After his arm swung backwards, he watched in astonishment as the object soared into the blizzardous sky before it loudly clattered onto the plateau of Taruz Bekular. Tightly clutching his chest, he braced for the worst, an useful effort, as suddenly a powerful gravitational force crushed him into the rock behind which he had hidden, his body entering the solid boulder at alarming rate, groans echoing into the sky, the snowstorm slowly ebbing down while his invention went crazy, pressing his mortal shell further and further into the solid formation, a rarely felt pain befalling the man whose ribs pierced several internal organs of varying significance.
A scream tore through the sky, finally audible due to the calming blizzard, Kushtar joyfully remarking: “My baby really worked extraordinarily, didn’t it? So efficient in containing and gathering enemies. Especially if they are as inexperienced as this unfortunate fellow who was forced to fight me, the great, renowned Kushtar the Craftsman.”
Again, the southerner forgot his own motto of not underestimating his foe. A fatal flaw?
Nonetheless, the assassin sent by the Empire of Kahaeim and their Godking, their so-called Deusrex, cautiously and weary of a potential trap, turned around the corner, analyzing the situation on the plateau which had been targetted by his refined Anti-Magic bomb.
The sight before him plastered a broad smile on his face as in the middle of the by now flattened area knelt a brown man struggling to release his imprisoned leg from the trap, a pool of blood tainting the snow surrounding Alastor red.
His enemy had lost his red-feathered helmet and finally Kushtar could marvel at Alastor’s resolve and determination, regarding the rune-engraved bald head in utter admiration despite being mortal enemies, a fact for which the Craftsman blamed fate and the preposterous government in Cael which resisted his homeland for decades.
As it seemed the powerful apprentice hadn’t survived the giant magic implosion unscathed contrary to his black colleague assassin who was still up and ready to fight, the only petty smirch, a dusty stain on his brown cloak from the mud and crushed rubble.
Just as he stood up and approached the groaning, audibly and visibly injured man who hissed and cursed through gritted teeth, clutching his severed leg tightly, Kushtar lowered his guard significantly to taunt the beaten foe, a fatal flaw.
Suddenly, feeling observed and hunted, Kushtar flinched, his eyes catching a short glance at Alastor who furiously spun around, his trapped limb completely shattered, torn off fully from the young, aspiring Exsecutor’s body, a useless stump the last remaining piece of the formerly functional leg.
But the southerner was prohibited any more intel on the state of his enemy as two sharp bolts coated in lizard blood, an acid substance, entered his stomach, his yielding flesh palpable as it twisted around the barbed tip, the squelching skin and bursting organs chanting a visage of fright onto Kushtar’s previously arrogant face.
From pure reflex, a saving grace for the man who would have died on the spot otherwise, the Kahaeian recoiled several hasty steps, tumbling on a root jutting out from the frozen ground, as more arrows whizzed above his face which was contorted into a grimace of agony and suffering.
Upon tumbling into a hole which would suffice for protecting him, Kushtar hurriedly glanced at his injured stomach and realized in horror that none of the possible solutions would ensure his survival.
He could either rip the arrow out and risk bleeding miserably to his lengthy death or he could keep it inside, risking that the arrow formed of ice would freeze his intestines and deliver him a quick but equally painful death. Both options were combined by the similarity that the acid would gnaw at his organs nonetheless.
That’s why Kushtar chose the third, unlikeliest option: Diversion.
“Yo boy, what’s your name?” sounded his rasping, coughing voice over the mountain’s peak.
A long silence followed, occasionally broken by the excruciating gasps from the mysterious Exsecutor who seemed to form arrows out of any material in his grasp by transforming the elements to his will.
But suddenly a significantly younger, fresher voice echoed above the top: “Alastor. My name’s Alastor. Exsecutor in his holiness’ name and eternal believer of the blazing black flame.”
Kushtar smiled to himself, chuckling beneath the pained expression, before loudly replying: “Alastor,” he rolled the name on his impudent tongue, “tell me, why is it you believe your ruler?”
The startled, significantly younger man required a moment to really contemplate the question, before responding in a determined voice: “For the same reason you believe in yours.”
“Smart counter,” conceded the older southerner in a mocking tone, adding: “But I follow mine because he intimidates me, because he respects me while not denouncing his natural superiority which is unfathomable yet absolute. Alastor, why does an ant know who its queen is? Simply because of instinct, because of a code implemented at birth which dictates our movements and decisions to never oppose this omnipotent, almighty being.”
“Then our reasons do indeed differ,” blankly spat out Alastor in a demeaning tone, clearly despising the way the kahaeic Monarch ruled with fear instead of respect, the propaganda and brainwashing visibly working on this injured sod, destined to die on the freezing peaks somewhere on a foreign continent far away from home for a cause lost since the first invasion’s failure at the King’s hands.
A violent breeze brushed against both men’s open wounds, eliciting low groans from the ailing assassins as the Caelian continued: “The reason I follow his excellency - and address him as such - is because I believe that there are powers deep beneath us, in the very darkness we humans fear and despise, in the unknown, in the unexplorable, in the darkness beyond the light we shall never see. The Prime Patriarch protects us from these horrors and in return demands faith in his abilities to do so, containing the monsters and demons that is.”
The reply left Kushtar, who blankly stared down the steep cliff, stunned, his mind racing to comprehend the true essence of his foe’s words. But after a long while, he concluded that there was no hidden message, that the man opposing his entry to Cael was simply a devout, pious man who feared God more than those temporary mortal threats.
"I respect your devotion although I neither admire nor comprehend it. Yet you seem to be sure of your opinion which aggravates the situation towards your favor. Our ideologies may not be as far off as you think."
“How’s that,” interjected the young assassin, confused by the southerner’s cryptic answer.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
A grin plastered Kushtar’s face as he stared into the white sky, slow flakes of snow passing his eyes and replied: “Both are based on fear of something greater, of something superior, of something invincible from our perspective as commoners and mere pawns in the Deities’ games. While I fear my God, you fear those things that escaped your Angels’ wrath and are now contained by the Prime Patriarch and the renowned Domitor family whose name even strikes fear into the names past the Taruz Bekular in Kahaeim.”
Despite still feeling hostile towards the savage terrorist who proved either more civilized or deceiving than initially deduced, Alastor contemplated for a very, very long time about the implication that in their basics, both of their resolves were equal.
The long silence however tempted the southern assassin to take action and utilize the moment of weakness, judging the silence as a sign of pain from his enemy. Yet Kushtar deemed the moment as too obvious a chance to strike, as to risk falling into a trap from which he most likely would not escape. Thus he kept quiet and prudent, forcing his enemy into a reply with the uncomfortable quietness.
He would never again miscalculate an obvious fault form his enemy, never repeating the moment where he stared death in the eye and the ice arrows pierced his black skin, the shafts still poking out of his stomach, a testimony of his own incompetence and rashness in the frenzy of battle.
Determined not to take brash action, Kushtar listened to the steady wind wheezing past the snowy peaks, clutching his wounds tightly with his sand-colored cloak which he tied around his waist in a rudimentary bandage.
Eventually Alastor strained his lungs to scream across the plateau: “I have to concede, Kushtar the Terrorist, there lies a certain truth hidden deep inside your words.“
Despite not instantly advancing the conversation, thus keeping the status quo present longer, Kushtar was happy, genuinely content that the young man whose life could still be saved saw reason despite the open hostility and fated animosity between their opposing causes.
Using the ensuing silence, the Kahaeian put his rough hands with their long, bleeding fingers onto his wound, hovering them an inch above the gash as he murmured incantations in a foreing, ancient tongue. Yet he also knew that his predecessors’ healing spells would demand time to function and grasp the unholy wound. Thus he attempted another conversation, this time more empathetic with his northern neighbor.
“Alastor the Exsecutor, perseverer through torment and agony, tell me about your people’s legendary, almighty Avatar, Rex Domitor.” A smile appeared on both men’s faces but instantly left Kushtar’s as his body convulsed due to the healing process. Nonetheless, he bit on his tongue and added in an admiring tone: “The King.”
The young northerner shuffled in the soft snow before responding in a measured voice, the blizzard completely vanished from Taruz Bekular’s peak: “Hm, I really don’t know where to start on his infinite list of accomplishments but I guess my personal opinion matters to you since the tales of his triumphs should - no - are present even in the most remote corners of Kahaeim, aren’t they?”
While Kushtar nodded faintly, the motion wasn’t registered by Alastor whose vision was obscured by two large boulders which functioned as their hiding spots during this short interval of peace between the clashing, constantly warring sides.
Nonetheless, the mesmerized man resumed without awaiting confirmation by a man who appeared to value the strongest man on earth as much as the aspiring Exsecutor did: “Rex Domitor, leader of the Knights of Sol Invictus, head of the omnipotent Domitor dynasty and protector of Regnium against the invading, marauding hordes of demons. A man with a caliber the world will never witness again. One of a kind. A miracle …” The young man’s words trailed off as his eyes fluttered for a bit before ultimately closing.
“Alastor, my little friend, I dare say, despite my unshakable faith and loyalty, that this … monster is the only man who can challenge my Deusrex. The only man who may be his equal,” conceded Kushtar with an audible reverence in his voice, whether directed at his Godking or the King of Kings indiscernible.
After a short silence and the unfulfilled expectation of hearing Alastor’s opinion on the man able to beat the strongest of demonkind, Kushtar quietly inquired: “Alastor?”
As no reply sounded across the high plateau, the Craftsman asked once more: “Alastor?” Then twice more: “Alastor?” Until at the third time, peeking around the corner of his boulder, groaning as he slumped into the soft snow: “Alastor,” his voice no longer firm but actually strained as if his enemy’s death devoid of battle aggravated his mood and hurt him emotionally.
After a while, Kushtar forced himself upwards into a standing position, the blood streaming down his arms only fueling his resolve to deliver a proper death to the young boy who could’ve become so much more than a mere lackey for a corrupt, unjust regime.
Stomping through the crunching snow, the first rays of the sun piercing the ceiling of clouds, Kushtar quickly reached the boulder behind which his enemy had hidden, only to freeze in his tracks as his brain loosely connected the dots together, a painful realization hitting him right in the face, or more literally, blinding his face.
On the blood-soaked snow, no one lay.
Kushtar had repeated the same fault which had led to him being pierced with several arrows.
However he had no longer been arrogant in his way of thinking but rather caring for a man he was forced to hate, but learned to cherish despite only spending a couple of minutes with him, the first person who seemed to care for him apart from the facade of an assassin, who really considered his opinion about something.
Glancing upwards, his eyes stared into a glaring point, the dazzling tip of a metal arrow, ready and drawn back to plunge the poisoned, lethal tip into the heart of the man who had just now opened it for the first time in his entire life.
At the peak of the mountain, at the acme of his power, Alastor, the loyal, obedient dog of the church, screamed down at his enemy: “Rot in hell!”
“Do you think your revered Prime Patriarch will adore you and your futile martyrdom for peace,” whispered Kushtar, the question directed at the unresponsive, irredeemable youngster.
Not perceiving and thus not answering the question, Alastor channeled a blasting vortex of magic around his drawn back hand, the bow’s string snapping shut instantly as the area below with the swaying, staggering Kushtar was obliterated off the peak of the mountain, the southern assassin annihilated off the course of history, the life terminated which had just begun.
Standing at the top of the world, Alastor regarded the large crater for a moment, no regret or gratitude or pain in his determined gaze. A drop of blood suddenly dripped down his cheek, passing his nose and high cheekbones as he began crying profusely.
The boy-soldier didn’t mourn for the loss of a possible friend, or a possible mentor, but rather at the painful realization that despite all of his efforts, he wouldn’t be able to witness the fruits of his sacrifice, a sacrifice he had hoped could remain non-lethal.
Aviditas, the accursed disease of heroes and legends …
His sobbing only intensified as he dropped his holy bow, the weapon clattering against the stone as it tumbled down onto the plateau.
I-I suffer from … Aviditas.
He gulped loudly as he felt more and more blood leave his hollow eyes devoid of hope yet with a will to live, a horrible contradiction for such a young boy with such vast dreams.
Forgive me father, but as it seems … I won’t be able to keep my promise. After all, it seems that you were right. You too, terrorist …
I should have also listened to you mother and watched my own power and the depletion of magic from nature. Maybe then, I could’ve prevented the sickness from the beginning … After all, I failed both of you … I’m a terrible son …
The tears mixed and intertwined with the stream of blood gushing out of the vivid brown eyes and Alastor the faithful, righteous, idealistic Exsecutor, who had previously beamed with joy despite the torment responsible for his immense strength, remained on the peak of Taruz Bekular for several more hours before eventually -
- perishing