“Aahhh...” Micah groaned in pleasure, Brenn lowering him into the pool with a goofy smile on his face. The hot water surely must feel pleasant to one dipping their feet in it after the long day, but... “You get it?” He looked toward Tyr, the man's wide shoulders and chest all riddled with gnarly scars again, leaning into the wall next to Iscari, all of them naked in a depiction of true brotherhood between men. Glaring down at Micah from the spot, clearly oblivious to the joke the other man was making. “I'm disabled, I can't feel the water from the waist down!”
Nobody had laughed, only Brenn. The chatty atmosphere suddenly grew awkward.
“That seems like a joke we're not supposed to laugh at.” Iscari grimaced. “Very clever though. Are you sure it's even safe to be in here?”
“Huh? I'm an excellent swimmer. What would give you the impression that I wasn't? It's a bathhouse, not an ocean.” Brenn lowered himself into the water and put his hands in the crook of Micah's armpits to get him into the right position for sitting. With the damage his braces had suffered and no time to repair them, it was best not to fill the internal gears with water. Most of it was all nickel alloy and manatite, resistant to oxidation, but they needed maintenance like anything else.
“Ah, well...” Iscari cleared his throat, repeating himself. “Very clever indeed, Micah.”
“I'll punch you right in your pretty face.” Micah said playfully. “Imagine the headlines. Disabled boy overpowers primus. The press will make me more famous than the legendary White Wolf himself, eh? Want to try it out? Professors say I'm not supposed to use spatial magic on living things, but I could make an exception. Knock you down a peg.”
Yjr npu od seslrmomg. Trsfrt.
“I'm not famous, Micah.” Tyr sighed, frowning at the voice in his skull, at least it had been quieted down for a time. The song, the beating heart of the earth and sky had stilled his mind for the time being. The water helped, and the presence of Iscari did too. Nothing was perfect, but this was as good as it was going to get. Here amongst his friends, the wood paneling and decorative plants all around the bathhouse adding a pleasant fragrance to the steamy air.
“If not that, then infamous.” Iscari chuckled. “Even in Varia we hear of you.”
“Oh?” Tyr raised an eyebrow. “And what are the olive eaters saying about me now? Gods but I hate olives, disgusting. I don't hate many things, but I promise I hate those. And peas...”
“They say that you're a monster in human skin.” Brenn answered, plucking a bar of soap from the shelf and beginning to lather it into his skin. The pool itself was enchanted, it'd scour a man's skin clean just by laying in it, but he liked to smell good. Brenn had a side to him that he didn't often reveal, a love of fragrant things and pleasant scents. Full of surprises, all of them, the little nuances that made a person. For him, it was sandalwood, clary and sage. Neatly trimmed and manicured from head to toe at all times, their predilection for cleanliness shared between all of them but Tyr who didn't particularly care any longer. He couldn't get dirty, perhaps that helped. “A shapeshifting wolf man sent by Luna herself to punish the wicked and judge the damned. It gets wilder the more I hear the stories, but I find them amusing. Some say you're an old man with one eye that collects the tongues of his victims in a bag on his hip, and that those tongues speak to you even after the men they'd belonged to are dead. It's all awfully derivative, but the bards spin it their way and the songs are popular these days.”
“Hmm.” Tyr appreciated it for a moment. “Sounds an awful lot like the god Wotan. A strange god to associate me with. I don't have any ravens, and I'm certainly not wise.”
“Well he was a war god originally, in the mythologies.” Brenn shrugged. “You're half Oresundian yourself, and bear your name. The Lord of Wolves. White hair. All that. Maybe that's why, Wotan had two wolves himself, was Tiwaz not one of them?”
“Maybe.” Tyr replied absentmindedly. “I wish they wouldn't say those things about me, regardless.”
“Oh? Does it hurt your feelings?” Micah laughed. “I think it's bad ass, all I need to do is drop your name and tell women we are friends and... Oh, is that okay?”
“I don't see why not.” Tyr replied, leaning forward as Iscari began to rub soap into his back, sighing in contentment. He hated being touched by all but a few people, not out of a concern for cleanliness but... Maybe that was it, actually. Cleanliness of the soul, perhaps? Wash themselves how they might, common men were filthy, all of them. “We are friends, you and I. Brenn, how do you feel about it? Truthfully. You hate it, yes?”
“Me?” Brenn shook his head, all balanced on that massive neck of his. In his early twenties and still getting bigger to the point where he was two or three inches taller than Tyr now, and quite a bit burlier in build. “No. Even the wildest of the bards tales do not compare to the brutality I'd thought I saw when we encountered those Fingers of Hastur. Fear and reputation are powerful weapons, and I don't think a reputation for being good at killing bad people is a fel one. The songs all share one component factor. That you fight for justice, for the common man, sacrificing everything to protect the weak. Some call you a son of Sanguinar, the lamb god of blood and self sacrifice. I've often wondered if any of that were true. Would you tell me if I asked?”
“It's not true.” Tyr replied honestly, well aware of why he did these things. “I'll admit that I don't like seeing the weak preyed upon. It sickens me. But it isn't out of anything like sympathy or duty, it's out of concern for other things. Unless they are children, I've rarely cared. I either see challenge in it, and don't want to lose – or I am disgusted in a way... An instinctive way. Like they are trespassing on my land and I can't let them take what belongs to me. I am not like you, Brenn, and I know that bothers those closest to me, and I am not sorry.”
“Like a wolf that finds another predator hunting in its domain. The wolf, stomach full and no need to risk itself, understands that this is his territory and it may need that deer its opponent chases in the future?” Brenn asked. “Sound accurate?”
“C'mon man...” Micah chuckled. “By that logic you're making it sound like Tyr would eat the flesh of a man. There's no way he would do that.”
“Well...” Tyr coughed. “Actually.”
“I don't want to hear of this.” Brenn waved it away. Cannibalism was one of mans greatest taboos and even if Tyr had, he didn't want to know. His oath compelled him to do something about it. “Tyr, do you think you're a bad person?”
“Do you think I'm a bad person?” Tyr rebutted, to all of them, not just Brenn. “Wait a second, why's this always about me? Can't we talk about you guys for once...?”
“Nope.” Micah smiled mischievously. “I think you're a good person.”
“I know that you are not.” Iscari replied, his hand resting on Tyr's naked back, squeezing him affectionately. “A bad person, I mean.”
“Sometimes.” Brenn's reply was a little more honest than Micah's, just as much as Iscari's. “I've seen you smash men asunder, heard of all that you've done in pursuit of your goals – whatever they may be. On the other hand, I've seen you spend countless hours forging test components by Sigi's request to make Micah's braces better. Feed orphans, give piles of coin away for no reason at all. I cannot make sense of you, and I've come to terms with that, but I still want to know.”
“What kind of man I am...?” Tyr snorted at Brenn's slow nod. “I wish I knew. Once I thought men were such simple creatures, and perhaps they are – but I don't even understand myself. Thus, I believe I was rash in this judgment. As for whether or not I'm a bad person, I don't think it matters. If it did, and in respect to your sincerity, I would say I'm not. But I'm not good, either. I just know that I'm supposed to try to be.”
“Why do you say that?” Brenn asked. It was a rare thing to see both Tyr and Iscari in the same room these days, and both men were giants. Iscari was a little bit taller, but the smallest bit slimmer in turn, otherwise their physique was about the same. Sharp jaws, almost twins if one ignored the hair and eye color, the resemblance was uncanny. If one were to tell Brenn that these two were brothers – he'd have believed it. Tyr had always been a fit, tall man, but Brenn was taller still by a margin, never properly realizing how larger than life a primus could be. Not Tyr. Tyr seemed normal in his existence, if Brenn had to put a word to it. The other primus', Iscari for example, were truly larger than life – and stature was irrelevant in the observation. When they were so near each other, Tyr felt the same, completely different than he normally did. As if gravity had shifted. A missing piece of him was back where it belonged, perhaps.
“I am not good, nor bad in the classical sense of things.” Tyr replied, before continuing.
“I have gone out of my way to help people that I did not have to. Regardless of my motivations, I don't think it matters. A knight grows to appreciate his sword. A sword has no mind, no morality, no consideration for the thing it strikes. Whether it be wood, metal, flesh... And yet so many legends are born of great blades and how lucky mankind was to have them, many even more famous than their wielders. I am not like you. I can smell a rapist, a murderer, a person who would or has hurt a youngling in a way I am not willing to extrapolate on. If it makes me a bad person because I feel the nails in my head screaming to see them broken for what they've done, then I do not wish to be good. Alex says I should submit them to the law, but the law is faulty. It will fail you, the legislature, but a knife to the base of their skull will not – I will not. Am I truly expected to justify myself every time? You do not see what I see. I can smell it, taste it in the back of my throat, it's rank and black, the blood on them. Hurt on them. I do not kill innocents, I am not a butcher.”
Every sentence that left Tyr's rapidly escalating monologue grew louder, faster, angrier, thick with vitriol and accusation. “Who are you to judge me? Your weakling goddess and her talk of family and friendship gives you that right? You tiny, frail men in your houses of stone with your quills and parchments and gavels. The audacity of your disgusting race so freely capable of such depravity while simultaneously exalting your wretched gods? Ugly, spineless eunuchs in their hovels thinking they can demand what, exactly? Of me? I am the primus, I am not your servant, and certainly not your slave! And one day, I will open your eyes and leave you silent.”
Micah lurched uncomfortably into the iron hard frame of Brenn, expecting a fight. Iscari didn't move, but his eyes were wary and vigilant locked onto the back of Tyr's head.
“Bother yourself no further.” Tyr scoffed, rapidly cooling in the head. Perhaps realizing how far he'd taken things for no good reason at all. “I will not be long for this world. But you will see. I am not a villain, I am the hero of this story. Not you, not Iscari, not my piss poor excuse of a father.” Without so much as a goodbye or a wrapping of a towel around his waist, he rose from the pool and left them in awkward silence, his wet feet slapping rhythmically against the marble.
“I didn't mean to...” Brenn choked in dismay. He was the accuser, the party on the wrong side of things in this debacle that was meant to be a chance to reconnect. Tyr was not good, not in the classical sense as he'd said, but still his guilt must lay heavy on his heart. First, there was the concerns of the others regarding Tyr's mental state. Second, there was the fact that as he'd explained, Tyr saw himself as a tool. A weapon, about some great business beyond the ken of man. Ridiculous, maybe, but Brenn revered the primus' as most others did and he'd forgotten that in his familiarity with the man. But before he could chase after Tyr, Iscari held up a hand and shook his head.
“He'll be fine.” Iscari said softly and confidently, though a bit sadly, lips turned down in a frown as his eyes remained fixed on Tyr's path of departure.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because the next you speak to Tyr, the Tyr you speak with will likely have no recollection of this conversation.”
“Can't you people just be normal. Like, for once? What the hell is the matter with you all?” Micah asked, exasperated that this rare chance to 'chill with the boys' had been ruined. “I can agree with you, though. I had not thought he'd have been so... Sensitive? Tyr was always edgy and emotional but he's never shouted at us, not once...”
“You don't understand him, that's why you're surprised.” Iscari sighed, staring in regret at the sponge he'd used to wash Tyr's back before working it into his own skin instead. He did not blame his friends for what had happened. Iscari was surprised as well, but for different reasons. Tyr didn't throw fits like that, not verbally, he might protest but after a while his laconic nature would rear its head and he'd grow tired of responding. Staring back until the other party simply ceased speaking, or silently departing instead. Defined by his apathy, rarely did he accuse – and Iscari had never heard him complain about anything at any point – not truly. He'd sigh, shrug, and put his hands in the dirt until a thing was done and never look back.
“How do you mean?” Micah asked curiously.
“When Tyr was young...” Iscari chewed his lip, it wasn't exactly a secret anymore now that they knew so much. Whether it came from him or the women... Ultimately, Iscari decided to tell them something they might already know. “Imagine being born, living five years, and losing your memories. An empty slate, yes?”
“We know.” Brenn nodded. “Alex made us aware, and told us not to tell anyone else.”
“Good.” Iscari pursed his lips. “Tyr, after those events, was kept locked in the palace and isolated from everybody except for a few chosen tutors. His only constant companion has been Tiber, and while I respect the man and would never question his honor, Tiberius Scarr is not the role model I'd choose for a child. Tyr's only interaction with his parents up until his mother's death was largely negative, punishments. Violent ones at that, to the point where saying he was physically tortured would not be an exaggeration. Violence does not beget understanding, it begets fear, but Tyr does not fear as people do, he denies. That isn't to say he doesn't have fear, Tyr is not some cold blooded machine as you might think, he is still a little boy in the body of a very powerful man. A primus. He was never re-taught the lessons of his youth, the kind of stories and education you give a child to teach them right from wrong. He had to learn these things for himself and they are half lessons. It's all instinct now, he's too old to make a drastic change in demeanor, and his only fear is disappointing the people he cares about. That would mean you, I'd think. Us, really. I hate to use this analogy because Tyr is my greatest love...” Iscari paused, chewing on his lip again.
“I mean that. I love him. But I am not his superior, not his teacher, nor someone who is going to hate him for what he is regardless – I will always support him, and I mean that to. The others can turn their backs on Tyr, judging him, but I never will. I'm certainly not someone with the power or influence to cause the cards to fall where I want them to, in any case. To summarize before I begin a soliloquy nobody asked for... I hate to use this analogy, I'll say that again for context, but what you all keep doing... What you, the others, Alex, Sigi, Astrid... What you keep doing is the equivalent of kicking a dog to teach it a lesson. Tyr is not a dog, of course, I just... He is a simple man with a complex background and a childhood severely lacking in proper instruction even if he remembers it now. It's too late, those memories must seem useless in his mind. Things he doesn't need to win, and make people proud of him, to be loved and celebrated. All men want that, and so does he. You continually bashing him like this is not helping whatsoever in his recovery. Don't you get that?”
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“I do.” Brenn nodded again. He'd always thought that Tyr was a bit of an angry, spoiled brat, some daddy issues sprinkled within.
'So?' Brenn might've said once.
'You lost your mother? The world is a harsh place, there are orphans all around us.' But after a second of reflection, he realized how unfair he'd been in his consideration of the man. He felt no remorse or regret, didn't need to, that was a waste, but he understood a little bit more the character of the man. Ignoring the fact that he couldn't possibly hope to empathize with the tragic cancer of lunacy tearing Tyr apart.
–
Tor missed the fjords. The raging torrent of the waterfalls and their mists that would spray for dozens of meters ahead of them. Soft moss and the lively green boughs of the pine and spruce native to his homeland. They had forests here in the south, but they were tame and well traveled. For all his life he'd wanted to leave Oresund, and he had, enjoying the wild life of a raider before getting clapped in irons. Now, he missed it more than ever. The Brotherhood lands were mostly plains, and on the western edge it was all cracked yellow ground. Flat, too uniform. The mountains here were hardly worthy of the name. Even the storms were weak. Not one of this lot could make it more than a week or two on a longship without falling into the sea, starved and broken. Weak were the men, too. Everything was 'magic this' and 'magic that', that was their consideration of what 'strong' was.
Magic would hardly save a man from a hatchet he didn't expect. Strength was in their backs, not in the seidr. What northmen called 'magic' – that is. Seidr, the other component of 'Wyrd' that defined all things and made them real out of the raw chaos sorcerers wielded.
“Status?” Herican's voice came from the close-distance communication amulet in a crackle, disturbing his thoughts.
“Eleven signatures. Ready for deployment.” Tor reported.
Things were wilder in Oresund, the strong led and the weaker followed. That was how it should be. It wasn't as if all these men were necessarily weak, but they weren't leaders. All they cared for was gold, and had no love for adventure and wild revelry as Tor did. Not like his brothers, but he'd surrendered his relationship to those men long ago in pursuit of all the riches the south had to offer. All those fine foods and buxom women had become ash in his mouth, a source of scowls and homesickness.
“Understood.” Herican replied. “Close the net.”
Weak? Perhaps comparatively. But organized, that's how they made up for it. The strength of the individual wasn't important to the Brotherhood as long as their strategies were followed. This was how the southerners won their victories, the tight formations and crisp maneuvers drilled into their heads after days or weeks of preparation. It didn't happen immediately, they were in no rush. Mages were common enough in the Brotherhood but they weren't the norm. Artifacts were, though, and none of the eleven men visible ahead of them were reported as anything stronger than a common man through the scopes. Thus, Herican and his assembled squads would slowly inch in, surround them, and if need be – take them out in one single swoop.
It was dark, with only the fire the majority of this bizarre collection of individuals crowded around to illuminate the carnage of the compound. Just at the periphery. Men who had the gall to attack a Brotherhood installation, and remain in place even after the fact. They weren't of Amistad, that was for certain. Amistad did not employ non-mages in any military capacity. Not even the city guards or toll-collectors were anything less than professional mages, what with their vaguely hidden, near eugenic consideration of what a man should be.
No... Not Amistad. Not bandits either, intel gathered through closer observation was rapidly shared in the communications channel that linked them all. Their voices inaudible to anyone but themselves and those in comms courtesy of the masks they wore. Knights, that's what they looked like. Little bits that twinkled in the firelight displaying metal on their exposed arms and hands. It wasn't uncommon to see a bandit in a breastplate, but marauders did not wear steel vambrace or barbute. Rogues and thieves had no use for the extra weight nor the loss in visibility a helm brought.
Their uniform equipment was also far too consistent to be hoodlums, and they didn't fly the colors of a mercenary order as successor law required.
“If they're not adventurers, then who are they?” Shannon asked.
“Getting a closer look.” Herican said. “Stay ready, Tor, walk your party in nice and easy and ask these men their stripe.”
“Understood.” Tor replied, but he was far from comfortable with this. It was eerie, the behavior of these men. First, there was no ignoring the lake of blood soaking into the soil, the slaughtered corpses of dozens splayed out in all positions.
Left to rot, butchered like animals.
No watchmen, no scouts. These were not some common rabble or street gang, they were professionals and yet acted nothing like it. Nobody else could afford cloaks so heavy and armor so fine, that much was readily apparent. They were deep in the 'bush' of Brotherhood territory, far north of the DMZ... There were no wards, defensive arrays, no divination spells or artifacts being used to watch their surroundings. These men, professional as they appeared, clean and well dressed and plate armored, were oblivious to the approach of the Brotherhood platoon sent to investigate. And as with all things these days, it didn't make any sense. “Oi, Herican...”
“Captain Herican.” The man corrected with a sigh. He was too old for this shit, every year the talent got better but that same talent grew lazier. More uncouth. It was a shame, in his day... “...What is it?”
“What the hell is he doing...?” Shannon hissed on the other side of the perimeter. There were, all told, perhaps thirty of these strange men assembled around in random positions. Most of them just standing stock still in the dark, if not for easily recognized mana signatures, albeit subdued ones, Tor would believe them mannequins. Most gathered around the fire, a few poking around the buildings or playing dice, but there was one far separated from the others, hunched over in the bloody dirt.
Tor found it difficult to making out through the gloom, facing the figure's back, with a black cloak just like all the rest covering his frame, but whoever it was, he was squirming and as they grew closer – Herican saw...
Saw what was happening.
Understood why the two other sites they'd visited had appeared so horrific. Mass butchery and slaughter, men left to rot or freeze, however winter wished to mark them. Dozens upon dozens of bodies all left in the open with no care or honor being shown to them. The rest was all wet viscera and pulverized meat, blood splattered walls and a kind of barbarism he wouldn't consider any civilized man capable of. Massacre. That was a word for it. Border camps and outposts made a butcher's shop, rank and stinking even beneath the frost. Blackened flesh and blued lips. They'd only known to come looking when reports ceased, and undead became common in a region where they'd never been sighted before in modern history. Wights of torn guts and half destroyed faces prowling the snowy countryside, seeking out warmth in the way only the walking dead did.
“Is he...?” Herican paled, not sure whether to feel rage or nausea at what was happening. Tor was to the north, Shannon in the west, but Herican came from the east. A hooded figure, swathed in shadow, his fingers picking through the mess of what had once been a man laying dead on the ground. Sick tearing sounds, the slick ripping of a clawed gauntlets ripping through flesh. Chomping, wet swallows as flesh fled down the man's gullet, a cracking noise like bone being splintered between teeth. He froze, that Herican, that captain of three decades of service to the Gold Oak Company. He'd seen war, battle, more duels than a man could count... That was their way here in these wild lands, but he'd never seen anything this.
“He's eating him...” Tor could hear the sound of gagging in the comms feed. Even these consummate professionals couldn't help but feel squeamish at such a fel sight. The cloaked figure seemed to tire of one corpse before moving on to another in the pile, ignoring them, even though they had to be close enough to see at this point. Another was dragged towards him, clawed hands ripping into it's flesh and picking about, fleshy organs pulled free from the abdomen and stuffed into the creature's mouth. Creature, for no man would freely commit such taboo.
“Wait!” Tor shouted. “We should retreat! That man is--!”
“This is sick!” Herican roared. “Foul! Profane! Slay this demented creature! Mages to the fore! Trident formation, three prong, be advised of possible undead activity!”
“Wait!” Tor cried again. But before he could carry on, he was muted by the captain and left behind by the others, sprinting forward with their weapons out. The Brotherhood weren't some righteous group of holy paladins, but most men were godly. To consume the flesh of a man was a curse, the greatest taboo alongside the likes of incest and regicide.
“I see you.” They all heard the words, not with their ears but in the bases of their skull, buzzing violently with force enough to shake their teeth. Mages let loose with their assault, air and earth and fire. Watching with ghastly gazes as the mana itself froze in the air and began to swim around lazily like koi in a pond.
“Nice and still...” The voice whispered, echoing on and on in the deepest recesses of their minds. They could feel it. Like insects crawling all over them, but they couldn't scratch the itch. Their hands would not obey them. They couldn't move, not one of them. Not Herican, Shannon, not Tor. A pressure was on them, it was in their bones. “Shh, shh, shh. Too much fear. You shouldn't be scared of me, I am not one to fear. I am your salvation.”
Tor knew that voice, had known instinctively the man crouched over those bodies since they'd first arrived, confirmed too late. The Brotherhood leadership did not take Tyr very seriously. So? He could heal? Immortal? What else? He'd been matched by an archmage, roughly. The Brotherhood had archmages, but that wasn't what they were known for. They were known for clever use of artillery and anti-magic tactics.
What threat was Tyr if he couldn't catch their outriders?
Amateus had been a mage state, after all, and they had been smashed aside practically overnight. Mages weren't so fearsome when an army could field entire platoons of artificio troops. Unfortunately, the Brotherhood was largely honorable despite their reputation. There were rules in war, identify first, parley second. That was their mistake. Tor knew Tyr very well, or at least he'd thought he'd known him once. Even back in those days where the boy would blood eagle a man and leave him hanging from a street lamp without a second thought like some grisly trophy of victory. At east there'd been a justifiable reason for it, but now... All Tor was left with was a curse for Tiber.
Tiber was supposed to be a mentor and collar bearer for the madness in that boy, and now he was allowing him to cannibalize men? What blasphemy was this!?
Any offense that might trend towards bravery that Tor felt, however, were removed as soon as Herican freed himself. The old captain turned to a mulched mannequin, smashed into the ground with enough force to half bury him. A slap was all It had took, and a man was dead, dead and flattened, no longer recognizable as anything more than a bundle of twisted leathers and pulverized flesh.
A few of the mercenaries managed to shake the mental pressure, charging at Tyr with a cry on their lips, eyes wild and illuminated under the glowing orbs of the suspended magic. With a single, unarmed hand, fingers straightened – Tyr ended them all with a chopping blow. Slow, almost mocking in how easily he'd taken their lives. Dragging his hand like a blade to snap necks and cave in chests, displaying an insane strength that was so very inhuman.
Crushing through their enchanted gear and leaving them lifeless and broken on the ground before adding insult to injury and setting the corpses ablaze with a snap of his fingers. Heat enough to make the enamel upon the steel bubble up and burn away, staring at them with sanguine eyes and smiling ever so softly.
“Not one of you...” Tyr sighed, tone dripping with contempt. “It's not enough, Tor.” He said, slowly turning his head to face the man without moving his shoulders, like an owl, clearly breaking his own neck in the process judging by the sound. Tor was masked, disguised in more ways than just the physical, yet Tyr identified him with no effort. “Brother Tor, my old friend. Do you remember when you left me? I think I was upset, but I let you go. Go again, now. Little mice should remain absent from my kitchen, yes? This cheese is all for me.”
Tyr punctuated the bizarre statement with an even stranger laugh, one that started quiet before bubbling out of his mouth uncontrollably, very amused with himself in the moment.
As if realizing that Tor could not answer, Tyr released the spell on him, and him alone. All others left alive remained frozen in position, shaking and struggling against the unseen bonds. Those who'd managed to break them after the first round of things were swallowed up, earth shooting up to the nape of their necks and squeezing at them. Not Tyr's either, it came from somewhere else, a belated realization that they'd been being followed for some time.
Not a trap, nor an ambush, a lion that would've ignored them entirely had they not reached towards its bloody maw.
“Tyr...” Tor was lost for words, perhaps for the first time in his life. He'd always been a talker, and Tyr's head tilted to stare at him. Funny how that worked. Fear, confusion, despair. All would silence a man sure as any knife regardless of the sharpness of it. Tyr liked the silence. “This... This is wrong.”
“Wrong?” Tyr raised an eyebrow then, straightening his head and pointing back at the corpses., removing his mask and flicking his long hair back and forth in the frigid wind. Long again, Tor had always thought the boy looked better letting it grow out like that, but now he appeared nothing more than a monster, bloody around his lips, armored limbs covered in viscous crimson up to the elbow. Dripping. “This is wrong?”
“Yes!” Tor recovered himself. He was angry, not for the fallen. Fuck the fallen, they were all southern rats, but he couldn't stand for this. He cared about Tyr, just like they always had, all the blackguard. Men who fought together didn't simply forget, and if they did it was because they were weak. Frail of the heart, a bond of battle was not so easily dismissed. “Tiberius! Get out here, you old bastard, I'd have words with you!”
“He is not present.” Tyr frowned. “You have a message for him?”
“Not present?” Tor asked, waving his hand in the direction of the men stooped all around the fire. Yet still, they played at dice and various games, silent and unperturbed. At the corner of his vision, he could see the terrified eyes of Herican and the others. There was no fight left in them, once Tyr had removed his mask and they saw that blank stare of his, scarlet mouthed and deathly pale... “How is he not among the blackguard?”
Tyr wagged his finger back and forth. “Not blackguard. New guard, old guard. Understand?”
“Who possibly could understand the drivel leaving your mouth, boy!?” Tor shouted angrily, stomping up to Tyr and freezing in the position of slapping Tyr in the face. He wanted to, the boy certainly needed it, but he didn't have the energy. He felt so tired. So lost and disappointed. Raid brothers, road brothers, whatever one wanted to call them. There were few things more important to Tor, even when their paths were separated. Seeing one so lost as this was difficult to bear. “What happened to you...?”
“I am so much better.” Tyr chuckled, a relatively normal expression that wouldn't have looked so profane had his mouth moved in the slightest. “Watch, you'll like this.”
Tyr turned, addressing the 'blackguard' Tor had mentioned. “Turn left.” And they did, standing perfectly straight and in unison. Left, right, at attention. Jumping. Crouching. Every command Tyr gave them was undertaken without delay, showcasing a solidarity in movement. Immediately, in perfect harmony, the level of discipline and uniform understanding was beyond human. Worthy of the finest Harani legions, for that was what they'd forever been famed for, their discipline. “Remove your cloaks, and then your helmets.”
They did so. First the cloaks, falling off their bodies to reveal a perfectly consistent appearance. Each man was the exact same size, weight, and their battle-gear was identical. A shortsword at the waist, spear by their side, and tower shield in their opposite hand. Full plate thick to the point where few knights would deign to march on foot with so heavy a kit – yet Tor saw no horses. Identically visored barbutes, silvered steel and polished to a shine that reflected the light of the campfire. When they removed their helms, Tor's eyes widened. This is where the uniformity of their appearance ended, to show their diversity. Diversity in how much flesh had sloughed from their face in decay. Some were skeletons, others had half a face, and some weren't much different than an exceptionally pale man with black veins running the length of the skin about their faces.
“No more blackguard.” Tyr stated flatly, blue eyes glinting in the twilight. “And I am pleased to announce you'll all be coming with us. Congratulations.”