There was an art to vengeance, and a king’s death deserved to be worthy of songs.
Rostam wrenched the spear from between the king’s cracked ribs as the lifeless arm lay in a pool of Queen Utica’s blood. Their deaths had come at his bidding. It was a performance worthy of any king and so Rostam had made King Hadast watch as the royal family was butchered. Every stroke of his sword and thrust of his lance had added to a scene in which pale skinned figures lay hacked and gored, their blood dark as ink in the light of the Hunter’s Moon.
Ironic, Rostam thought. The sun appeared to have risen twice on the last day of the Dusk Throne.
Mogh Aedam, leader of the Order of Roshan and Divine Son of the King of Heaven made his way to the dais, sword drawn, though stepping mindfully as he avoided the strewn limbs in his path. “I can’t believe it…” he whispered as he gazed upon King Hadast’s vacant stare. “You have delivered us onto a victory that will be long remembered, Brother Rostam. I’d never imagined we would triumph over the Duskwights in my lifetime. Yet here we are, their kingdom in ashes, soon to be washed away by the spring rains.”
Rostam used the king’s cloak to clean the blood off of his blade. “The Herald’s teachings are clear, the Lord will provide a weapon and shield against any foe…”
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“When their time comes…” Aedam added in agreement, his gaze once more panning the ravaged court. “I do not know why the Lord brought you on our path when he did, but I am grateful. Yet again, His ways prove mysterious. Sometimes that frightens me.”
Rostam frowned. “I don’t understand, Father.”
Aedam drew a deep breath. “It is a question that presents itself to every commander once victory is achieved so completely; who can stop us now?” The mogh shrugged, then stooped to inspect the king’s bejeweled hand. “And indeed… who can?”
“Our work is far from finished, Great Mogh,” Rostam said. “There are evils out there that are still beyond the Order’s reach; the Murder, the Tagayur and undersea kingdoms. The Djinn…”
Aedam rose, holding the king’s ring between thumb and forefinger against the bright sun. “I do not dread the battles to come. By the Grace of our Lord, you have proven our Faith is true and just.”
Rostam nodded, then looked upon his bloody work.
“You still seem troubled, Brother,” Aedam said. “Why is that? Your family has been avenged, your enemy crushed beneath your boot. Have you not found peace?”
“How can a man find peace, Father, when his enemy doesn’t feel like they do? One can’t take vengeance on an animal… And isn’t that the point of vengeance? To repay the dread of loss tenfold? How is that debt repaid when the enemy is cold and without love?” He shrugged, his sword arm felt heavy. “Apologies, Father. I will need some time to pray.”
“I understand,” Mogh Aedam said. “Brother Rostam, you did the Lord’s work today.”
Rostam inclined his head and left the mogh to his triumph. Forgive me, Father, but the Lord is far more forgiving than I am…