustion, yet none of that mattered. He wielded the Lance of Law into battle, his own broadsword clasped in his off-hand. The massacre that followed was but a blur, an unhealthy gluttony to suppress the tragic. Before the end of the Cornath day, the rebels were slain to the last man; and Tholjin still felt cheated.
“Give me a reason not to execute you.”
Thankfully Forsten remained silent this time. Speaking out of line was one of those reasons. The High Ambassador of Protection, Wiseman of Fusion, stood at the foot of the thrown; his elegant robes blocking the boy-king from sight. He was an imposing man, full of fury and quick to whip. Which is what they had done of course. Blood dripped off of Tholjin’s back, where the cat-tails snagged his flesh. He was dizzy from the pain, but would not have been worth his weight in salt if he couldn’t handle a couple lashings.
After all, it hadn’t been his first time being whipped. Forsten didn’t even seem to notice at all.
But their armor had been striped, and their positions among the Holy-dozen were next in line at the chopping block. Tholjin uttered a small prayer under his breath, being sure to keep his lips still. Give me strength to redeem my folly. Give me opportunity to avenge my brethren. Give me the grace to continue my duty, the respect to never fail again. How many times had he uttered that same prayer? Sometime Tholjin wondered if anyone listened.
“The offenses are certainly worthy of that end, would you agree?” The two remained silent, knowing their response would not alter the decision already made. “Must I remind you?” He would of course, as if was customary to do over and over again. The council sat around them, glaring with bored expressions; measuring their naked bodies with beady eyes. “Insubordination of orders, leading to the death of the Grand Commander of the King’s Company, and the disappearance of another Holy-Warrior.” Jiltin. His body had never been found, yet Tholjin somehow knew the man still lived. He was a savant at disappearing, and even better at reappearing at the worst possible time. The High-Ambassador’s face was stone, no emotion showed despite the words of disgust. “How do you plea to these accusations?”
Forsten inhaled, but paused. Tholjin almost laughed at the massive man’s hesitancy. There was only one logical choice.
“Guilty.” Tholjin responded.
“Then you should have fallen on your swords, out of dishonor. You should have thrown your lives away, so that the ones lost may have been spared such a cruel fate.” The words were procedure really, and while they were not likely to execute the two knights, there was the possibility of expulsion from the Holy-Dozen. Which alone would have driven any sane man to take his own life; it had happened in the past. There was no greater dishonor than to fall from a position as revered as theirs. So Tholjin prayed.
Give me strength to redeem my folly. Give me opportunity to avenge my brethren. Give me the grace to continue my duty, the respect to never fail again.
“However,” the word rung like a bell, echoing in the great marble hall. “During times of civil unrest it is immoral to execute officials of the Law. Even those unworthy of their title.” Forsten sighed audibly, catching what was important from the statement. The council remained somber. “The King has decreed to speak on his own behalf; and on behalf of the two Knights in question.” The Ambassador stepped to the side with choreographed reverence. Tholjin wondered if a single member among the council gave two a shit. The boy king stepped off his lavish thrown, his robes were tailored to fit yet still seemed to large for him. What’s this? Is the boy old enough to speak on his own behalf now? What did that make him…eleven? Twelve?
Tholjin grit his teeth. Bloody royalty. Had they a capable leader, there would be no civil unrest.
“Gentlemen of the court.” The boy’s feminine voice sounded like that of a bird. Tholjin’s thoughts shot back to the kid he had grabbed by the hair on the battlefield. He saw the fear in those eyes hidden somewhere in those of the king’s. “Tholjin the Red, and Forsten-black brother.” He gave each a nod, “These brave Knights are strong.” Forsten’s nostrils flared, Tholjin stifled a smile; despite his nakedness he found the situation humorous. “They have risked their lives so that our kingdom may live in peace. Many times have they fought on my behalf, and on behalf of all the citizens of Fusion. Their insubordination is alarming, I must admit,” Forsten grumbled under his breath, “but their services are still required. Until peace has been restored to all of Dol’phan, I propose a hold on their sentence.”
The council remained unimpressed, many lifting their hands in a sign of approval.
Some remained still. Tholjin supposed it was the best possible outcome, with the rebels amassing every day there was a lot of work to be done. Besides, as long as this dolt was king it was unlike peace would ever be restored. The vote was tallied and the motion passed. The council lowered their arms, yet something odd happened. The boy-king didn’t return to his seat, as was customary. Instead he looked Tholjin deep in the eyes and parted his young lips to speak.
“Is it true, sir Knight, that the rebel army has been quashed?”
“Down to the very last, my liege.” The boy smiled wide, a little fairy of a grin coated in bloodlust.
“Good.” Tholjin could tell by the way the Ambassador inserted himself that the boy had stepped out of line. After all, the boy-king was just a front. He had no real power. It was the Wisemen who ruled Fusion. But only a select few knew that, and even fewer knew who they answered to.
Tholjin was one of those few, but that was known by even fewer.
And was probably the only reason they hadn’t executed him.
“A most gracious statement made by a most kind sovereign. May your kindness be blessed with many years of life, my majesty.” Forsten snorted, Tholjin heard the threat as well; but of course the grinning idiot-king had no idea. “Tholjin the red, black brother Forsten; rejoin your brethren. Tell them the news of their lost brother.” He glared deep at Tholjin, his eyes conveying the disgust he so openly professed not a moment ago.
The Holy Dozen.
How would they respond to this news? Tholjin looked over to his black brother and saw him staring back.
Maybe death would have been easier.
“You Jest.”
Tholjin shifted uncomfortably. His wounds had not healed, and some were deep enough to bleed through their bandaging and stain his shirt. Every single move caused him great pain, and only further reminded him of how real the situation was.
“I speak true.” Neenmosk turned to him, dressed only in the towel wrapped around his waist. His shoulder length brown hair was wet from the falls, a place he spent every waking hour when not on duty. “He was felled by a rebellion uprising. Dragged from his horse and crushed under their dead weight.” Neenmosk just smiled, his eyes searching for a crack in Tholjin’s countenance.
There was none. Neenmosk must have seen this.
“Impossible.”
“I speak true.”
“Rebels? By farmers and peasants? Housewives and children?” His face was close now, his breath smelled of the willow switch he always chewed. His hazel eyes searching deeper, hunting for a glimmer of jest. Again, there was none. “How is this possible?! Dragged from his horse? Where were his Magnificent men? Where Were You?” Two of his fingers pushed hard against Tholjin’s chest. The only stepped back, but only to convey his defeat; he was stronger than Neenmosk. By a long shot.
Which is why he came here first. Tholjin and Forsten had drawn straws; Forsten got the short end. Thus the black brother had left to speak with Beres. Tholjin thanked his luck at drawing Neenmosk, and jokingly bid Forsten a final farewell.
Beres did not accept failure. Forsten didn’t find the joke humorous.
So Tholjin had found Neen standing under the crashing falls, arms outstretched as if to catch as much of the crushing weight as possible. He had been naked, balanced on a rock placed directly under the crushing spray. He had been so entranced in his meditation that Tholjin knew better than to interrupt. The man had a resilience that was inhuman. When wearing his mail and wielding his halberd, he was as moveable as a mountain. Yet he was young, the greenest of the Holy Dozen. He was brazen, lusty, and carefree; pursuing the skirts of maids as often as the heads of enemies. Tholjin hated the man.
He was self important, and didn’t bother to hide it.
“Hensford is gone, Neen.”
The other turned away, facing the waters once again. What now, boy? Back to meditating naked? Or are you going to challenge my competence like the Grand-Ambassador did? But there was no response; the other was silent; staring over the falling waters. Tholjin clasped the hilt of his broadsword. Should it come to blows he would not be caught unaware.
But Neenmosk had never been one for subtlety.
“Does Beres know?” The words were quiet, hardly audible over the crush of water.
“Forsten is handling that now.”
“I hope you said your farewells!” The other laughed, his tanned chest flexing in reaction. He was the epitome of attractiveness, it disgusted the red knight. Neenmosk, god of sex, many had called him. “Beres will kill him on the spot.”
“Forsten is not so easily conquered.”
“Really? I wonder if Hensford felt the same way.” The other’s intense eyes turned back to him. There was a moment of measuring up, a challenging look to his eyes. The relationship between the Holy Warriors rested on a thin fabric, and Neenmosk was the weak seam. “And you? Where were you when his Magnificent Men failed him? Were you not there? Were you not the one who had convinced him to tag along?”
“I was, as you know; boy.” The other made a move toward him, eyes aflame with rage.
“I am no, Boy!” Neen was speaking through grit teeth, perfect as they were. But the tip of Tholjin’s broadsword rest in the waters by his foot, drawn in preparation for such an action. Neen calmed himself, glancing down and then back up again. “You failed, Red.”
“We all failed.” Neenmosk laughed, incredulous. “You refused to join us, had you been there—”
“Then Hensford would still be alive. Yes, I agree with that.” He was spitting venom now. Tholjin raised the sword out of the water, and watched the other take a step back. “But if I had gone, and Hensford stayed; would I still be here?” Tholjin froze, weighing the words.
“Make your accusation clear.”
“You let Hensford die. On purpose.” The blade swung through the air, but Neen was ready; he jumped back a step and landed on a rock far too small to be safe purchase. Yet he didn’t so much as wobble, thus was the extent of his balance; the strength of his core. “You’ve been drooling over the position of Grand-Commander for decades. Everyone knows it. So what? Are you planning on killing all of us that stand in your way?”
“My allegiance is to my duty! Hensford was my brother, not a piece of Dalgroban! But if you don’t shut your fuckin’ hole, I’ll be glad to leave you dead under your precious water. So you can meditate for all eternity.” Tholjin sheathed his blade and turned to leave. “I came to tell you the news myself. You deserved that much. Though I may hate you, you are my brother in arms.” He paused for a moment and turned. The other was watching him, eyes aflame with hate. “And you are wrong. You don’t stand in my way, Neen. I don’t have to worry about you becoming Grand-Commander. You’re the last in line.”
The other didn’t rebuke, as Tholjin would have expected.
Neenmosk was a fool, but he knew better than to suspect the red knight of treason. But something about the thought of being Grand-Commander stuck in his head. It wasn’t alluring in the slightest, and it certainly wasn’t feasible. The Wisemen would never appoint him, he had failed the last Grand-Commander. Hensford the magnificent had been a hero, a favorite among the people and nobility of Fusion. He was humble, generous, and more powerful than any of the other Holy Dozen.
Yet Tholjin couldn’t shake the haunting thought.
Hensford wouldn’t be missed forever.
And someone was going to have to become the next Grand-Commander.
The bald-man smashed his dagger into the table. It sunk through the solid oak like water, stopping at the hilt. His dark eyes moved from the blade up to the red Knight.
“Bullshit, Red. That was a novice job.”
Tholjin kicked the empty stool halfway across the room; the tavern suddenly growing very silent.
“Don’t you think I know this, Loren?!” His voice wasn’t choked with grief, as would have been unsightly on a Holy Warrior. But it was filled with rage, he would not be called a novice by one of his peers. “This is Hensford we’re talking about! Do you expect me to doubt his battle prowess? Did you expect me to hold his hand as we charge into battle?! He was our Captain, Loren; I had faith he could handle a few rebels.”
“And now he’s dead. Isn’t he Tholjin.” The other sneered, pulling another dagger from his belt. He slammed in down on the table next to the first and it sunk to its hilt again; cracking the oak.
“So you blame me?” Their faces were close. Loren looked up, the tattoos around his eyes gave him a look of quizzical skepticism at all times.
“The job was your idea, Red. Even if I don’t blame you, everyone else does. So what does it matter. Hensford was sloppy. You should have been there. You weren’t. He died. Right. Now lets move on to what matters.” He pulled a third dagger from his belt and examined it. “Our Holy Dozen is down to twelve, friend. That’s not gonna fly for long.”
“Ten.”
“I don’t count Jilt’. No one does. That ass has more lives than god. He’ll be back. Also doesn’t matter.” Loren leaned forward, his eyes going wide. “We need a new member, maaaan.” His smile was unsettling. Loren was unsettling. Tholjin took a swig of his ale, and smashed his mug on the table. It splintered further along the crack. “You want my opinion, I say we call ourselves the ‘Holy Deca’. Knock off mister sex appeal. Call it a day.”
“If only it were that easy.”
“Theh. Easy as easy. I could end him with a twitch of my fingerling. Got four different babes that’d do the trick.” He smiled and flipped the dagger into the air. Tholjin swiped his mug off the table, just as Loren caught the blade and slammed it next to the second. The solid oak cracked in half along the fault and crashed to the ground. Quick as a bat, Loren snatched the three falling daggers before they touched the ground. “Just like that.”
The barman was screaming something, but the two Knights ignored him utterly. If he wanted to push the matter, they had the right to execute on their own discretion. And not many people questioned the Holy Dozen. Tholjin sneered, Holy indeed.
“We all could. Neenmosk is a child amongst men. But its against the oath, Loren.”
“Oath. Right.” He slide the daggers back into his belt, the barman went silent when he saw who bust his table. He was gone, back into the kitchen before Tholjin even thought to look. “You’re the righteous one, Red. Why don’t you call the shots. You can be Grand-Commander, neh?” Loren started to laugh, his smile made his tattoos stretch; thin face contorted like a childhood monster.
“Never. Even if I wanted it, wouldn’t be allowed.” Tholjin finished his ale and threw the mug against the wall. “But that’s not why were here. We need to get some new members.”
“Just one.”
“We need two. You don’t understand Loren, this battle was different. It was a bloody mess.”
“You don’t understand, Red. Jilt’ has been my brother for a while. Did some thieving before we…uh…repented, heh, and became all Holy and shit.” Loren kicked back, resting his black boots on the table half. “He’s not dead, can’t kill him. Too slick for that.”
“The Wisemen won’t accept that answer. They are demanding we refill our numbers. They demand two.” Loren grimaced but Tholjin bulled him over. “Don’t say it. I know what you are thinking. Not hold your fucking tongue. This is the way things are done, this isn’t like your little thieving company Lor. This is an order of knights, bound by honor. Bound by duty.” He moved in close, Loren raised an eyebrow. “We do this by the law.”
“Alright! Alright!” Loren was laughing, not at all daunted by Tholjin’s outburst. He’s dangerous. Drugged far beyond the point of fear. Far beyond logic too. “We do things your way, Captain.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Then don’t play the part, Red.” Loren stood, dusting off his pants. “Relax man. We need to keep our heads. Hensford wouldn’t want us…attacking each others’ throats…or…whatever. He would want us to find someone else.” Loren pulled a coin from his purse and balanced it on the half of table. It was a half-grain. “Point is, you messed up. You and Forsten. But you’re still around. We’re still brothers. We just need to start acting like it now.” With that he turned on his heal and walked for the door; whistling a tune as the array of weapons strapped across his back, legs, arms, and chest clattered.
Tholjin was stunned. Acting like brothers. He shook his head, wondering if Loren should have ever been allowed to join. But there was no doubting his dedication. He was a monster one the field, and in the streets. No matter then job, Loren had a ‘toy’ for it. And he didn’t think twice before killing someone. In fact, it was likely he didn’t even think once.
“How did things go so wrong?” Hugo sat on the severed trunk of his favorite tree, wrapped in his typical common robes. He ran he good hand down his graying beard, his eyes distant, brow twisted in remorse. “We had them trapped! Curse the winds of chance.” He thumped his metal stump against his seat, betraying his age in the mannerism. An age that was dangerously deceptive. At first glance, he looked like a feeble man wrapped in his robes; wrinkled around the eyes, kind smile, and of course he only had one hand.
Tholjin had never defeated Hugo in a duel. Not even close.
Of course, duels were executed with the use of foils and rapiers. Neither of which had ever been the red knight’s area of expertise, whereas Hugo was more skilled than the best of surgeons. Infact, he was one. Quick, sharp, and trained in all things chemical and herbal; Hugo was the most rounded of the Holy Dozen. Not in shape of course, he was as lithe as a willow shift; only taller than Jiltin, and not by much.
But he knew the duel.
When asked how he had lost his hand, his answer was always the same. “I cut it off myself!” As it turns out, challengers underestimate crazy old men; especially those with only one hand. They were often dead before they even realized they had been struck. He was a power to reckon with, and those who failed to do so never got the chance to try again.
Yet, Hugo was tip-toeing toward his eightieth year. How much longer he could hold his position was becoming a serious consideration. That being said, none of the others would test his skill. Too many times had he caused embarrassment, the slowest healing of wounds for a Holy Warrior.
“It’s a thing of the past now. We must move forward.” Hollis sat with his arms crossed over his scared chest. His white eyes shown dimly in the rapidly fading Tarnath day.
“Absolutely right. And quickly too. The longer we delay, the more the public opinion will start to falter.” Hugo added, withdrawing a vial from his satchel. He mixed powders as he spoke. “The more time we waste, the more people join the rebels’ cause. We need to make haste.
Haste. Tholjin remember the word on his lips, knowing already that it was too late to reach his brother. The memory faded when Hugo added water to the vial and it began to glow an eerie green hue.
“So how do we move forward?” Tholjin was sick of waiting, he needed action. Hugo was right.
“We can’t rush things. To assign a new Grand-Commander would be foolhardy. There are too many factors to consider. Not to mention that it is against the code. There must be twelve, with one of the dozen leading the rest.” He quoted the law from memory, his glossed eyes shining like beacons against his black skin. He had incredible vision for a blind man. “Hensford was a wise choice for the role. He was the best of us, in ability and character.”
“And look where he ended up.” Saosan stood to the side of the circle of others. His hand rested on the hilt of his scimitar. “Dead.”
“Enough.”
“It can happen to any of us, at any moment. In fact some are knocking on that door already.” Saosan gan Hugo a wink, the old man just harrumphed. “We need to assign a new Captain of the Holy Dozen. We need a new Grand-Commander of the King’s Company, and we need it now.”
“Hold your tongue. Or I will grasp it in my palm, and keep it as a trophy.” Hollis didn’t get mad, but his threats were all the scarier because of it. “Now is not the time for such a decision. Not with Kelton and Uve absent. Once they return from the Northern Campaigns, we will discuss. Until then, we shall wait; and conduct ourselves with the honor that we are known for.”
“Oh can your honor. That’s reassuring. People won’t sleep well at night, knowing our honor is being upheld.” Saosan tugged at his earring, sticking his tongue out to the side in thought. “They need to feel safe. The rebels just handed our asses back to us.” Tholjin interjected.
“Nine hundred rebels dead. We lost but two dozen.”
“And one of them was worth a million of the buggers.” Saosan winked his bright green eye, and smiled. “Seems like we drew the short stick on that deal, bub.” Tholjin stood, pulling on his hilt, but Saosan was already armed; the tip of his blade but an inch from the red knight’s nose. “Did I offend your honor?”
“Saosan, enough. If anyone killed Tholjin, it’s me.” Everyone turned to see the approaching figure. Tholjin never took his eyes of Saosan, wondering what it would feel like to scalp his snide little hide. Brothers indeed. “Tholjin.”
“What.”
“Look at me.” He didn’t move his eyes, not trusting the ex-bandit with his scimitar drawn. Never trust a bandit, once they taste the sweetness of betrayal it becomes a hard habit to kick. Saosan, gave Tholjin another wink and withdrew his blade; running his off hand through his black curly locks. “Now.” Tholjin turned, knowing who was calling his name.
“Beres—”
A blow to the face sent him to the ground. He shook his head, and rose to his feet; only able to do so because the other knights had restrained the enraged Beres. Tholjin removed his hand and saw that blood remained. He sniffed at it, but knew it was helpless; his eyes watered at the sting. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
When he turned to Beres she had stopped fighting the others.
“How could you let him die?” Her words were choked. Filled with an emotion so strong that he found it tugging on his heart of stone. Suffer in Silence. There were tears on her cheek. He didn’t know what to say, so he said the only thing he could think at the moment.
“Beres.”
“This is your fault. I swear. I will kill you.” She turned and left, without another word; the grue and blad clanked as she walked. Her dark leather suit creaked. His heart ached, but he swallowed hard and stifled the emotion. He was enraged, at her, at himself, even at the others for stopping her. They watched he go, as most men did, and then turned to him; each with a wildly different reaction on their face. Tholjin pushed on before they could say anything.
“We need to refill our numbers. The Grand-Commander can wait.”
“We—”
“He’s right. We aren’t functioning properly. We need time for wounds to heal, before we cut again.” Hugo stepped off his rock and stretched up through his arms. “I think it’s time we all called this day an end. There is much to be done, and more than a few of us that may need more sleep than we’ve been getting. Including myself.” Saosan chuckled but resigned, sheathing his sword and giving Tholjin one last wink before turning to leave. Hollis remained however, and when the others left, they remained alone to greet the darkness of Dal Niente.
Beres. Thojin couldn’t shake the look in her eyes. Never before had he seen her like that, so lost in feeling. He had expected a reaction, but it was her fury he feared. Now that he had seen her grief he couldn’t understand what it could possibly mean.
But the more he dwelled on it, the clearer it had become.
Hensford and Beres. His eyes stung, no matter how hard he tried to swallow his emotions. What had he expected? The Holy Dozen were far from what they appeared to be, far from the flawless emotionless automatons that the Wisemen had created them to become. It was against human nature, it was against the very possibilities of relationship and connections.
Put twelve people together, and only give them they opportunity to interact with each other; and you ended up with the most dysfunctional family one could ask for. Add ego and ambition to the mix, and that disfucntion turns to mistrust; betrayal. Tholjin considered what it would have been like if he had just turned the invitation down. Was he that special, after all?
He certainly didn’t feel it.
Especially after being knocked on his ass by a girl.
He rubbed his face where she had struck him, and sighed heavily.
“It’ll be dark soon.” Hollis’s voice filled the voice like a deep thrum of a foreign instrument. “You also need rest, Tholjin.” But he remained silent, unsure of how to respond to the other’s concerns. Hollis sighed, though his eyes were opened Tholjin had to remember he was blind.
“There are things on my mind, things that keep me from sleep.”
“Visions?”
“And thoughts. Regrets.” Haste. Make Haste. The words filled his mind over and again. If only he had heeded them. How desensitized they all had grown, slaughtering uprisings as if it were sport. They have fought for so long, that even their breaks in war were filled with bickering and dispute. Ever waking moment was filled with hidden agendas and backhanded slights; so why shouldn’t his sleeping moments be as well? He told Hollis as much, and the other listened without interruption.
Tarna sank below the horizon, and the warmth seemed to drain from the world. Yet Tholjin relished the stillness of darkness, it gave his eyes a moment to rest. Most would be sleeping of course, the blanket of darkness forcing many to break their routine .Yet some couldn’t rest, and lit fires in retaliation of the night. Tholjin watched these beacons dot the horizon, flickering like the smallest candles at the bottom of the sea.
“You fear some would use this opportunity to seize power.” Hollis spoke with yielding caution.
“Not fear. Expect. We are too ambitious, and with right. Are we not the strongest of the land? Who better than to lead the King’s Company? These thoughts come easily to mind, and no minds are keener for betrayal and trickery.”
“So you say. But you forget our oath.” Was he accusing him? Does he blame me for Hensford’s death? The thought flitted across his mind, but he responded without pause.
“Not I. Were there only one among us to be remembered as seeking the Code, we would have to fight for the title.” Hollis smiled at that, always willing to break his stern exterior when his honor was flattered. “But I expect it none the less. Remember what we had to do to become a member of the Dozen.” The words brought with them a small army of memories; all of which Tholjin held in check. Grasping them in his blank emotional state.
“One would not deserve the title, if they forgot so simply. So what do you propose, Sir knight? That we lock up the suspects, charge those ambitious enough to lead with treason? Do we not need a Captain, does the King’s Company not need a commander?” The other shifted slightly, his voice coming from another area when he spoke. In the darkness the affect was startling. “All we can do is prepare for such a thing to occur.”
“It is too soon. Blood runs too freshly through our minds, the taste too strong on our tongues.”
“Poetic, Tholjin. Perhaps you would have been a wise choice.” Tholjin paused, from the darkness came a laugh; deep and full. A snide remark, said in a snide way. “Yet you seem bent on avoiding the task. Perhaps you wait to be elected for the role, all the while playing innocent?”
“What else might I be, Neenmosk?”
“Why guilty of course. You jest, certainly you knew that answer.” Tholjin could hear the other’s condescending smile. How easy it would be to kill the man in the shade of Dal Niente. He took a deep breath, settling his nerves. Tension only drew conflict. Enough damage has been done.
“The King has pardoned my folly, and I stand innocent among the eyes of the eternal. Tell me if your claims can disprove our almighty ancestors, and I will take it up with them personally.” A serious claim, and Tholjin had no trouble making it. He had never wanted Hensford to fall, a tragedy in duty and friendship. The man was liked, even by those as cold as Kelton Iceheart.
“You would take your life if I supplied proof of your treachery? Well! I better redouble my efforts.” The other spit and turned on his heel, making to leave. “You shouldn’t talk of others the way you do, it’s unbecoming. Even…incriminating.” After a moment his footfalls disappeared in the din of night. His words had a lasting affect, and all was silent save for the chirping of insects and the working of mills in the distance.
“He is infuriating.”
“Yet remains to be the only one among us able to move undetected. That man is dangerous Tholjin, you would be wise to avoid his wrath.”
“He is but a child, feeble as he is stupid.” The words came out, he shouted them into the night, hoping Neen could hear them from where he stood. “I do not fear that boy in the least. But I trust him even less; I will heed your words Hollis, if you heed mine.” The other nodded, or at least Tholjin could sense some form of agreement through the veil of darkness.
“Of course I already have. When the time comes, and it will come, things may lead to blow or blade. Find yourself on the side of our code, and you will have an ally amongst me.” The other stood, the ground shifting underfoot. Tholjin heard him leave, left to his thoughts on the matter. Hollis never approved of Hensford’s rash attitude. Perhaps becoming Commander was not out of the question.
A smile broke across his battle-scarred face.
With only Dal Niente remaining to be witness.
Careening at breakneck speeds, Tholjin prepared himself for the collision.
The crack was loud enough to make him flinch where he watched from the raised pavilion. The defeated crashed to the ground in a tangled heap of standard and steel. The silence was greeted with the victor’s horse trotting to a halt. The crowd was soon to follow, screaming in childish glee. Very few of the onlookers were disappointed, jousts were a favorite in this region; and everyone loved the promise of competitive violence.
Tholjin just glowered where he sat. The winner discarded his ruined lance and brought his horse around with a well practiced flick of his wrist. He grunted his disapproval, Forsten slapped a massive fist on the railing; cursing loudly. He had lost a bet no doubt, and a drunken one at that. All the other Holy Warriors had put their purse on the victor, which was a clear win from the start. Yet for some reason Forsten had picked the less favorable choice, as was customary to his character. The man had a way of holding out for the weak.
Saosan stood, disappearing from the pavilion. Most likely leaving to gather the winnings, yet despite the coin the others seemed sour in disposition. Tholjin couldn’t help but glower. What an ostentatious way to determine a new Holy Warrior, especially so soon after a tragic loss. He had strongly opposed the competition, but the boy-king had a sweet tooth for violence. He had commanded the joust to commence, and somehow felt it was the most fitting way to determine the most capable replacement. Of course the Holy Dozen knew better, but it wasn’t their place to argue.
Especially with the king.
Even if he was a dolt.
It was the rigorous training, the brutal regimen known only by the Holy Warriors that separated them from the rest; not their proficiency in sport. Jousting was a fools game, never practiced in the field of battle. Of course Hensford was a savant at it, but his true gift had lain in tactics and combat. Or so they had all thought. Tholjin sighed, downing the rest of his ale.
The victor flipped his visor up, and the crowd slowly petered out.
He was a talented jouster, but his attitude was unforgiveable. Thrusting a fist into the air, high above the flamboyant plumage on his helm. The Holy Dozen was not a fraternity; it was a select order of stalwart guardians. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to beat it out of him, yet he had though the same thing for Neenmosk. Tholjin felt sick to his stomach, and he knew some of the others did as well. The rift had grown in the past few days, the absence of Uve and Kelton was also apparent.
They weren’t whole, and this idiot certainly wasn’t going to fill Hensford’s place.
Which is exactly what the King had proposed. “We shall hold a joust, and the winner will ride Hensford’s steed.”
Sacrilegious prick.
The victor had the grace to bow his head as he approached the pavilion, and the audience quieted to hear the words of the Holy Dozen. They all stood, raising a right hand to the king’s throne. The boy sat slumped in his chair, the crown slanted on his head. Tholjin bit his tongue. To seek permission from such an imbecile, it burnt his pride. Beside him, the other’s seethed. But the king knew his role after some cattle-prodding from the High Ambassador.
“People of the court, and those gathered here today,” his feminine voice was like the pathetic chirping of a bird. Melodious, obnoxious. “Our victor has proven to be most skilled, as the King of Fusion he has my blessing to counted among the Dozen.” He made a motion to sit, but the High Ambassador uttered a urgent reminder through thin lips. “U-uh-of course, that is, if the Holy Dozen…uh-doth deem him worthy?”
Idiot.
“We Live To Serve. Your Wish is Our Code. Your Wisdom is Our Gift. Your Council is Our Action.”
They spoke in unison; commanding, despite the lack of numbers. The crowd was awed, as it always was, and the king clapped his hands in excitement. Others picked up the cue, and joined in with him. Hundreds of hands clapped out the sound of crashing water. Fervant in pitch and strength, it was the Fusion way to do so. The Holy Warriors drew their fists in over their chests and stayed in attention.
He probably won’t even notice the Forsten is ass-drunk.
He likely doesn’t even notice that Saosan isn’t present.
Tholjin grit his teeth, and sat back onto his bench. Only Hollis remained standing, chosen to speak on the sole fact that he had the best voice for it. Loren’s idea.
“Victor of the Joust. You ride today as champion, and bring honor to your name and to the citizens of Fusion.” Chills shot through the onlookers, and THoljin felt his skin prickle as well. The man was true wisdom, pure reverence. “Today, you leave that all behind. You forfeit your past, your name, your entire being. Champion of the joust, come forth.” The other did so, his horse sensing the other’s nerves and hesitant to respond. The rider responded well, and straightened confidently.
“Sir knight, your name?”
“Alabair Conocle.” His voice was thick with accent, somewhere from the North; rebel territory. Tholjin sighed, Forsten chuckled under his breath.
“You approach the gate from which you cannot return. Do you forfeit your identity, and join the ranks of the Holy Dozen?”
There was a pause, a long pause. But it soon became clear that this was only for dramatic affect.
“Aye!” Fucking bumpkin. The crowd roared, Hollis thrust his splayed fingers into the air and the roar choked in their throats.
“Very well! From this day onward, you shall be known as Sir Conocle. The Eleventh of the Holy Dozen. Turn and face your audience. Turn and face your liege. Turn, a new man, and face your duty.” The applause erupted again, timid pockets at first before crashing back like a wave against the rocks. Hollis sat back down, and Saosan returned concealing a purse heavy with coin.
“Did I miss anything?” He called into Loren’s ear, inaudible to the crowd beyond. The victor did a winner’s lap, confidence returning to his features.
“Not really.” Loren chuckled. “This one’ll break, preeetty haaard. Neh?” The others all nodded their assent, and this time Forsten remained silent. Even he wasn’t fool enough to accept two foolish bets in one day. “But hey, Neen turned out alright. Suh….who know, right?” He offered, reclining in his chair; drapping an arm over Beres’s shoulder. Tholjin’s blood boiled for a moment, and Beres made a move to shrug the guesture. But they caught eyes for a brief moment, and instead of shrugging she pressed herself closer to the weapon master’s chest.
Tholjin turned back to the field.
“Kind words, Loren. You have my thanks.” Neen noticed the contact between the two, and wasn’t pleased. He’d been trying to fuck Beres for years, even before he was among the Holy Dozen. Everyone knew it, and everyone also seemed to notice the awkward tension. Tholjin flushed, despite his effort to remain calm. He wasn’t pleased for another reason. The same reason why Beres was throwing herself against Loren.
Calm yourself. Are you a child? She has the right to lean. But despite his rational mind, he couldn’t cool his rage. She was driving a spike into the rift, splitting it wide open. Didn’t she realize this? Thoughts crashed into his head, and as he watched the grounds keepers clear the field he could only envision Beres astride Loren’s hips. He downed the pint of ale as soon as it was brought, not caring who saw and what they thought. He was far beyond caring. He clutched his heart of stone, and continued to sulk.
“So what’s next?” Saosan asked, playing dumb as he always did. Tholjin was glad for the diversion.
“His grace has declared a challenge among duels to be next. Thirty-two of the most renown warriors in the region are to duel one at a time. To the death or the forfeit.” The red knight’s words were curt, but Saosan seemed honestly interested. “I suspect we will witness a great deal of death today. No one will forfeit when so much is at stake.”
“Would you like to put a wager to that?” Neenmosk laughed.
Hugo sighed. “I agree with Neen, they don’t make them like they once did.”
“Just look at Neen himself. He’s a prime example.” The others chuckled, Tholjin turned to see the young warrior flush in embarrassment and anger. “I will take your wager, if it’ll shut you up. All my day’s winnings verse yours.”
“What’s the bet then?” Loren had hoped in, removing his arm from Beres’s shoulder. Tholjin refused to look at her. Let her stew, the bitch. “I might get in on this!”
So they bet again. If half or more of the contestants died in battle Forsten and Tholjin would split the winnings. Otherwise the others would split the coin amongst them. As usual, Hollis and Beres remained silent. It wasn’t reassuring that Tholjin had sided with Forsten’s losing streak. Yet this was more than just a bet, it was a belief in pride. A hope that honor was still strong amongst the rank of men. If any of the Holy Dozen were to duel for honor, Tholjin prayed it would be to the death.
To live with defeat, there was no greater humiliation. Tholjin knew that now.
And the first match was a good sign too! In a matter of moments the first fighter had managed to completely decapitate the other, with a risky maneuver. Tholjin and Forsten clasped hands, raising from their seats in drunken celebration. For a moment they no longer cared about the pomp and tradition of this ritual. He needed to win this bet. He knew there was still hope for honor. Some of the others even smiled.
The next fight was even better. The contestants were soldiers, one hailing from Scigfried, the other was from the lowlands of Fusion. They assaulted each other with maces, railing against shield and armor for long minutes. Tholjin counted two dozen successful strikes before the lowland fighter went down, blood dripping from the cracks in his armor. The Scigfried man held back, but the Lowland Soldier refused to live. He demanded that the other combatant kill him.
Two to none, Tholjin and Forsten were ecstatic.
The next fight was long, an extremely tedious bout of summing each other up. The two combatants circled each other cautiously, each wielding a spear. The audience, for lack of a better term, started to grow bored. They periodically feinted a strike, but their skill was such that neither came close to any sort of danger. Tholjin started to sweat in his armor, Corna was in full reign, and red plate mail was quite the insulator. A glance over to the Boy-King told Toljin he was sleeping in his oversized thrown. He growled under his breath at the sleeping babe, and missed the finishing blow.
“What happened!” He heard himself say, noticing Beres glaring at him in disgust. “Don’t look so spoiled. Have you noticed our sleeping liege?”
“One spearman poked the other in the shoulder, and he yielded instantly.” Neenmosk replied, rather smugly. “That’s one for ‘dishonor’.”
“Don’t sound quite so smug. We still hold the lead, boy.”
But that was quick to change. The next two battles were intense, the choreography of whipping blades rang like joyous songs after the long silence of the last bout. But in both matches the defeated surrendered before he could be slain. Tholjin spat in disgust, but they were good matches. The victors both had excellent skill, and bravery to support such a rare thing. They would make good additions to the Dozen. Two swordsmen.
The next match was a bit unprecedented. The man hailing from Waterchase threw down his axe as soon as he stepped into the ring; apparently having been unaware that the battle was ever meant to be to the death. The crowd booed him, and the waking King was so furious he had the axmen beheaded right where he stood. It was a shame really, he put up a good fight when the soldiers moved to restrain him.
For a moment Tholjin thought he was going to have to jump in and defeat the man himself.
Fortunately that wasn’t the case. His headless corpse was dragged off the field, to a cheering throng of bloodthirsty beasts. Neenmosk chuckled, examining his fingernails.
“That makes the count four to two, in our favor.”
“Hardly!” Tholjin objected, turned red in anger. “He fought to the death, and valiantly at that!”
“Yet he surrendered the real test. He was a coward, the worst in years.” Beres spoke, for the first time since the start of the event. “Saosan, add my money to the bet. Put me on the winning team.” Tholjin teeth threatened to crack.
“As you wish my lady.” Saosan was happy to oblige.
The battles continued on, each with more at stake than just the lives of the combatants. But the time the twelth battle had ended the count was at eight to four, Neen’s group in the lead. Forsten had practically given up his hopes of winning and instead started to spend all his coin on drink. But Tholjin held out, not giving up on the combatants. I still have the second round. They’ll fight with more honor, for sure.
The field was being cleared for the thirteenth battle, and the combatants stood waiting in the gates. Tholjin studied each before they were let in; the first was a knight of some reknown, though he had never heard of him. His brilliant silver steel had been stripped of color, and when he stepped in the sun he was simply blinding.
“That’s ain’t fair, can’t even look at ‘em, really.” Loren complained, shielding his eyes. He stepped forth, wielding a bastard sword over his shoulders. “He’ll win for sure.” Tholjin wasn’t so sure.
That was, until he saw the other combatant.
The man was naked from the waste up, wearing only simple brown shorts. He had red-hair that made Tholjin’s look brown, and enough scars marring his flesh to be branded a slave. Only, he had no brand. He entered the ring with his eyes set on his opponent, his dark glare was frightening; but Jun immediately pitied the boy. And a boy he was, could not have been over twenty years of age. He held a black one-sided sword limply in his fingers.
“Ah, right. Now thaaaaat’s fair. Fuckin’ brilliant. Score one for Tholjin.” Loren complained, the other actually chuckled. This was going to be messy. The field was cleared and the round started. The silver knight started forward in a sprint, taking off at an incredible speed considering his armament. The audience shrieked at the promise of blood, his bastard sword came down to his side; the gap closing quickly. A wide horizontal strike. The boy didn’t even flinch as the other approached, the bastard sword ripping through the air with a sick whistle.
The clang was so loud, it jarred Tholjin’s teeth. The boy angled his feet, lifted his sword to his shoulder and leaned into the other’s cut. The collision should have sent the boy flying, but he only skidded to the side; using his weight to slow the blade. He didn’t flinch or get cut, his thin blade didn’t shatter, his arms didn’t buckle. Tholjin’s mouth dropped. The boy’s form was perfect, each joint locked and limb angled for the perfect defense.
“Holy shit.” The boy then walked along the other’s blade, his own blade sword sparking as it scraped against the Bastard. The silver knight thrust out an arm to grapple the boy, now within reach; but in doing so released the pressure off his swing. And boy pushed to his right, shoving the blade out of the way, and slammed his sword down on the other’s shoulder.
The spray of blood was astonishing.
The limb came away free. The boy cut through the steel, muscle, bone, and out through steel in a single stroke. The silver knight collapsed to his knees, impaling himself on the boy’s blade that waited for him. It slid through the armor like butter, blood dribbled out onto the sand. Tholjin hadn’t even seen the blade move. He sat with his mouth agape.
The boy turned on a heel and walked off to a silent crowd.
Shock. Everyone was speechless. Tholjin glanced at the others, they all had similar reactions; only Hollis seemed confused. The King was no longer sleeping either, his eyes were tuned on the boy. There was a look, something that made Tholjin’s skin crawl. The King looked at the boy with reverence, his eyes full of adoration and worship. Something was horribly wrong.
“Is the battle over?” Hollis asked, it was met with the chaotic cheering from the crowd.
“It appears that way.” Hugo’s voice was distant, he watched the boy leave.
“Well, that was something else! Never seen anything like it!” Saosan harped on the word in a way that irked Hollis. “Truly, unbelievable.”
“The boy won.” Beres stated. “Rather decisively.”
A chill shot down Tholjin’s spine. “This isn’t good.”
“What are you complaining about? You just won another round—” Neenmosk complained but Forsten cut him off.
“This…This is not good. Indeed. Tholjin is right. That boy should not have won.”
“He’s good.” Loren admitted.
“Good isn’t the right word. Those moves should have been impossible.” Tholjin thought back to the moment the blade passed through the knight’s chest. He hadn’t even blinked, was the boy possibly that fast? It couldn’t be. And that blade. Single sided blades didn’t pass through steel like that. Something was wrong.
The remaining five battles in the first round went on as normal. But Tholjin couldn’t shake the thought of the boy, cutting clean through the Knight’s arm. In honesty, he hadn’t been paying attention when the trumpets sounded, signaling the end of the first round of battles. The meal that followed seemed to drag on forever. The holy dozen were supposed to be deliberation, but they remained silent. The boy king, however, was hard at work; chatting with his entourage of wisemen through a stuffed mouth.
After the allotted time, the second round commenced.
The first six battles of the second round, were of a different caliber than the first. The stakes were higher, the chance of true glory was that much closer. Men fought to their honorable death, spears stabbed, swords flashing, and maces crushing. The sand was thick with blood, stained dark by the time Tarna was in full reign. By the time the boy reappeared.
His opponent was a man who wielded a massive chain. He used it to thrash his last opponent; disorienting, far reaching, and unconventional. Tholjin was impressed with the other’s ability, he seemed completely capable of extending the weapon at whim. When the duel started, the chain fighter was hesitant. He knew he was up against something unnatural. Yet the boy also was not quick to charge. There was a moment that the audience was silent, holding its breath.
Then the boy stepped forward. Everyone gasped, the opponent seemed thrown. The battle’s already won. It took another five minutes, but despite the expertise and hail of steel chainlinks; the boy with red hair moved forward, lunging and twisting. Each second ended with him another inch close. The other started to step back, fearing the boy get too close; and the two continued this dance for long minutes. Hit him! Come on, hit him! Tholjin couldn’t understand it. The boy knew just what to do, and moved with such a fluidity it was incredible. At one point the chain master caught him off guard and just as the chain closed in the boy slashed up and backward; spinning into a flip.
The crowd gasped, the boy landed on his splayed hand just inches from the ground; the second chain swiping over him as the shredded links from the first rained down on him. He stalled there for a moment before thrusting himself into a roll that shot toward—
The black blade cut through flesh, rupturing bone.
The chain master screamed out in pain, clutching at his ruined ribcage.
The boy in red was up in an fluid instant, blade raised high before coming down sharp.
It suck into the sand next to the chain master’s head. The opponent weezed as he glanced at the blade. Eyes wide with fear, he looked up to the boy to plead for his life. But the fist cracked him in the teeth before the other could even speak. The boy was above him, pummeling over and over. The crowd roared in approval, as the defenseless soldier was beat to death. Still the boy rained blows. The crowds approval petered out, slowly turning into a sickening whisper.
It wasn’t until the boy was covered in blood up to his elbows that he stopped.
He straightened, a smile frozen onto his dark features.
“Holy shit.” Loren was leaning forward in his seat. “You’re right. This ain’t good.”
“He’s spectacular. Quite Unprecedented.” Forsten slurred, fascinated despite his state.
“Terrifying.” Beres was frightened, disgusted. “He can’t be allowed to join.”
“There’s plenty of options left, no need to jump to conclusions.” Hugo suggested, but Tholjin knew it to be false hope. This boy, he was something else. The battles continued, and the second round was over before the hours of twilight. The crowd was growing restless, and their concern was well founded. Never before had Tholjin seen an event like this. The evening meal was skipped, to the displeasure of some. But the dozen all agreed it was because the king wanted the matter decided before the end of the day.
The third round started slow, but Tholjin knew it was because he was waiting for the last match. The cautious spearman was finally bested by a skilled swordsman, and the man who used a trident got tangled up in his own lure. The third round was hardly watched, the anticipation for the boy seemed to have dulled the intensity of the other matches. When the third match ended, everyone attention turned back to the ring.
The boy stepped out. He was greeted with silence.
A good sign. The crowd fears him. Yet he couldn’t help but notice that the boy king seemed more excited than before. Forsten swayed in his seat, but everyone else was on the edge of their seats. The opponent stepped onto the field bravely.
He died just so. Tarna was sinking rapidly, and the evening meal was skipped once again.
Four people remained, but everyone knew by now that it was just for procedural sake. Someone has to beat him. Tholjin hoped, but he knew better. The remained warriors were the best of the best, and still the boy outshone them. They were experts of combat, he was untouchable. A swordsman won the first battle, beating out the man with the mace; and beheading him for the enjoyment of all.
The second match was between the boy and another unlucky soul who wielded a rapier and hailed from Raffe. The audience watched silently as the battle commenced, preparing themselves for another bout of unnecessary violence. Yet things took a strange twist. The Raffe man was nimble, and skilled in such a way that he seemed to be quicker than the boy. The two met sword almost immediately; and clashed four or five times before the boy had to retreat back a step. The crowd gasped, completely surprised to see the boy hadn’t already won. Could it be? Could this be the end of his reign of violence? Tholjin held his breath.
“He’s smiling.” They all turned to Beres, her eyes were wide. “He’s enjoying himself.” They all looked, and sure enough as the two met swords again; the boy laughed. The duelist parried a deft strike and countered with a backswing, the boy moved to his right; momentarily dislocating his shoulder backward to avoid being hit. He spun and it snapped back into joint, his blade snagged the hilt of the duelists rapier and severed the guard clean off.
The duelist retreated but the boy moved with him, black sword swinging in wide arches. His blade clashing against rapier and smashing the ground spraying up sand. The duelist retreated in a quick three-step before feinting forward and thrusting. The motion was so quick that Tholjin missed it, but the boy did not. He turned his blade sideways and caught the tip of it on the flat of his own.
“WHAT?!” But the boy didn’t stop there. He stepped to the right, angling his blade so that the thrust ran along the edge and sparked brightly. The duelist pulled back just in time to get caught in the eye with a counter swing. The boy laughed loudly, advancing confidently. But the cut was shallow, and despite the blinding pain the duelist stayed upright. His rapier flashed to the side, faster than lightning.
CLINK.
Blood dripped from the boy’s hand. He held the blade of the rapier in his hand.
And laughed loudly.
The duelist released his sword, retreating.
Blood sprayed from his chest.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
The boy turned and walked off the field, his hand dripping blood.
“Impossible.” Hugo spoke what everyone thought. “You saw that swing, his hand should be in half!”
“No. He was wearing something in his palm.” Hollis said, staring out over the field. Tholjin looked at him curiously. “I heard it when he caught the blade.” How could he possibly know? Tholjin knew he wasn’t the only one thinking it. Tarna was moment from set, the sky turning a spray of deep orange and reds. It was too late, they would never finish the tournament before the day was through.
But just then the boy was stepping back out onto the field.
The audience gasped. The dozen shot each other worried glances.
Across from the boy entered the last contestant, the swordsman that Tholjin had to admit he hadn’t paid much to the entire night. He was skilled, well beyond the abilities of everyone he had faced; yet the boy’s presence silenced the masses. Tholjin felt his heart go out to the small challenger, the one shrouded in a large black cloak. The tournament would be over soon, it was merely minutes before Tarna set.
Dal Niente would come. And that would put an end to the fighting.
Then it happened.
The trumpet blew and the last battle commenced. A collective breath was inhaled.
The boy stepped forward.
And was nailed in the chest with a bolt. He stood wide eyed, staring forward blankly. He fell.
The contestant pulled his hand from under his cloak and a wrist loaded crossbow clattered to the sand. In one smooth motion, he reached up; clutched the hood of his cloak and pulled it back. The entire world shit itself.
“JILTIN!” the entire arena was on their feet, cheers exploded. The Holy Warrior took a slight bow, and turned toward the holy dozen winking and smiling his dark serrated smile. Forsten shouted raucously, and the others joined in. Even Beres seemed relieved, and she hated Jiltin. Hollis remained impassive, unable to join the revelry due to his honor. Tholjin swallowed his code and pumped his fist into the air.
Finally, the short man turned to the boy king and gave a deep, possibly over exaggerated bow. Tholjin laughed loudly, watching as the king—
The king. His eyes were glued to the field.
To the boy.
The cheers died down. The boy was on his knees, breathing hard, yet someone quite alive. Tholjin felt his world crash down around him. Shit! Like the falling of the sun, the boy’s face darkened; his smile twisting the corners into something evil. Tholjin felt fear blow through the audience. Jiltin didn’t move. The boy leapt to his feet.
He walked forward.
Clutched the bolt.
And punched it through his body, sending it tumbling out the other side.
Blood drooled from his lips, but he moved on.
Teeth stained red.
Jiltin pulled another contraption from his cloak, a small bag tied tight with leather string. He tore off in a wide circle around the boy, working on the strings of the bag. The boy watched him move, coming to a halt. Just as Jiltin loosened the string, the boy lunged forward. So fast. The powder sprayed from the opened bag, shimmering in the fading light.
Dal Niente was knocking. The powder stuck to the boy’s sweat; he coughed blood and dust swinging his sword blindly for a moment. His eyes were blinking furiously. Jiltin stepped outside of the boy’s range, striking flint and tinder at the extremity of the dust cloud.
The flare was like nothing he had ever seen, like an explosion of melting red light. That’s when Tholjin recognized it, he had seen it on the eve of battle. The day Hensford had died. Hugo had given some to Jiltin as well. Jiltin had just set the boy on fire. On a bright red spark of flame.
But he didn’t let his guard down.
Instead he drew his sword, the curved blade that he had been known to use.
He must have been using a different blade this whole time.
When had Jiltin gotten so strong?
But there wasn’t time to think.
A ball of light leapt from the fire, screaming like a comet toward the Holy warrior. But Jiltin was ready, he slipped to the side; flipping the switch on his sword and shooting it through to the other side of his hilt. The boy’s slash smashed the sand just where Jiltin had stood. Jiltin slashed, the shifting blade ready to strike.
Hand snapped up.
CLINK!
“JILTIN! GET OUT!”
Too late. The boy pulled and cut in one fluid motion. Jiltin was quick, twisting away but only far enough to keep half his face. The boy’s grip was iron. The second slash, knocked the Holy warrior to the ground. Dead.
In the fading light of Tarna, the boy stood steaming.
Literally.
His hair was gone.
His skin was burnt.
His hand was ruined.
His breath was ragged.
His chest was sealed, the heat of the flare closing the wound.
Yet he smiled.
His head lifted up to the booth where the Holy Dozen sat. His eyes were wide, hungry. He no longer looked like a boy; but resembled something that had crawled out of the very pits of eternity. He laughed, a quiet thing that started slow and raised to a shout before being drown by the trumpets marking the King’s speech.
Tholjin stared in horror. No. He couldn’t be.
Jiltin was still. The contents of his skull sprayed across the sand.
And none of them had run to his aid. Now we all are guilty of failure.
Tarna was setting, darkness was taking over. But in all the excitement, no one had thought to prep the torches. Servents ran about frantically now. Silence met their action with awkward hesitation.
“Sir knight. Turn and face your new liege!” The boy sat in his chair, the Wiseman of defense stood before him. He spoke with a deep voice. “Step forward and kneel. Give your life to protect. Give your name now, so that you may forever join the ranks of the Holy Dozen, guardians to the King of Fusion.” The boy turned away from the others and glanced up to the king. Tholjin could see his face from where he sat, his smile was still present; only now it shrunk into a knowing grin. He bowed his head.
The King’s smile widened.
“State your name, boy.”
Silence.
For a moment Tholjin feared that the boy planned something malicious, something far beyond the horrors he had already achieved this day. But just as Tholjin stood, prepared to jump from the booth into action, the boy raised his chin. His eyes dead set on the King.
The world plunged into Dal Niente.
“Chalton Rentis.”