Chapter 17
Flight through the Flames
> Into the cold, the silence spoke;
>
> Blood ran still, beneath the cloak.
>
> — The Ballad of the Bladesong
Master Bertie stood at the center of the makeshift ring in which Godfrey stood, his voice carrying over the hushed crowd that had gathered around the market square. He was a familiar figure in Oakvale, a man who had seen generations of boys grow into men, and his role as the officiant for these bouts had become an unofficial tradition. In the countryside, traditions, however unofficial, often held the weight of iron.
Blood on his hands, on his face.
As Bertie began to explain the rules of the bout, Godfrey could barely focus on the words. His mind was a blank storm. The scene played over and over in his head—Elara’s cold command, the guard’s desperate scream, the feel of blood on his hands.
"...training weapons of choice, no blows to the head, and no deliberate crippling of your opponent," Master Bertie continued, his voice firm as he laid down the rules. "This is a test of skill, not a fight to the death. First to land a disabling blow wins the bout."
Godfrey nodded along with the other boys, barely present. He had chosen his weapons carefully—a wooden longsword paired with a parrying dagger, both crafted to mirror the steel weapons he had been training with for months. The feel of them in his hands was familiar, almost comforting. John had whittled the dagger’s teeth to be wider to account for the bulk of the training weapons.
The blood on his sword, dripping.
He glanced across the ring at Clive Warren, who stood ready with a single heavy training sword, its weight clear in the way he held it with both hands. Clive looked focused, determined. He was here to win, to prove himself, just like the rest of them.
Eyes, lifeless, staring back at him.
Master Bertie looked between them, his eyes sharp. "Ready?"
Godfrey nodded absently. He tightened his grip on the longsword, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers, and shifted into his starting stance. His mind was numb.
A scream of horror as a sword arm is ruined.
"Begin!" Master Bertie’s voice rang out, and the world narrowed to the ring, to Clive, to the clash of wood on wood that was about to begin.
Blood dripping from his hands.
Godfrey surged forward as Clive’s heavy sword began its sweeping arc, the blade slicing through the air at waist height. He was good; the angle was designed to keep Godfrey at a distance, giving Clive time to gauge his opponent’s skill.
A flash of white bone, splintered.
With a fluid leap, he vaulted over the blade, twisting in midair as his training sword followed the momentum. His movements were instinctive, honed by countless hours of practice. As he descended, he brought the sword down with force, striking hard on Clive’s right trapezius.
The crack of wood against flesh echoed through the square, and Clive’s sword clattered to the ground as he crumpled to his knees, clutching his shoulder in pain.
Godfrey turned and walked back to the group of waiting young men. His eyes looked into the midst of them; at no one. Dead eyes, empty, blank.
Blood in the river, on his clothes.
Time passes. Godfrey is not in the square, he is with the guard. What was his name, the man he killed?
A voice calls his name. It is his turn again.
He walks to the dueling ring, and his opponent is the guard.
The guard with no name’s ruined arm clutches a wooden mace, paired with a heavy round shield.
A voice tells them to start. It must have been Elara.
The guard screams, and rushes him. The parrying dagger removes the mace from the guard’s mangled grip, and the pommel of the wooden longsword descends on the guard’s left temple. The guard is on the ground again, staring. Where is the chest of silver? Where is Elara?
Godfrey walks back to the waiting area. He sees John arguing with Master Bertie. Must be about history, again.
XXX
“There’s obviously something fucking wrong with him, call this off!” Hawker bellowed at Master Bertie, his voice raw with panic.
“The boy is an adult, Hawker; he can make his own decisions. But I agree, his behavior is most unusual. I’ll call off his next bout. You go speak with him,” Master Bertie replied, his usual calm demeanor tinged with concern.
“Thank you,” Hawker gasped, his voice thick with exasperation and worry.
He rushed to Godfrey’s side, and the moment their eyes met, Hawker’s heart shattered. He recognized that hollow, haunted stare all too well.
“Okay, lad, it’s okay. You’re alright, hm? Don’t say anything now. Let’s just get you home,” he said, his voice low and soothing, as if speaking to a wounded animal. He gently took Godfrey by the arm, guiding him away from the crowd, who watched with murmurs of confusion and concern.
Godfrey’s body moved mechanically, his face expressionless, but Hawker could feel the tremors running through him.
A piercing scream tore through the air, freezing them both in their tracks.
The crowd in the market square fell silent, turning as one toward the source of the commotion. Hawker's heart sank as he saw the man in the dark armor from before, the one with the cold eyes, dragging a kicking and screaming Elara into the square.
She struggled desperately against his iron grip, but it was no use. The man hauled her forward with ease, his expression impassive as if her resistance were nothing more than an inconvenience. Behind him, more than a dozen armored men followed, their breastplates emblazoned with the unmistakable insignia of the Hand.
As the man in dark armor handled Elara, the air grew thick with tension. The crowd, which had been buzzing with the excitement of the Fete, fell into a stunned silence. The man’s armored boots echoed ominously on the cobblestones as he advanced, and behind him, more than a hundred soldiers in matching dark steel fanned out, surrounding the villagers in a tight, cold circle. The insignias of the Hand gleamed coldly on their breastplates, an unmistakable symbol of authority and dread.
Elara struggled against the man’s iron grip, her eyes wild with terror as she was forced to her knees in the center of the square. She tried to catch Godfrey's gaze, her eyes pleading for help, but Godfrey stood frozen, rooted to the spot by a paralyzing shock. The events of the past hour, the blood on his hands, the horror of what he had done, all collided in his mind, leaving him unable to move, unable to think.
The man in dark armor looked around the square, his cold eyes surveying the gathered villagers with disdain. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and clear, cutting through the stunned silence. “Citizens of Oakvale, hear me now. This woman,” he gestured to Elara with a dismissive flick of his hand, “has been found guilty of treason against the Empire. She attempted to steal from the Magistrate’s vault, an act of defiance that cannot and will not be tolerated.”
The villagers, surrounded by the soldiers, shifted uneasily, fear rippling through the crowd. The man in dark armor seemed to notice this, and a cruel smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He raised a gauntleted hand, and the soldiers closed ranks, their swords drawn, their presence a silent warning to any who might think to resist.
The man in dark armor let the silence hang in the air for a moment, savoring the fear that had settled over the crowd. Then, with a voice as hard as the steel he wore, he declared, “What’s more, this woman is a proven heretic. She has been meddling in dark secrets. This crime is treason of the highest order, a blasphemy unseen in the Empire for more than a decade.”
Murmurs of shock rippled through the gathered villagers, but they were quickly silenced by the harsh glares of the soldiers who surrounded them. The man raised his hand again, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “Men, seize the Windermere family.”
At his command, a group of soldiers broke from the circle and marched toward the Windermere household, their armored boots crunching on the cobblestones. The remaining villagers stood frozen, fear and disbelief etched on their faces. The man’s tone softened, almost mockingly, as he addressed them. “Stay calm, good people of Oakvale. Justice will be served, don’t you worry now.”
In the midst of the chaos, Tarlow, John, Katherine, and Alice found their way to where Hawker and Godfrey stood. Hawker’s grip on Godfrey’s shoulder tightened, a silent signal for him to stay alert. The family began to edge slowly, carefully, toward the outskirts of the square, hoping to slip away unnoticed as the soldiers focused on their grim task.
The Windermere family, pale and trembling, were dragged into the center of the square by the soldiers. Mr. Windermere tried to protest, his voice shaking as he pleaded for his family’s lives, but his words fell on deaf ears. The man in dark armor watched with cold detachment as they were forced to their knees, his expression betraying no emotion.
“Put them to the sword,” he ordered, his voice devoid of any semblance of mercy.
The villagers gasped, and several cried out in horror, but none dared to move as the soldiers stepped forward, drawing their swords. The Windermere family huddled together, tears streaming down their faces, as they awaited their fate.
Godfrey’s heart pounded in his chest, the scene unfolding before him like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from, his mind still numb. He glanced at Tarlow, John, and Hawker, searching their faces for any sign of what to do, but they were focused solely on the soldiers surrounding their area of the crowd, their bodies tense, ready to act if necessary.
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The soldiers’ swords came down, and the Windermere family fell, their blood staining the cobblestones. Elara’s scream turned into a wail of despair, a sound that would haunt Godfrey for the rest of his days. He felt his legs start to move, an instinctual urge to do something, anything, but Tarlow’s firm hand on his arm held him back.
Knight Corvin surveyed the scene, his stony eyes scanning the crowd as his men formed a tight cordon around the terrified villagers. The firelight from the torches cast eerie shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features and the cruel determination in his expression. As the last of his Soldiers stepped into place, he took a step forward, his dark armor gleaming ominously in the flickering light.
"In the name of the Imperial Council," his voice rang out, commanding and absolute, "I, Knight Corvin, for the crimes of Hereticism and Dark Knowledge, hereby sentence you, Elara Windermere, to death. Further, I, Knight Corvin, do invoke the Doctrine of Contentment, and hereby proscribe the village of Oakvale."
He let the words hang in the air, heavy with finality. The villagers trembled, their confusion growing and hope draining with every syllable. Corvin's gaze swept over them, indifferent, until it settled on Godfrey. There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes, as if he had been searching for him all along.
"Men, kill them all," Corvin commanded, his voice unwavering. "Burn the village."
With deliberate slowness, Corvin drew his sword. The steel glinted in the firelight as it smoothly opened Elara’s throat; her eyes widened in shock and pain as her lifeblood spilled out, cascading down her chest in dark, crimson rivulets. Life drained from her eyes as she crumpled to the ground, the final breath leaving her body.
The air was filled with the crackling of flames, the terrified screams of villagers, and the professional, calculated orders of the soldiers as they began their dark work.
Godfrey’s heart shattered at the sight. Elara’s eyes, lightless, seemed to stare back at him before her body slumped onto its back.
His body moved on instinct. He was still in shock, the events unfolding around him barely registering as he was dragged along by his uncles and aunts. Their faces were set with grim determination as they fought their way through the soldiers, carving a bloody path out of the market square.
Tarlow, John, and Hawker moved with deadly precision, their blades slicing through the chaos with practiced ease. Katherine and Alice clung to each other, their faces pale with fear, but they kept pace with the group, their survival instincts kicking in.
As they broke through the line of soldiers, the flames behind them roared, consuming everything in their path. The village of Oakvale was disappearing into the night, swallowed by the inferno that the Empire had unleashed upon it.
As the group raced through the darkened streets, the screams of the dying and the crackling of the burning village fading behind them, a rush of air could be heard above them. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and they were forced to halt as a figure descended from the sky, landing with a thunderous impact that cracked the cobblestones.
Knight Corvin straightened, his dark steel armor gleaming in the firelight, as he rose to his full height. His gaze swept over the group, and a cruel smile twisted his lips as his eyes came to rest on Godfrey.
“I urged restraint, boy.” Corvin stated, amused indifference edging his tone, before turning his eyes to the old Soldiers.
"You killed good men tonight," Corvin growled, his voice carrying a lethal edge. "I did not expect such resistance from peasants." He stepped forward, each footfall deliberate and menacing. "Before you die, I will have your names. Who dares defy the will of the Empire?"
Hawker's grip on his sword tightened, his voice low and steady as he spoke. "Names are for the living, Corvin. Come and claim them if you can."
Corvin's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed more like fangs in the firelight. "So be it," he hissed, and with a speed that defied belief, he lunged at them, his sword a blur of deadly steel.
Tarlow, John, and Hawker, Soldiers all, moved as one, a practiced formation honed by years of combat. Their weapons were raised, their faces grim and determined. But as Knight Corvin closed the distance, Godfrey, despite the fear gripping his heart, tightened his grip on his own steel and charged forward with them.
Corvin was a blur, a shadow of death that seemed to flicker in and out of existence as he moved. Tarlow struck first, his falchion slicing through the air with precision, but Corvin’s sword met it with a force that sent Tarlow staggering back. The impact was so swift, so powerful, that it seemed to shatter the very air around them.
John lunged next, his blade aimed for Corvin’s side, and Godfrey followed right behind, his heart pounding in his chest. But Corvin sidestepped with inhuman grace, his sword coming down in a vicious arc. John barely managed to parry the blow, but the force of it drove him to one knee, the ground cracking beneath him. Godfrey swung his longsword at Corvin’s exposed side, but Corvin’s blade was there in an instant, deflecting the strike with a contemptuous ease that sent a jolt of shock through Godfrey.
Hawker was the last to strike, his broadsword a flash of steel as he aimed for Corvin’s neck. But Corvin moved with the effortless speed and grace of a striking viper. With a flick of his wrist, Corvin deflected the strike, his sword sweeping across Hawker’s chest with a speed that left no time to react. Blood sprayed into the night as Hawker stumbled, clutching his chest as he staggered away.
But Corvin wasn’t done. With a predatory gleam in his eye, he surged forward, his blade arcing through the air with deadly intent. Katherine and Alice barely had time to react as the cold steel cut through the night—and through them. Their lives were extinguished in an instant, their bodies crumpling to the ground in a pool of their own blood.
Godfrey’s heart stopped as the screams of his aunts echoed through the night, their dying breaths chilling the air. He froze, unable to move, unable to comprehend the horror unfolding before him. The world seemed to slow, the sounds of battle dimming to a distant roar as the reality of their deaths sank in.
Tarlow’s laughter, once filled with the thrill of battle, turned into a guttural roar of rage. His falchion, wielded with the precision of a master, became a blur of lethal strikes as he pressed the attack, his every move driven by the need for vengeance. John’s strikes, once cold and calculated, became desperate, fueled by the same fury that burned in Tarlow.
But Corvin was a Knight of the Hand, and even against their combined fury, he was unstoppable. He danced between their blows, his movements fluid and effortless, as if he were toying with them. For every strike they landed, he delivered two in return, his blade cutting through the air with deadly precision.
Hawker, blood seeping through the gash in his chest, stumbled toward Godfrey. His face was pale, but his eyes were sharp with determination. Without a word, he began pushing Godfrey away from the chaos, his movements desperate but purposeful.
Godfrey’s mind was a storm of rage and grief, the sight of his aunts’ lifeless bodies searing into his memory. His vision blurred, and all he could see was red—red from the blood of his family, red from the flames engulfing his village, red from the fury burning inside him. A primal scream tore from his throat as he broke free from Hawker’s grip and charged at Corvin, his sword raised, his body trembling with the need for vengeance.
But Hawker, even in his wounded state, was faster. He caught Godfrey by the arm, his grip ironclad, and yanked him back with a strength that belied his injuries. “No, lad! Not now! You can’t win this fight!” Hawker’s voice was hoarse, filled with a pain that went beyond his physical wounds.
Godfrey struggled against him, his rage blinding him to reason. “Let me go! He killed them! He killed them all!” His voice cracked with the weight of his emotions, the grief and fury tearing him apart from the inside.
“I know, Godfrey, I know!” Hawker’s voice was strained, but unyielding. “But if you go after him now, you’ll die! We need to survive this, do you hear me? You need to survive!”
As Hawker dragged Godfrey away from the chaos, the sounds of the battle still raged behind them. The clash of steel on steel echoed through the night, mingling with the crackling of flames and the terrified screams of the villagers. But through it all, one sound stood out—the manic, almost gleeful laughter of Tarlow. It was a wild, untamed sound that sent chills down Godfrey’s spine even in the heat of his fury.
The night swallowed them whole.
XXX
When Godfrey emerged from Hawker's cabin, he was fully armed and kitted for a two-week journey on foot through the early snows of Southern Brella. His fur-lined cloak was drawn tightly around him, the hood pulled low to shield his face from the biting wind. Heavy gloves covered his hands, and sturdy boots, wrapped with additional leather for warmth, protected his feet from the freezing ground. The weight of his weapons and supplies was a reassuring burden. His longsword and parrying dagger sheathed on his left hip, and a pack full of rations, extra clothing, and other essentials was strapped securely to his back.
But Godfrey was not there, not really. He floated automatically from task to task, aware in the most general, vague sense of an ultimate objective.
Hawker followed him out, his movements stiff but resolute. Fresh bandages were wrapped around his chest wound, already stained red with the blood that continued to seep from the deep gash. His face was pale, drawn tight with pain, but his eyes were sharp and focused.
As Godfrey trudged through the snow, every step felt like wading through a nightmare. The biting wind cut through him, but the cold didn’t register; his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the horrific echoes of the evening’s events. Flashes of Elara’s throat being opened replayed endlessly in his mind, the sight of her lifeblood spilling out more vivid than the snow beneath his feet. He saw it every time he blinked, felt the horror crawl up his spine with every breath.
Tarlow’s manic laughter, a sound that had always been comforting in its wildness, now echoed through his mind with a sinister edge. He could see the gleam of Tarlow’s falchion, the way it danced through the air with a deadly grace, and then… nothing. The laughter had faded into the night, swallowed by the cacophony of battle and the silence that followed.
John, ever the strategist, had fought with precision, his strikes calculated, but they too had ended in silence. Godfrey hadn’t seen it, hadn’t seen them fall, but the weight in his chest told him the truth he didn’t want to face. They were gone. They had to be. They stayed behind to buy him time, to get him and Hawker away, and he had run like a coward, because Hawker had pushed him, dragged him through the forest while his mind screamed at him to go back, to fight.
He shook his head, trying to clear the fog that clouded his thoughts, but it was no use. The images were burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He stumbled on a tree root, barely catching himself before he fell, and looked up to see Hawker a few steps ahead, his back rigid with the strain of his injury. The man’s steps were steady, purposeful, even as blood seeped from his wound with every movement. How was he still standing? How was he still going?
They pushed deeper into the woods, Hawker leading them south, away from the village, away from the burning homes, and away from the dead. Godfrey glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Corvin’s dark figure looming in the distance, sword in hand, ready to finish what he had started. But there was nothing. Only the trees, skeletal in the dim moonlight, and the oppressive silence of the winter night.
Hawker stopped suddenly, his hand raised as a signal to halt. Godfrey froze, his heart pounding in his ears, but there was no sound, no sign of danger. Hawker listened intently for a moment, then nodded to himself and continued forward, leading them off the beaten path and into the underbrush. They were moving in a direction Godfrey didn’t recognize, but it didn’t matter. He would follow Hawker anywhere, because he couldn’t think for himself anymore.
The images kept flashing through his mind—
Elara’s lifeless eyes staring at him.
John’s bloodied hand gripping his sword.
Tarlow’s insane laughter echoing in the distance.
Godfrey stumbled again, but this time Hawker caught him, his grip firm on his arm. “Stay with me, lad,” Hawker muttered, his voice rough.
The look Godfrey returned surprised them both. It wasn’t just fear, or grief—it was anger, hot and hating.
Hawker had made him run. He had dragged him away, forced him to flee like a coward while their family—while Tarlow and John—fought for their lives against the man who had killed…
Godfrey’s rational mind knew it was the only choice, knew that staying would have meant certain death. Corvin would have sliced through him without a second thought, just as he had Elara. Aunt Alice. Aunt Katherine.
Blood pouring, bone shattered.
The raw, choking guilt, twisted into something else—something dark and bitter, and came to rest, squalid, above Godfrey’s heart.
As they walked south, away from Oakvale—away from the village that had been their home, now the tomb of their past—Godfrey let the cold seep into his bones, welcoming the distraction of biting wind and aching muscles. Anything to keep his mind from wandering back to the horrors of the night, from the flashes of blood and steel, from the sound of Elara’s choked scream.
He kept his gaze fixed south, toward Centria, and the bitter unknown that awaited him. On they walked, one foot and another, through the snow, through the darkness, both wishing for nothing more than to feel nothing at all.
End of Act 1