TIBERIUS

775DY

Tudas, 34th of Anovo, Spring

The moon shone in a cloudless sky above the old two-storey house. The carved stone still looked fresh, despite the vines beginning to crawl up the walls. Tiberius could smell the fire of his men’s torches so close it singed the hairs of his moustache. They were close enough now, and there was little time to waste. Seven of them had gathered at the tavern and were now determined to take revenge. It was he who had convinced all of them. The slaves had risen and killed his nephew and niece a few days ago. Tiberius had loved them like they were his own, and he had the heart of an old soldier still burning in his chest. It had been 20 years since he had last seen a battle, and he was now past fifty, but that would not slow his steel tonight.

They wore mail and boiled leather, each with a torch and a shortsword. Tiberius had a ruddy face, a grey moustache and grey hair pulled back into a ponytail behind his head. His arms were corded with muscle and hair, his jaw was as wide as a lantern, and his nose stuck out beneath his fierce blue eyes and bushy brows. Another had accompanied the group, carrying jars of oil. He had snuck forward and was dousing every inch of the perimeter. As the oil spilled out, Tiberius spoke to the men with him.

“I want you to understand we are doing this in the name of Doros, which makes you all true patriots, heroes of the fatherland. The evil creatures that slink about inside have sinned gravely, and we will let them know that Doros does not forget.” Tiberius said, his eyes fierce, the fire twinkling within it, his chest pounding. “My niece and nephew were a pair of children, 11 and 15, yet these bastards murdered them all the same. Why? For the crime of having parents who owned slaves, my sister and brother-in-law. Well, we’ll give them a fate worse than slavery, to be burned alive, sent straight to the black pits of Moros’ domain. Whatever foul gods they worship shall not save them from our wrath.” He nodded, and the other men nodded back at him, grunting in anger.

He had met them at a tavern only this evening. It was now the early hours of the morning, but they had been drinking together. He was there alone and overheard them discussing what the criers were shouting in the streets about the family murdered by their slaves. Tiberius interrupted them and told them it was his younger sister’s family had been murdered, including her children. He sat with them, drank with them, and told tales of the dead family and what joyful people they had been. He also told them of his own life and battles he’d faced, and each of them had grown to love the man and his dead family in a few hours.

Eventually, they went with him back to his home, and with wine flowing and courage building, they agreed to take revenge on the slaves. Tiberius knew where they had fled after killing the family, another property owned by them they had intended to sell, which the guards had yet to check – since no paperwork existed for it. They took torches, oil, swords, and armour and set out into the night. Tiberius thanked the gods for his good fortune and promised the souls of each slave as an offering to Moros.

Before long, the man with the now empty jars had returned to them, a smile creeping along his lips. Tiberius put a hand on his shoulder and thanked him for his work. He gave a signal, like he had done on the battlefield many times, and spoke. “Spread out, surround the building. If you see rats scurrying out, gut them where they stand.” He said, drawing his sword and raising his torch skyward. “When I signal, you approach, throw down your torch, step back and wait.” He nodded a final time, and they all returned it. They began to spread outward, enveloping the house as the oil did, as the flames would.

As each took their position, Tiberius pressed two fingers between his lips and whistled. He ran forward, throwing his torch down into the black oil, which lit at once. The rest did the same, and before long, a wall of fire surrounded the house. They heard screams coming from inside, and a great commotion began.

There were five slaves in all. Tiberius had provided one of them himself, from his household. A boy named Septimus. He had always thought the boy meek and quiet, more taken to books than anything else. He had never expected to sit waiting for his approach, to run a sword through his belly. The remaining slaves were primarily strangers to him, only seen in passing, but their faces had plagued his dreams ever since they murdered his sister’s family. Dreams of them would wake him, leave his wife in bed, and march out to the balcony to drink, stew, sit, and curse the world. He and his sister, Claudia, had grown up together, and when his parents died at age 11, he raised her himself into a wonderful young woman. He had ensured she married a good man, paid her his wages from his early jobs, and wrote to her constantly when he was in the military. When he finally retired, he watched his niece and nephew grow up too. It was like a gift from the gods, like his own children, since his wife was barren. The worst part, the part that haunted him, is that they had looked just like himself and Claudia.

The fire licked at the windows now, black smoke filling the air and blocking the moon’s light. He took on the stance drilled into him long ago, his sword pointed forward at his side, his legs bowed in anticipation, but his arm lacked a shield. He saw movement. He peered through the smoke and saw the boy, Septimus, almost a man grown now. He had a girl at his arm, about 16, who looked terrified. He kissed her on the forehead and held her hand tight. They threw a blanket forward to step over the flames. Tiberius growled in his throat as they made it outside, barely harmed. He marched on as though he were alongside his fellow soldiers. The others seemed to have corralled around the south entrance, and he could hear fighting. But he didn’t care. All he wanted was to see Septimus bleed. He called out the boy’s name in rage.

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“Septimus! Come here and face me boy!” He screamed, throat hoarse from the choking black smoke. The boy’s face was blackened by the soot, squinting at him.

He and the girl tried to make a break for it, but wherever they tried to turn, Tiberius got in front of them. The girl had burned her foot and moved slowly. Eventually, Septimus began to plead. He approached his former master, arms raised.

“Tiberius, please, my old master, let us go, and I swear you shall never see our faces again. I know that you are a merciful man!” He cried, desperation written across his features. Tiberius marched forward, pointing the sword at the boy’s throat as the girl whimpered behind him.

“And what of my sister! What of my nieces and nephews?! I loved them like they were my own! Tell me, boy, will I see their faces again if I let you go?” He shouted, Septimus wincing in fear.

“Please, you must understand that your sister’s husband was a monster. He raped the girl slaves, beat the men savagely, crippled us, killed us even. Why do you think they needed me as a replacement? I swear to you, sir, he was the most monstrous man I’ve ever met. We had to do something!” He said, pleading.

“And those children, those sweet, innocent children? I loved them. Their laughter, their dreams, their untouched futures, all snuffed out. Did they have to die too!?” Shouted Tiberius, rage coursing through him like his very blood was on fire.

“I had nothing to do with that! It was the others that wanted them dead. I told them not to, but they did anyway. I swear to you, Tiberius, I swear.” Septimus said, going to his knees now.

“Don’t dare speak my name, you pathetic worm. I don’t believe a word of it. You're nothing but a squeaking mouse cornered by the hawk's shadow. Any last words before I gut the both of you?” Tiberius said, his sword arm unwavering, poking into the boy’s rib cage.

“Please don’t, sir, she’s-“ The boy stopped, gasping as Tiberius stabbed the sword into his lung and let him fall into the dirt. The girl said nothing. She screamed and cried, clutching the boy’s corpse.

“Now you know how they felt,” Tiberius said, the screaming faces of the children flashing in his mind before slitting her throat with the sword. She twisted, falling on her back, her throat gurgling as blood dribbled out in every direction, her eyes wide, hands clutching her stomach. Tiberius squinted down at her, catching his breath, and he saw the bump of her pregnant belly. He spat on the floor and marched away to join the rest of the slaughter. But he couldn’t help a shiver of regret run down his spine. In Doros, pregnant women were under Vitana, the goddess of life's protection, and it was the blackest sin to kill them.

Two men who accompanied him had been slain, and the rest were fighting three slaves, all muscular men armed with swords and armour. Tiberius joined the fray. He came from behind, plunging his sword through the back of one of their heads and out through his mouth. Wrenching his sword back, he sliced it down with terrific speed, slicing another’s tendon and bringing him to his knees. One of his men ran forward and plunged a sword through his chest. The rest of them converged on the final slave, who had somehow remained unharmed. He was tough, with the dark skin and pointed ears of Alamun, and quick on his feet, dancing away from their swords and nicking them with minor cuts. As they edged closer to the slave, they saw a flicker of purple light in his eyes. Tiberius cried out.

“Get back! Spell!” Before the men could heed his call, they were blown backwards by a shockwave. Tiberius’ mouth filled with dirt, and his face stung as he looked up to where the slave stood. He had been knocked back a few feet, and the force was still blowing, keeping them away. Tiberius tried to stand, but it was too great. The slave looked at him, his eyes alight with fierce, wicked laughter.

“It was I who did it. I killed your niece and nephew. And I enjoyed every second of it. Those spoilt, cruel little bastards had it coming. Hells, I deserve a reward for ridding the world of a Doran before it can grow up and do any real damage.” He said, his accent thick and his lips thin. In a fit of anger, Tiberius pushed forward, screaming against the force of the shockwaves.

“I'll flay you to the bone, alive and screaming! Come here! Face me without tricks and see what happens to you!” He bellowed, steadying himself, his sword supporting him.

“A tempting offer, but I don’t think so. Until we meet again, old fool.” The slave said before his image shimmered and collapsed into smooth blue smoke. The smoke blew onto the floor, scattering across the ground, leaving nothing behind.

Tiberius and his men got to their feet. The rage boiling inside him was beyond words. He could only bellow and swear, mercilessly hacking one of the dead slaves to pieces in his impotent fury.

Tiberius shook his head. “I’ll find that elf," he vowed, "and I mean what I said. I’ll skin him. It’s the last thing I do.” He spat again, looking to his men, who now seemed disturbed. One of them tried to comfort him.

“We got the others, Tiberius, four slaves dead. I bet your sister is smiling down on us from the White Mountains. They, meanwhile, are rotting in the black pits.” He said, gesturing to the dead bodies. Tiberius shook his head. “I’ll go to the black pits myself if that’s what it takes to find that man.” He muttered, marching off away from the burning house.

***

Two of the men had stayed behind, throwing the corpses into the blaze. As they knelt to move the last, one stopped, feeling the bump on the woman’s stomach.

“Gods be good. He’s killed a woman with child,” he said, his voice filled with genuine horror. The other shook his head. “He’ll end up in the black pits after all. Come on. We can release her spirit at least.” He said. They both took her to her final rest in the flames.