Even those who did not take to the field of battle would often attach themselves to those who required a protector of some sort. -Bianca Rosamund’s Sagistry Compendium, Ch. 2.
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“You lads did well. Not often we get all but one on a big bust like this.” Jamison Lander, the Head Constable of Theralyn and its surrounding lands, nodded in approval and walked off as Abe finished his report. One dead, twenty-two captured for processing, and nearly thirty captives who had been chained to walls in the basement church. Constables brought them out in groups. Women and children, some crying while others held a thousand yard stare; no doubt unable to process their freedom nor the atrocities committed against them. Black, link shaped bruises sat on their necks while their wrists ran red and raw. Crusts of dirt, shit, and other excrements lined their clothes, their skin, their nails. All were Solrusian, their skin dark as the void, eyes varying shades of purple. As Ben watched them be escorted out, he felt his anger toward Abe fizzling a bit. Just a bit, though.
A dreary gray clothed the entirety of the sky, threatening rain and blocking out any sunlight. A stiff breeze ran through the trees, the people, the land, causing all to sniffle and sneeze. Heavy dread sat upon their shoulders. Dread for Ben and Abe for what they had seen, for the Soventrists due to their impending fates, for the captives and what they had endured.
Others were brought out of the home too, though not as gently. Cultists. Soventrists, to be exact. They hadn’t even worshiped a deity. Just a man who claimed to be one. Ben watched each Soventrist as they were escorted by, the dirty metal cuffs from the church now binding their hands. Most snarled as they passed the clerics. One tried, but he was the man whose jaw and teeth had been shattered by Ben’s hammer. Abe laughed as spittle and a groan were all the ruined mouth could produce.
Burns, wounds, and bruises littered their bodies. A few had lost an arm, a leg, or a foot to amputation. The field medics who came with the constables would not heal most of the cultists’ wounds, but they would administer life saving healing if need be. As far as Ben was aware, no Icebinders or Woodsingers had come with, so there was no chance of any healing sageweaves being applied. None of the cultists had healed themselves either. They did not know how to Rejuvenate, and none of them were Sages.
Good. Let them live with their choices.
Ben and Abe had both Rejuvenated just fine. A few cuts, a stab to the kidney, and a mallet to the forehead all would have ruined the next few weeks had he been unable to heal.
“Better thank Bianca for teaching us what she could, eh?” Abe asked, seeming to read Ben’s mind. “Took a stab to the belly and a rock to the back of the head. Almost couldn’t get my senses straight enough to use any Kova.” Abe’s jovial smile and flippant attitude would normally rub off on Ben, but this time it did not.
“She didn’t teach us to kill when we lose our temper.” Abe’s smile dropped, his eyebrows furrowing before he blanked his expression.
“You gonna tell?”
“Course not. The Mother knows I’ve done stuff I’m not proud of. It’s just… we have a code. One we gotta follow. Else we’re no better than them.”
“Who gives a ghost’s ethereal arse if we stand on the moral high ground, Ben? Is that not the nature of our job? Punish the immoral, do more good than bad?”
“Are our actions morally sound just because of the organization we represent, my friend? Just because we wear cleric’s suits and have writs granting us the right to act with Aegimari authority, we can dispense justice on our own terms? Because two boys of seventeen years know what the answer is?”
Ben felt his neck tightening as he fought for restraint, his whispers nearly becoming angry yells. Abe had never killed anyone on the job. He hit folks a little harder than Ben thought necessary, and he often spoke with vitriol about the people they dealt with, but he’d never struck a killing blow like that. Even in self defense. And sure, one was nothing compared to two-hundred fifty-seven, but…
“We have come too far. We have been doing too well,” Ben whispered.
Abe continued in a hushed tone. “Maybe you have bub, but I did not have that far to go. You have been doing well. Much better than any of us could ever have expected given your situation. The fact you have a conscience is a testament to Ilya and Bianca’s efforts. But I am not you, and our journeys have been much, much different despite the fact we’ve worked together five years now. The Aegimari standard doesn’t mean much to me. I do not hold myself to your standards either. Would you like to know my point of view? You’ve expressed yours plenty, bub. May I speak mine?”
Ben did not care to hear it, but he knew he had ranted plenty of times and Abe had listened despite likely wanting to do anything else.
“Aye. I’ll listen.”
“Wonderful. The way I saw it, we had a guy who had just killed a child in front of us. He smiled. You saw his smile. You heard his words. Soventrists. Cultists. Confirmation, if the robes and pews and haunted basement weren’t enough clues for you. If he lived, he was going to go to court like the rest of these miserable followers. He was going to be convicted and sentenced to hanging thanks to our testimony. So, our words would be the sword that ended his life.”
“Aye. That’s how court and the legal system works. We would have been key witnesses. The trial would have ensured he died.”
“Exactly. You think he needed a fair trial because that is what we’re taught. For whatever reason, no matter how degenerate, we’re instructed that all criminals deserve a fair trial. It’s the code we’re supposed to follow.”
“But you didn’t. You went directly against that.”
“Aye. Because a trial would ensure his part is heard. He convinced all of these folks to do horrible things on behalf of his god. Why would we want to give that man a pedestal so that he can speak to fresh ears, to a judge, to a jury? To the constables of the court? Why give him the chance to spread his filth? Because it is filth. Anything that ends in the murder of a child is filth, no matter how sound the ideology seems. If a kid has to die, then it is evil. Why should we give that fucker a chance if he is going to hang anyway?”
“Would you not want a chance? If you committed some great offense, but you thought your reasoning was sound, would you not want to be given a shot?”
“I wouldn’t murder a kid,” he said with a blunt finality, his words terse.
“Fair enough.”
“You still aren’t on my side about this?”
“Just sounds like a hell of an excuse.”
“It is,” Abe said, his smile returning. “Bit of an excuse with a bit of logic built in. Oh well. I think I was in the right. If he was to die, it doesn’t really matter how it happened. He deserved it, and neither bureaucratic codices nor my best friend could convince me otherwise. You aren’t gonna tell?”
“Nah,” Ben groaned. “Just gonna be mad for a bit. I don’t think you’re totally wrong. Just don’t want you to get used to killing, is all. Not a fun hole to dig yourself out of. We can follow the law. We can be better. We just have to choose that. I want to choose that. I don’t want to be an animal.”
They watched as the rest of the cultists and captives were brought out from the lodge. Head Constable Jamison faced the building, lining up with seven other constables, all wearing the navy blue long coats with stitched, golden herons ordaining the cuffs; the standard uniform of a Theralyn constable. The police pulled out their kovlock pistols, large, green hand cannons meant to intake Kova and spit out a great deal of force. Much more efficient than powder-based firearms, and more adaptable to boot. One could produce small pockets of force, similar to that of a bullet.
Or they, as they did in this case, could produce monstrosities of significant power.
Green glowed from their hands, slowly dissipating as it Infused the pistols, causing the firearms to glow with that same leaf-like hue.
They worked quickly.
Nine great green lances of Kova erupted from the weapons, quickly traversing the yard and slamming into the lodge. Rotted wood exploded, splinters, dirt, and debris flew in all directions. Dust erupted in semicircles behind the constables. Each strike into the wood reverberated in the dirt and grass, making the ground vibrate at their feet. Trees shook, blue-changed leaves fell, and the house changed with each jet of light. Ben Infused the front of his body as well as his eardrums to prevent the detritus and booming noise from causing him any harm. The Kova hummed softly on his skin as shot after shot tore the lodge apart. Ben sat silently, thinking on what Abe had argued, as he watched the destruction of such an unholy spot took place.
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Ben would’ve helped if he could. He’d have loved to work off some frustration, enjoy a bit of demolition, shoot down a building that had no business standing. To be truthful though, he was wiped. They were at the end of their most recent tour. They’d dealt with seven geists, two possessions, a lamia, three banshees, a den of harpies, and a forging wendigo that had worn four different skins. All in the last three months. They had not been home, had any of Da’s home cooked meals, gone to their favorite tavern, in too long. His heart ached for home, his bed, a hug from his pops, the smell of books stacked on shelves in their home library.
Pops would know how to help him sort through his feelings. He’d be able to reference some book from some author who had either experienced what Ben was feeling now or knew someone who did. Da’s book recommendations had a way of articulating complex emotions Ben used to erroneously assume no one experienced but himself. Not to mention that Da was a fountain of knowledge himself.
Raina had kept them updated. Da was doing fine. Life in Theralyn was much the same aside from the looming absence of Lord Heret. The Lord of Theralyn had gone to Welcoming Day at Bainarithe to enjoy the festivities, pay respects to the High King, and all of that garbage. Ben had never even spoken to the Lord Heret, and neither had Abe, but the man never really left town. His absence was an oddity that might affect the protections afforded to Ben’s father, but did not concern him much further so long as Raina said Da was unperturbed.
Jamison rejoined them, dust now covering his navy long coat and leather boots. He took long, measured breaths as he stood before them, his pistol now holstered. Sweat dripped from his light brown chin onto the dirt below, his brown irises surrounded by red, strained sclera. Using Kova took a great deal of energy. Not as much as it would normally require to decimate an entire building by hand, but still a fair amount.
“You boys going with us then? We’ve got carts. I know your horses are gone.”
Possessed and mangled beyond recognition, but yeah. Gone.
Ben felt a small pang in his heart thinking about their horses. He used to name them. He no longer did. He hadn’t after his first full year as a cleric. He had been thirteen then, and had been helpless to save too many named horses from meeting some gruesome fate.
“Any carts without stinking Soventrists or stinking captives?” Abe asked.
“Plenty, actually. Captives ain’t coming with.” Jamison replied.
“Where are they going?” Ben asked, more sadness spreading through his chest. He figured he knew the answer, but he hadn’t thought they’d do this. Jamison was mixed himself.
Jamison looked away from them and toward the prisoners, his eyes looking to do anything but meet theirs. “You know how it is. Can’t use state supplies or transportation on Solrusians.”
Ben nodded. He didn’t agree. His father had taught him not to.
You’d turn your own mother away, Jamison?
“You’ve a steward with you, Jamison?” Ben asked.
“Aye. Want me to call her?”
“That’d be great.”
“You know I won’t be able to requisition more. You’ll have to find your own water. Your own food.”
Abe put his hand on Ben’s shoulder.
“My servings too. We can hunt.”
Jamison nodded, his features softening for a moment before they steeled again. He was hardly five years older than them, but at twenty-two he looked weathered, tired, like he had seen too much. Such was his line of work. Not to mention that Solrusian men, even the mixed ones, aged quicker. A life of discrimination was not conducive to a youthful appearance.
“I reckon I can hunt too. Soon as we get out of this stretch of the woods.” He started toward the trees to where, Ben assumed, the carts would be. “C’mon then, lads. Can’t hand it all out myself.”
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“So, you lads can’t purify the area? Use some sage, read from the Heimsinef, spread salt around? You’re saying none of that works?”
Fohrs, a constable and their cart driver, squinted, clearly not believing Abe as he refuted each and every method they laid out. It was all the stuff of stories, of wive’s tales, of folks who required the existence of methods to deal with what scared them; even if those methods did nothing. A part of safety was truly feeling safe. Doesn’t matter how safe you are if you don’t feel you are, and doesn’t matter if you aren’t so long as you can pretend you are. Ben took a long draft from his wineskin as the argument continued.
“Putting spirits to rest takes a long while, and that’s after they’ve manifested. We can’t preemptively destroy what hasn’t coalesced. Especially not when it comes from a plot of land with a history like that. Gotta wait till it's a geist or something of the sort.” Abe took a long drink, swished the wine around, and let it slowly flow down his throat. He preferred to savor the drink whereas Ben did not care much for the process; just the destination.
“Seems awful convenient, is all. If you can’t do anything about it beforehand, you’ll always have a job to do.” Fohrs said.
“Aye, because our job’s all sunshine and fat arses.” Abe replied. “You kill every person who breaks the law?”
“Course not.”
“So, must be your fault when someone you locked up goes out and commits another crime once they’re free.”
“Of course not!”
“That train of thought is awful convenient.”
Fohrs guided the horses to the right as a bend in the road approached. Ben could hardly see past the driver or his equine helpers, though the Wall was still visible to their right, its wintry peaks reaching toward gray clouds like a child would for his father. The cart groaned and creaked as they traversed the Claw’s Road, each rock and bump seeming to cause it pain. Rain pittered and pattered atop the covered, wooden roof. Some droplets still got in through cracks despite the cloth, but Ben figured it was much better than riding in the rain.
“Ben,” Abe said, “could you fill my skin?”
“Course.” Ben took the empty, leathery wineskin from his friend, placing it under the cask across from him and filling it up to full. The cask, sitting atop a wooden cart of dried meats, water flasks, flint, steel, and medical supplies, was tied to the cart’s wooden wall to prevent rolling. Swaying lanterns lined the wall beside, their lighting oil in the other supply cart. Ben handed the wine back to Abe. It was all he could smell. All he cared to, really. The rain made for difficult hunting, even with Infused senses, and the scent of jerky would only compound his hunger. Wine would make him forget, and the lack of food would make it harder to throw up, meaning he could drink more, allowing him to forget even more.
“Where’s that Solrusian lot going then, Ben? You and the Head outfitted them plenty good, according to your rumbling belly and my lightened cart. Surely you told ‘em where to go?” Fohrs asked, not looking back from the horses. His wide brimmed rain hat was soaked, the rim starting to sag a bit as water slowly dripped off of the fabric.
“North. The Winter Woods,” he replied. “Ilya Artos can always use the help.” Fohrs stiffened a moment, just enough for Ben to note his surprise. He spoke no more. Few folk wanted to speak of Ilya; the Lady of the Damned, as the ignorant dubbed her. Should they ever become Hemorians or Lunamorians, their thoughts on her would change.
“Ah come on,” Abe groaned. “She ain’t that bad.”
“I’m sure she’s not, lads. Don’t mean no offense. Just don’t care to talk about a woman who keeps the company of man-beasts, is all. It’s bad luck.” Fohrs kept his eyes forward, never looking away from the road.
He wouldn’t look at us if he could.
Ben turned his mind away from their conversation. No point in arguing. He wasn’t going to help this man gain a sense of empathy toward man-beasts. That kind of fear was deep rooted, grown and nurtured from birth. Nothing but exposure therapy would help with that. The less you knew about something, the more frightening it was. Especially when the little you did know involved drinking blood or growing fur and fangs and claws. Hemorians didn’t really drink blood outside of their high society, but the rumors had done generational damage to the minds of the general public.
Ben thought of home, of Da and their retriever dog Buckle, of quick bread and beer at Bironel’s, of a momentary peace. They’d been on the road too long. Kova could heal one’s wounds and fight sickness, but exhaustion was a different beast altogether. Fatigue nested in his bones while homesickness clouded his mind, flooded his chest. He and Abe had been forced into their profession at a young age, so motivation was sometimes hard to come by, but the idea of helping those who could not help themselves was usually inspiring enough to keep him going. As of late, that idea had not spurred him on much at all. Helping others was great, but so was spending time with your loved ones.
Not that Ben had much of a choice. He had a right to complain though, and that couldn’t be taken away from him no matter how often he exercised it.
“Abe?” Ben asked, sounding much sleepier than he had figured. A yawn escaped him as he realized just how depleted he felt. The warmth of the wine and his cloak heated him to comfort despite the rain, and the physical toll of their earlier battle was slowly catching up to him.
“Yeah?” Abe responded, sounding equally tired. He yawned too, and not just because they were contagious.
“I dunno, I just… I wish we could do something else. Back at home. Cut wood. Build homes. Teach. I dunno. Something else.”
“Grass is always greener, bub. But yeah, would be nice. Don’t think it’s for me though. Gotta keep moving. Gotta keep the mind racing. Too many things to think about I’d rather not, and this job helps that even if we don’t have a choice.”
“I wish I had one.”
“Should’ve thought about that before you murdered all those prisoners, bub. Hard to go back after that.”
Ben’s heart panged at the thought. So many dead to one boy. One boy who didn’t know better, who thought he was doing the right thing. Men and women, some hardly older than children, all who might have learned to do better. Gone. Dead. “Yeah. Should’ve thought about that, I reckon.”
He took a long draft of his wineskin, emptied it, filled it, and finished it again. Better to forget than to think on that mistake. A few blurry moments of forgetful reprieve passed before sleep found him. Luckily, he dreamt well.
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Abe wrapped a woolen blanket around his snoring friend. Despite his capabilities, Ben seemed childishly fragile as his chest rose and fell with each breath. Abe silently swore to himself for being so crass. He really didn’t mean to be. He was as blunt as a fist, especially when drunk, oft to his own regret.
“Sorry bout the harsh words, bub,” he whispered, wiping the tears from Ben’s cheeks. “I’m tired too. Tired of everything. Doesn’t mean I should have said it.”
He snuggled into his own cloak. He wished the cart had a window of some sort. The night sky above their mountains was something to behold. He longed to watch the stars twinkle, dancing to the rhythm of songs only the gods knew. Two blue moons cradled in the sky, their phases slightly uneven with one another like two twins who desperately needed to show everyone how different they were from one another. A deep, indigo expanse hiding behind branches and treetops that swayed as if they craved your attention, as if they wanted to tell you they were beautiful too. He’d stargazed with Val. So many perfect evenings. So many jokes, stolen kisses, promises sworn under the cosmos.
None had been kept. Now, instead of the gorgeous night sky, he stared at some wood, dreaming of the girl who’d been his light. Dreaming of the girl who’d left without a word, without a trace, without an apology.
What’s the point of a choice when it can hurt you this bad, huh?
His dreams were wondrous, and for that, they hurt.