Damon sat staring at the crackling campfire. Since boyhood, Faldo had been his sibling, his brother, one of the few steady stars of guidance in his chaotic world, and now he was gone. They had got the man who had been such a sadistic son of a bitch as to let his own guard gang rape his daughter, but the cost had been terrible. Faldo was more than just the tempering force for their duo, somehow the jovial fighter fate had been tied to the survival of the world. He huddled a little closer to the fire, allowing its cheerless warmth to seep into his numerous injuries. A healer had attended the wound in his arm, getting the bleeding to stop and closing the gaping hole left courtesy of the late Lady Thewar. Her gift was now just added to the many aches and pains that plagued him this morning, both mental and physical.
The attending physician did the best she could do for his injuries but there was only so much energy in a body. Healers did not practice inheritance and were therefore limited to the fifth circle. Without the souls that an apprentice sorcerer would gain from their master, a mortal’s energy was finite. Casting too much could kill a person and once exhausted, only rest would remedy the drain.
The damage to the inside muscles and tendons would need to heal on its own. His other injuries were sore, and he was exhausted, having not slept in seventy-two hours. Every time he moved his ribs screamed with agony, making his vision swim with pain. Damon had been ordered to bed by his worried fiance’. He did not even want to see himself in a reflection at the moment. He knew he must look like one of Chaos’s demons.
Damon had tried to lay down with Cariline, who slept fitfully beside him. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the blue eyes filled with fear, falling into burning oblivion and a pang of overwhelming guilt would wash over him. Cariline cried out in her sleep in fear, flinging her hands up in desperation. He reached over and soothed her with a gentle pat. The death that bastard suffered wasn’t cruel enough, Damon thought darkly as Cariline huddled against Damon’s protective arm. She was carrying his child and the grandchild of the Grim. It still seemed all too surreal to him, thinking of himself as the child of a fairy tale.
He chuckled despite his dark mood, out of everyone in the world, all the faithful followers, the one person who is the Heir to The All-Father was an atheist. Could the world get any more ironic than that? He sighed and gently got up out of the warmth of the woolen blankets and the fire, taking in a sharp breath as the frigid air hit him through the torn clothes that served to protect him from the elements. He slowly walked away from their open fire, stepping gingerly, the ground cold against his rag wrapped feet, to look for the quartermaster to see maybe about a cloak. He despised cloaks, they were bulky and got in the way.
In Tharpe, Damon had paid Sarah the Seamstress a small fortune to make him an amazing long coat with beaver fur lining. Now he would have to suffice with what he termed as an insufficient shoulder blanket, but with this arctic air that filtered in off the Northern Spine, he would gladly take one to ward off the chill. The sky had clouded over during the morning, and there had been flurries slowly dancing through the wind coming off the lake, promising that they were only the beginning. If he guessed it right, there would be snow-covered ground by tonight.
At the quartermaster's, he got not only a cloak but also a new set of boots. The master, a care-worn, elderly soldier, looked worriedly at Damon’s wrapped bare feet and winced. The Master wandered off mumbling about priorities and looked for fifteen minutes to find Damon some boots. Damon had been walking around with cloth wraps around his feet since his cousin had come by his fire and demanded his armor back. Thomas was furious about the hole in the chain armor from the close range crossbow bolt, complaining loudly about the time it would take him to patch it up. The little thief was tired, sore, and grieving. He snapped at Thomas, putting the larger man on the ground with a series of punches. His cousin lay stunned for a few seconds and quickly gathered his things with one hand, the other tried to stem the blood pouring out his nose.
Damon needed to find Thomas and apologize. He should not have used his older cousin as a punching bag to release his grief. Thomas just happened to be in the wrong place, saying the wrong things. He also needed to find his immortal father. The Grim had so much explaining to do and Damon was in the mood for so damn answers. At least something was going to make sense that had happened over the past few days.
He walked down towards the shore and saw the shadowy bulk outline of a person who stood there. Damon approached the stranger silently from behind. Stalking prey was second nature to a predator like Damon and after what he just went through in the past two days, he was more than a little cautious. The ground was soft beneath his feet nimble feet, the long grass giving just a little crackle and the lake its soft lap of the water against the soggy shore. Damon’s pulse raced with the thrill of the hun as it always did. He could clearly see now it was his father and as far as he could tell, he was oblivious to his presence. Damon was hunting the Grim and he was almost close enough to touch when the baritone rang out, echoing softly over the vast lake.
“Don’t even think about it son,”
Damon jumped backward, giving a childlike yelp in surprise, landing firmly on the marshy ground. He muttered a small curse as he pushed himself back up to his feet with as much dignity as possible, trying in vain to brush the mud of the seat of his pants. He looked behind him, to the imprint where his rear hit the grey mud and the cold muck that froze his hands. Had he been wearing his long coat that burned with the rest of Tharpe and not this useless horse blanket, his ass wouldn’t be muddy. He walked up to stand beside the brooding Grim.
“You know you usually are remarkably good,” The Grim complimented him not taking his eyes off the tossing boat offshore, “I did not hear you, I felt you. Your soul and the closeness of the Seed you bear.”
The Grim’s red eyes never left the tossing water. His Father had been unusually aloof since the news of Faldo’s death, choosing to spend most of his time alone. The bravado was meant to be something for the Grim, something that could not be replaced, and without it, everyone was no doomed. His Father had failed and he was taking it hard.
“You keep talking about this Seed. What exactly is it?” Damon asked curiously, “I may be an atheist, but my mother did make sure I had the best the Temple had to offer in education. I have never heard of this Seed. Not from any text nor scripture that the necromancer nor acolyte taught from.”
“Then you did not listen,” The Grim reprimanded nonchalantly, “When I first made Second-Man, the first ones to be born where my Children, my heirs. As a matter of self-protection against annihilation, any child of mine is a male child who bears a Seed, a key to the World itself. It is my fear of perishing that brought this upon Second-man and this plane of existence. I can have no daughters Damon, though I do wish I could. I sort of hope your child will be a girl. I would like a Granddaughter.”
Damon smiled, the thought of The Grim dangling a baby over his knee, making googling noises at it, seemed to make the dark world a little brighter.
“I think I would like a little girl too,” Damon said carefully, still unsure of how to act in the presence of a being he did not believe in till yesterday, “but really I would take a healthy baby.”
“That’s the spirit,” the Grim said with a broad smile of approval, slapping him on the back making the little man rock forward, almost sending him sprawling into the grey, oozing shore again.
“Father, what went wrong with my brothers?” Damon asked with a raised eyebrow while trying to rub at his stinging back. The Grim let out a heavy sigh. His Father’s smile left his hawkish features and a deep sadness returned. He slowly shook his head as he let out a regretful sigh.
“I had hoped to save this for after the wedding Damon. It is a heavy burden to bear; it may weigh heavily on a time of great joy.”
Damon shook his head fiercely, “No, I want to know what makes me so different. I murder, I steal, I cheat. I do a lot of things people considered bad, which makes me good enough to be the Seed of Grim, the Crown Prince? I didn’t even believe in the afterlife for the love of Chaos!”
Damon threw up his hands in frustration and sat on the shoreline looking out at the waves. His seat was already muddy, so he didn’t mind the wet as he picked moodily at the dry grass. From here, he could barely see the smoke of his home still rising into the air in the distance and thought of the good friend he left there.
“Did you know Faldo and I used this very dock to smuggle hard liquor into Tharpe un-taxed? If my mother only knew how much I did to help alleviate some of those taxes she put on.” Damon said putting his head into his hands to try to stop the memories of his lost friend, “Or how the ones we forced into the ‘protection money’ were the ones who were charging outlandish prices, hurting those in the streets. Sure we kept part of that money, but we moved a good majority to honest merchants who helped the poorer ones too. But if people know those things, they tend not to pay up because you’ve gone soft.”
The Grim sat down beside his son smiling, shaking his head, “You know Damon, you want to pretend you don’t care, but just like the statement you just uttered. You didn’t do it for money or to fight the Temple. You did it because you cared for the souls of the people who were suffering. You went after Fredrick and the people who caused all this because they caused pain to people and you served justice. You answered your question on ‘why me’ better than any of my petty words ever will. You might talk like an uncaring tough ass, but my Seed shows through. It is in your nature.”
The Grim reached over beside his son grabbing a rock and tossed it into the very center of the lake. Damon gave him a wide sidelong glance. Grim winked back at him with his red eyes dancing mischievously, “My first seven encountered the knowledge of sorcery when second-man was in its infancy. They approached their age of inheritance and sought me out to ask me for their portion of what they felt they were owed as my sons. It was then that I let them know that I was the All-Father, The Grim and until I perished, none would gain their inheritance. Baine was the eldest by a month and was wroth with anger over it. He slew a healer in the village where he and his mother lived in his rage over it.”
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“This is fascinating,” came Jen’s voice behind them, “Why don’t we have this version in the Book of the Lost?”
She walked up, still dressed in her light chain mail with the crest of Grim on it, and leaned against a water willow that branches swayed gently in the cold wind. She reached up and brushed an icy snowflake off her nose and looked at the pair. Her red hair stood out in the grey of the mid-winters day, a flame to follow in the darkness. She closed her eyes and shook her head, letting out a small laugh.
“You know it is still uncanny, actually seeing you two side by side. But anyways, according to the Book of the Lost, your sons were just evil with the power of Chaotic sorcery, lusting for soul infusion, and that type of thing. Why don’t we hear the rejection side of things?”
The Grim shrugged, “I didn’t write the book, and the book has been rewritten over the last, oh what, four hundred and fifty thousand years. I imagine I could probably correct a whole lot of propaganda in the Book of the Lost that you have today. Maybe one day we need to sit down and make revisions?”
“Imagine that, necromancers rewriting their own religious book without the permission of their deity—“ taunted Damon.
Grim held up a finger “I never claimed to be a Deity,”
“I was raised around it father,” Damon continued, “Without the permission of the FATHER to control the masses better. And you had to wonder why I was an atheist?”
Jen chuckled beside them under the tree, they both looked at her questioningly, “Nothing just thinking of advice from the man I am going to promote into the first officer position in the East. That we, in the Temple, need to act more like humans less like our shit don’t stink.”
“Wise man,” The Grim nodded in agreement, “Don’t let him go too far.” he continued his explanation, “They had been using sorcery in secret for a year at this point, and each was equally matched in power. They discovered you could not gain any more power on your own other than what you were born with, hence why they wanted their inheritance. Sorcery is addictive, like the plants and roots of the alchemist. To much use and that is all one can think of, and Chaos knew this when it released the secret to my sons and on second-man. When Baine slew that woman, he found the answer to his problem, his brothers found out and were thrown into a rage.”
“A war broke out between my sons. The one who gained the most power would be the one to challenge me. Since they were my sons, their capacity was much greater than that of regular sorcerers. Out of them all, Baine was the strongest, he was the hardest to turn into a reaper. Many died in that final battle against him. After the final turning, I continually expanded their territory, keeping them busy watching over the land entrusted to them. We happen to the in Baine’s Domaine. He will be here to help convey the dead to the nearest Temple. It is funny, in a way I gave them exactly what they wanted. Each got entrusted with some of my World.”
Jen shivered, never in her life had she met one of the originals. She came over to her husband a caressed his back gently, letting her fingers play over his muscles. She loved this man, more than just a diety. For her, when she took her vows, they were her marriage vows. They would be life long commitments that would bind her to this man, even if she could never hold him.
“Grace, you still haven’t answered his question,” Jen said gently.
“I have,” Grim argued with his wife, “Damon does not seek the throne, nor does he have the capability for sorcery. My power was meant for another, one that is no longer with us.” he paused with almost a choking sigh. It then registered with Damon why his Father mourned for Faldo. The Grim continued, “ The others caused chaos and destruction, as is the usual side effect for those who lust for power. Damon does not seek station nor power, despite outward appearance, his thirst for mayhem is from human nature. It does battle with his incorruptible seed of Order through his kind acts of charity.”
“Everyone has the capability for sorcery. It is just energy driven by purpose.”
“Not Damon, he does not believe in a Purpose. Therefore he cannot work any sorcery.” Grim stated firmly turning to stare at his son, “Which is why Damon, you must go to the Underworld carrying my Seed back to the Throne of Judgement, with it without a vessel for my power. It must go on, there must be hope.”
“NO!” Jen objected, “He is your heir if you are to disappear. He is all we have left. If you send him to the Underworld, he will die!”
Jen was almost in tears. She had raised Damon from a baby and now he was also the son of her husband, making him soon to be her Master. She would protect him at all costs. The thought of losing both of them almost paralyzed her with grief.
“I cannot go there, nothing but death goes there. I will die.” Damon said visibly shaking, “No one may enter the Gatehouse portals while living.”
“No, you may not, not yet at least.” The Grim said to Damon standing and giving him a hand up off the bank, “You have three years, during that time you will slowly come into your inheritance. It will be an interesting three years. Think of it as puberty for the immortal and on your twentieth Grim-Tide, in three years, you pass into immortality, but you are different, in that you are an immortal with a soul. Go to the City of the Dead, to the Seat of Judgement and take the Throne. It will, how should I say it, replant my Seed there and allow for my rebirth.”
“What happens to me then?” asked Damon, his dark eyes troubled.
“I truly don’t know son. I have Lucy pouring over prophecy as we speak. If she finds something, she will send a reaper. You can see them now. She has kept her ability to control them, even after death.” The Grim said affectionately, “She has been a good steward for me, and for the next three years, she can handle things for you in the Underworld. Order forbid something to happen where I cannot return, she will make a good steward for you after too, don’t get rid of her.”
“What do we do during the intervening years?” Jen questioned her husband as she stretched, rubbing a fist in the small of her back, making her chain armor jingle softly.
“Well, there is a town to rebuild, Sorcerers to chase out of the East, and my grandchild to watch over but there is one more thing that I might have left out.” The Grim said, a slightly mischievous grin.
“What is that,” Damon said.
“The Seed of Destruction will be sown the minute I am gone.” The Grim said ominously in a deep rumble, “You won’t be alone in your search for the Seat of Judgment.”
“And what if I don’t want to be the damn Seed of Grim?” Damon spat back a little defiantly. Two days ago he had enough problems being the Matron’s son and now here he was expected to take some damnable throne. It put him in a poor temperament and his nerves were frayed almost to the limits.
“Then Destruction wins,” Jen said softly looking off towards the smoldering Tharpe making Damon’s blood run cold.
Thomas crept into Bethel’s dim tent slowly as to not draw attention from the stray wanderer outside, watching her shadowy shape slumber. After the night everyone had, the camp was slumbering through the morning. His Aunt had been disgraced and turned into a recluse. Bethel had not been seen nor heard from since the battle. He understood she had to be in mourning, so he would stop in and cheer her day up. It was a freezing day, and her braziers were unlit, she obviously needed extra warmth under the covers.
When he found his armor in a wreck, it had put him in a foul mood, and normally Bethel soothed those moods. She had taken and shown him the real way of Order when his mother wanted to go off and study in a monastery because she felt the calling to be a healer. She had abandoned her thirteen-year-old son, to that wretch of a father. The drunk old soot died two years later in his sleep, leaving Thomas without house nor food. Old Matron Suz had come to deal with the body and inquired on his welfare and relatives. Bethel was the only living relative left to him.
Bethel took him into her house to raise with her six-year-old son, his cousin Damon. The damn boy lived up to his namesake and was a little demon. That was shortly before she left to go with old Suz to chase down Bethel’s husband, Rascus. During the intervening months, Thomas and Damon were cared for by Jen. Damon had never had a sibling and wasn’t about to share his mother. Damon constantly got the older youth in trouble with Jen during that time with the help of Damon’s friend Faldo. Thomas was much bigger and thrashed him for years afterward in revenge for what a little shit he was.
Bethel came back changed, and now as Mother Matron, she found him some work on the Guard to keep the troubled youth busy. As his muscle built, so did the Matron’s interest in him. The more the interest built, the less trouble Thomas found himself in. Thomas found he liked the attention and reciprocated it innocently. At first, it was just a touch here or a comment there. But that first encounter with her at the Temple taught him more about a woman than all the whores at the Three Pigs. She snared him when she offered him promotion over the others for continued service at the Temple with her.
He was sure that her behavior yesterday was because the Grim was there, but she was no longer his wife. There was no reason they could not continue their arrangements again. Thomas slipped closer to her cot where she slumbered and rubbed his hand up her firm thigh in his way of introduction, and she stirred, murmuring softly. He stood and undid his pants buckle, letting them fall to the floor with a clank.
Bethel came out of her bed with a sudden lurch, her long steel grey hair cut to a short stubble and hard gray eyes blazing. There was a knife clutched in her hand as she landed on top of him, with his pants trapping his ankles, knocking him to the ground. Her hand reached down and grabbed a handful of his intended entertainment proposition, and she held her knife threateningly to it. Thomas shuddered with pain, as he could feel Bethel’s hot breath against his cheek as she looked him up and down unapprovingly.
“This is wrong in the eyes of Order, a sin,” She hissed, angrily “Repent, for I am here to drive the sin from the land. To stop the Chaos from spreading, Repent.” She repeated louder as her anger grew.
Thomas whimpered, and she pressed her blade down into his groin, drawing a little blood, letting it flow in a small trickle to between his legs and he wailed, a screech howling between his lips. Isobelle came quickly through the tent flap and grabbed Bethel’s hands, pulling them upwards, forcing the disgraced Matron to stand.
“Cease this now Bethel.” She commanded as applied pressure to points in Bethel’s wrist and made the knife fall from her nerveless fingers. The sharp point pierced Thomas’s leg on its journey to the floor. He howled like a wounded Demon, and Isobelle silenced him with a skeptical look. She reached between his legs to remove the blade, looking with satisfaction at his battle wounds.
“This man tried something against the natural Order he must be punished,” Bethel said adamantly, her grey eyes still blazing indignantly.
Isobelle looked back at his bleeding leg and groin then back at Bethel, “I think he has, he won’t try it again. Will you?”
Thomas shook his head furiously from where he sat on the floor, side to side, with tears streaming down his face. Bethel nodded her head in acceptance, the simply tuned to go back to bed as if nothing had occurred. Isobelle eyed Thomas’ red face with a knowing smile.
“I trust you won’t mention this, will you?” He asked wincing in pain while pulling up his pants gently.
“Now why would I spread such a horrible story like that?” she asked her bell-like laughter peeling as she walked out of the tent.