Though they were the least problematic of the Sage Guilds, a distinction which belonged neither to the Icebinders nor the Lightsmiths at any given time, there was room for moral interpretations as to what was noble and what was not. Stepping between two Vulcans with this sort of disagreement is… inadvisable. -Bianca Rosamund’s Sagistry Compendium, Ch. 2
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Ben could appreciate the sun. Most researchers agreed that, combined with the gods, the sun provided the conditions necessary for life on their world. It mattered not. At that moment, the sun was a cruel, cruel bastard.
Despite a great deal of rest, lethargy muddled his mind and body. His minor headache seemed to explode any time the swaying trees in the woodland canopy made way for sunlight. Each stumbling step seemed to jostle his very soul. He was incredibly tempted to Rejuvenate, but that would just kick the can down the road. Effort exerted for comfort in the moment would lead to exhaustion later on in the day. Not that riding in a cart all day required much effort, but he preferred to keep his wits about him.
They had camped in a clearing off the side of the Claw’s Road. The usual hardwood trees made way for a meadow of blue autumn-changed grass and leaves. Shoreapples, acorns, and columbines met the group as they began to sit down for breakfast. The rain had let up, though the ground still sloshed and muddied their boots as they moved about. A pot of stew began to roar to life, the scents of rabbit and vegetables filtering into the air as constables took down tents and wrapped up their sleeping bags. Ben walked around, each step requiring more effort than he’d like, helping whoever needed it. A woman who’d drank more than him was fumbling with her bootlaces, a younger guy with longer hair who needed it pulled back whilst he hurled his guts to the grass, an older man who needed a hand as he sat on the ground.
The prisoners were placed in two, closed carts. All twenty-two crammed between them. Ben could hear groans and whines and for the begging of food or wound care. They sounded pitiful, and he might have felt sorry had he not seen the child killed. Had he not spoken to her father and seen the mixture of haunt and irreparable pain in his eyes. They could all rot once they made it to Theralyn. If the courts called for their execution, then all the better.
Ben’s stomach grumbled, roaring and tossing as it decided whether it should succumb to the hangover or the hunger, whether it should expel all its bile or turn autophagic. He found Abe sitting on a patch of grass that was drier than the rest, a bit of evaporative steam showing it had been heated by Abe’s sagefire. He hadn’t lit anything aflame, just emitted some heat from his body, increasing the temperature around him until the grass was dry. Ben reached into a small pouch on his cleric’s belt and pulled out his remaining rations; dry biscuits and cheese with a slight funk to it. He looked around. Abe had sat apart from the constables, closer to the treeline at the clearing’s perimeter.
He held the food out to Abe who was already allowing sagefire to coalesce at a fingertip. “Care to help?”
“Don’t mind a bit,” he replied.
Abe warmed the food, softening the bread and giving a melty drip to the cheese. He rubbed the cheese over his biscuit, leaving it with a yellow, scrumptious glaze.
“Best use for a Vulcan,” Ben said with a chuckle. “Nothing quite like a portable oven.”
“Least I’ve got my fundaments, arse.” Abe replied, no joviality to his tone.
“Sleep rough?”
“Drank rough, slept worse. Sorry bout last night.”
“You say anything? Do anything?” Ben was not sure. Like most folks he knew, they crossed lines more frequently when drunk, leaving them unsure if the other remembered.
“Said. Guess you don’t remember?”
“I do not,” he replied truthfully. He remembered mumbling about choice, thinking on where things went wrong. The rest was a blur. “Sorry if I said anything,” he added, hoping he hadn’t.
“You didn’t. All is good?”
“Yeah. All is good.”
Ben smiled and began ripping into his biscuit. Few seconds had passed before it was nothing more than crumbs on his mouth, chest, and the grass below him. He popped the rest of the cheese in his mouth too, licking his fingers free of the melted ooze. He imagined old bread and cheese had never tasted better to anyone.
“Less than a day till we’re home,” Ben pointed out. “What are you going to do when we get back? A whole week to ourselves unless something urgent comes along.”
“Gonna sleep, probably,” Abe replied, a smile lighting up his face.
“Yeah?” Ben laughed. “Where?”
“My favorite bench at Bironel’s!” Abe yelled out with a chuckle, slapping his knee. “I bet Lysandra has gone to begging without my tips.” Ben could only return his smile. There would be plenty of song and drink and jokes once they made it home. There were a few things he wanted to do before making their way to the tavern, though. He wanted to see Buckle’s golden tail wag once the pup realized he was back. He wanted to hug his Da and spend some time catching up in their library. He also wanted to rest. Truly rest, in his bed, with the curtains closing off any and all light. A good meal would be nice, too, with something to drink other than shit roadwine.
“Gonna go see your Ma at all?” Ben asked with a bit of caution.
Abe paused a moment. He looked to the left as though the answer would be floating in the air beside him. “I might,” he finally said. “Guess it just depends. She quit drinkin’, but it’s her sixth time quitting, and that’s a holy number. Maybe it worked out. Maybe not. I should probably check, but if she’s good then she’ll check on me, y’know? So maybe it’s better I don’t.” He nodded to himself. “Yeah, probably better I don’t.”
They sat in silence for a moment, looking at the bright blue patch of grass before them. If one focused hard enough, they could see paltry amounts of green, ethereal Aether humming around the blades like a heat’s haze. Same with the air, where miniscule orbs of forest-green would appear out of nowhere, conjured when it was more heavily concentrated in a particular space. Aether was in all things, in all places. The gift of the Mother, the goddess of their world, everywhere to be seen, felt, used. Ben had always found comfort in that.
“They had morwood torches. At that compound. Did you notice?” Ben asked.
“Aye. Hard not to. Would’ve been smoked out the moment we opened the basement door if it hadn’t been morwood. Whatcha thinkin’, bub?”
“I was thinking the same thing,” said a voice of a higher, nasally pitch. They looked over to see Fohrs approaching, three clay bowls of stew in hand, his navy long coat flowing backwards with each quick step he took. Ben had worried the cart driver might catch a cold thanks to the rain, but the young man’s pale skin seemed perfectly healthy alongside his lively blue eyes. Red hair, previously kept up in the hat, most of it running down his shoulders. The rest was streaking behind him much like his coat.
He’s entitled to three bowls. Is he sharing them with us? That’s… that’s awful kind.
Both clerics sprung up and walked to the constable. They both took a bowl, the scent of rabbit helping Ben realize he was still quite hungry despite his provisions. Still, the man’s comment led to questions whose answers made food worth waiting for.
“Thank you, Fohrs. What do you mean?” Ben asked.
“Well,” he said after swallowing a mouthful of broth and meat. “Morwood torches just seem like an interesting accommodation for these decrepit folk. They’re likely relatively new, considering that the area has been safe until recently.”
“And if they’re new, you gotta wonder where the torches came from, especially when you consider the quality of their other supplies.” Abe said.
“Exactly,” Ben replied. “They keep the nasty beds, don’t buy new clothes, and don’t spend any money on cleaning the place up or making it more livable. But they have money for morwood, for pews? For a stone podium?”
“Aye,” said Fohrs. “Doesn’t make much sense. Could just say that they’re fanatics, that they’re insane, so they likely wouldn’t have a solid sense of financial literacy. That, since they’re cultists, of course they would spend money on objects of worship rather than basic necessities.”
“But you don’t buy that,” said Ben.
“Not quite. Jamo sent some scouts to look around for a God’s Grove, because that was our first thought. They came back last night. Nothing at all. You’ve seen ‘em. They can be felt a league away or so. Gave ‘em fast horses and they came up with nothing.”
“Odd,” said Abe. “That was our first thought too. So, that means they have to have had some funding, yeah?”
“Exactly,” Fohrs replied. “A benefactor of some sort, unless the leader had a boat load of cash lying around to get them started. There’s no way to know since he was burned to death. His head practically melted away and there was nothing in the little living space he had in that awful worship basement to give us any indication.” Ben looked to Abe, his mood souring a bit. The whole thing had been so rash. Too rash.
“Nothing has come up from the cultists then?” asked Abe.
“Don’t have enough energy to question them at the moment,” said Fohrs. “Waiting till Theralyn, but I’d assume they know very little. Cults are generally top heavy when it comes to information. Bottom feeders generally know very little, and all the folks we caught seem to be at the bottom of the pyramid. We’ll investigate, but I wouldn’t be surprised if all of our leads died with him. The Solrusians might have known something, but I seriously doubt it.”
Ben kept nodding on, but Fohrs said nothing more. “You think we should have held on to them?” Ben asked.
“I’m not sure. I didn’t like it at first, but I think what you did was a good thing. Don’t like where they’re being sent, but who else would take ‘em? They’re out of everyone’s hair and they’re like to go somewhere with food and shelter and an opportunity to work. Everyone deserves that, I reckon.”
That’s really good to hear. There’s hope for him yet.
Ben stood up, already sore from the way he was sitting thanks to his sedentary time in the cart. He turned and stretched, looking toward the sky as he put one arm over the other and twisted. The light didn’t hurt as much as earlier. Good food helped with that. Water would do even more. He made a plan to find some before heading out.
“Hey Fohrs,” Ben said, turning back around, “do you wanna go with us to-”
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
It was not Fohrs he saw, but the stump where his head had been attached to his neck. A geyser of blood erupted from the cavity, showering Ben’s trousers and boots as it toppled forward. The head was only a few paces away.
Three zips, like the sound bugs make when they quickly fly by an ear but much louder. The signal for trouble, for death, for a coming battle. Abe’s kovlock was out, green bullets of Kova shooting toward the sky. Men startled and jumped from their sitting positions, quickly rushing to get their weapons out of their sheaths or holsters or wherever they had been stored the night prior. Screams and shouts ensued as others made note of Fohrs’s decapitated body.
Ben found the Inner Eye immediately before the incoming waves of fury and fear overwhelmed him. Without shakes or unnecessary movement, he unlatched his hammer from his belt and unholstered his kovlock. His shield was across the clearing in the supply cart..
No time. Work with what I’ve got.
He Infused his entire body, quickly filtering out the cacophonous roar of unnecessary stimuli. His senses exploded with life. He saw clearer, processed the field more easily, and searched for the sounds and scents of a foe. He spun his hammer in his hand, readying for close combat. He aimed his pistol where he looked, allowing his iron-sight to sway as he surveyed the space around him. The metal hand cannon’s chamber and the hammer’s head both emitted a soft green light, their surfaces humming as Ben Infused them.
Nothing and no one unusual could be seen in the camp. Scared, alarmed, disturbed constables, screaming horses, and nothing else. He looked to the treeline.
A flicker between some trees to the north, a disturbance of leaf and branch. Another, this time more violent as foliage flew in all directions. Ben led his shot, further Infusing his hand-eye coordination. Abe had seen the anomalous movement and thought to do the same. They both unleashed green lances of light from their pistols, both shooting toward the exact same spot. Dirt, leaves, and splinters exploded from the collision of Kova and target. All fell still.
The clerics made eye contact, both nodding as they prepared to check out their prey. They kept themselves completely Infused. Abe tossed his kovlock to Ben as he latched his hammer, dual wielding the pistols while Abe conjured up an orb of sagefire to the at the tip of his wand.
Their prey had not fallen.
A roar began to shake the forest. Ben filtered it out while constables around them fell, blood spurting from their ears before they understood their folly. How could they? Constables weren’t trained to reinforce their ears at the drop of a pin. Some, including Jamison, still stood, their instincts saving them from the attack. More wood and vegetation flew in all directions from the roar’s source.
Abe unleashed a thin, twisting blast of sagefire toward the destruction. The green flames hissed as they streaked across the air. An explosion erupted as it made contact, the blast’s remnants starting to creep up the surrounding trees, bark coming alive with dancing flames. Leaves and wood crackled as the fire began to spread, smoke quickly permeating throughout the clearing. Just as the blaze was beginning to lose control, it slipped off like a man on slick ice, though it stopped midair before hitting the ground. The sageflame dissipated amid its aerial suspension, slowly fading away into the air above until nothing remained.
Smoke flowed throughout the camp like a frustrating child trying to get into anything and everything. Constables coughed and hacked, the skylight darkened. The sporadically set campfires blew about, the coals and embers falling to the grass. Orange fire spawned, spreading erratically and with great haste.
“Ben!” Abe yelled. “I gotta deal with this, bub! You got it?”
Ben just nodded. Of course he would handle it. He had to. Anything that could kill Fohrs that quickly could do the same to the rest of the constables. He turned his eyes to the gap in the trees Abe had set afire. The smoke began to dissipate, although slowly, as Abe began to control the flames.
Ben put more Infusion into his sight. His visibility heightened, his ability to tune out and focus on specific things enhancing to a superhuman level. The fire had indeed made contact with the beast. And it was a beast.
It stood tall, small marks of residual char sitting upon its chest. Humanoid, tall, athletic. It seemed to have skin made from gray stone, though its entire body was bare of any markings or parts typical to the human body. Another roar sprang forth from its wide mouth, baring its sharp, stone teeth to the world. Its three gray eyes circled wildly, searching for something, though Ben was unsure of what. He focused on the near tip of its head. A small, silver gem, no bigger than a carat, protruded from its scalp. Energy swirled around like two competing storms.
An arbarn? Fuck.
There would be no time to make any other assessments. He had to move. This was a beast with a motive, one that would be decided by whichever souls had influenced its manifestation. Ben had an idea, considering it had likely followed them from the commune, but it didn’t really matter.
This thing was here to kill. Fohrs was proof of that. He would not let that happen.
Ben charged, his Infusion allowing him to move at a superhuman speed. The sound of passing wind swallowed all other noise as he blasted toward the arbarn with twin pistols in hand.
The arbarn’s eyes stilled, their maddening rotation coming to an end. All three pupils settled on Ben, the monster’s rocky yet somehow flexible tongue slipping through its lips and down past its chin, slobbery drool slipping to the ground.
Not fully evolved yet. Good.
Ben aimed one kovlock at the silver jewel, his pistol’s chamber glowing a soft green. He pulled the trigger, loosing a jet of green Projection Kova. The arbarn put its hand out, tanking the green shot as it made contact. No cracks. No burns. Only a bit of steam rising from its stone skin as the Kova dissipated. .
Fucker is tougher than nails. Fast, too.
He dropped Abe’s pistol. Dual wielding would have been a fine idea for a monster without such a tough exterior, but the combination of an arbarn’s speed and durability made ranged battle much more unpredictable. With a multitude of unconscious constables, and likely all of the prisoners too, he could fight with a disregard for safety. Close quarters would have to do. He unlatched his hammer again as he ran toward the beast.
“Not quite, boy.”
The arbarn appeared before him, its speed far outpacing Ben’s own. The beast’s arm had widened nearly to the size of a tree trunk. Ben could hardly get his Infused hammer up to block as the massive limb slammed into him, tossing him across the clearing like a child’s toy. Ben fell to the ground, slamming his hammer into the dirt to stop his momentum so that a tree would not. Dirt exploded in all directions as he slid through the grass and leaves, his weapon raking it all up as he slowed.
“The Cultists, boy. Need them,” it croaked, its voice sounding like the rubbing together of rocks. “Killed us. Kill them. Need. Please. I’d love to. I need to. You understand?”
Ben stood as he finished sliding. Nothing out of order. No awkward movements, no worrying pains, no bones sticking out of his legs. Nothing to Rejuvenate.
A manifestation of souls. Likely the dead Solrusians. The victims. Come for retribution.
The arbarn rushed him, a maelstrom of dirt following each step it took.
I do not blame them. But they killed Fohrs, and they aren’t evolved enough to distinguish between foe and others.
The arbarn moved to hit him with a downward strike, but this time Ben was ready. Its wide arm had thinned out while the tip had sharpened, reforging the stone arm into a makeshift lance.
That little girl is probably somewhere in there, her spirit stuck and adhering to this murderous rage.
Ben heavily Infused his legs and left arm. He raised his forearm into a defensive position. The stone spear struck his arm, sparks flying as an insane weight pressed down on Ben, nearly numbing his Infused arm and straining his elbow.
Fucking cultists. These poor people. Fuck, man. Fuck.
The Kova held strong. He threw his arm to the side, deflecting the blow and widening the arbarn’s stance. In a moment Ben directed more Kova into his other arm, heavily Infusing it and the hammer it held. He wound his arm back, throwing it upwards, releasing the hammer from his grip.
It’s not fair. Not for the Solrusians. Not for me.
A thunk rang across the meadow as the sagestone hammer smashed into the arbarn’s chin, throwing the monster ten feet into the air. Silt fell onto Ben’s coat as parts of its chin and tongue disintegrated, a grunt and more gravel escaping its throat as it began to fall back to the ground. Ben yanked on the length of leather attached to his hammer’s hilt, bringing his weapon back toward him. He released the leather, caught the hilt, and attacked, doing his best to not think of the pain the unpassed dead felt. Each second was a blow against the Inner Eye, his inner peace, his ability to remain calm.
While the arbarn fell, Ben thoroughly Infused the hammer again. He tossed it, throwing it toward the monster’s stomach. The beast wriggled, flailed its arms, kicked its legs. None of it mattered. It was of the stones, not the sky, and it moved as such. The hammer made contact midair, denting the navel and throwing the beast backwards before it hit the ground. Sparks and silt were flung about as the beast’s stomach slowly caved. Another roar from the arbarn, though not as strong. The netheric soundwaves did not test his Infused eardrums as much as the previous ones.
It won’t be enough.
He unholstered his kovlock and aimed for the hammer’s hilt. A perfectly circular target. The gun’s chamber radiated with forest green Kova as he waited. The hammer would be leaking Kova the moment it left his hands, but the shot would just bounce away if too much Infusion remained. He watched, trying to catch green motes of energy amidst the sparks as the beast flew further away.
A few specks.
The hammer began to slow, its maximum force having been obtained.
A couple more motes dissipated.
He continued to Infuse, filling the kovlock to its maximum capacity. Sweat dripped down his brow. Holding his breath grew more difficult.
The tiniest bit. Just a bit longer.
Now. I’m sorry.
He shot, his hand cannon letting loose a thick javelin of Kova. Luminescent green shot across the clearing, making contact with the hammer’s hilt just before the beast fell downward.
Shadestone shattered. The arbarn’s torso exploded in all directions, pebbles and detritus bestrewing throughout the clearing. Some flew further, scraping against the trees and destroying thin, autumn-changed branches. Ben’s hammer travelled further yet as it soared past the treeline and into the woods.
Not over yet. Have to move. Give them peace. Give me peace.
The fight had been short, but Ben had struck hard. A great deal of Kova had gone into that shot, and that was not to speak of the full body Infusion he’d maintained.
I am running out of time to finish this. Have to move. Give them peace.
And so he did. He maintained his Infusion, equalizing the spread throughout his body rather than concentrating it into one spot. He ran for the head, his entire focus on its gem. The gem was unfortunately facing away from him, and he doubted he had enough Kova left in him to destroy the head and then the gem in quick succession.
While the arbarn limbs flew in all directions, the stone head fell right to the ground. The nether gem tended to weigh more than the rest of an arbarn by a large margin. It landed and rolled, its three eyes rotating wildly once again, its wrecked tongue wagging in all directions. A bounce and a bobble. The gem faced Ben.
Only for a moment though. Not long enough.
Another roar, though not so all encompassing like the others. The arbarn concentrated the soundwaves in one direction, creating an airwave as it screamed. It flew in one direction, stopped roaring, resumed, and did so until it was flying in a multiple directions like a mouse in a room full of traps. Ben stepped away from the approaching soundwaves, the ground beside him torn to bits as they made contact. He screamed as the waves connected with an unconscious constable. The policeman was blown apart, chunks of flesh, bone, and blood painting where he had lain. Not an identifiable trace of him remained.
Ben continued to Infuse his kovlock, but his time was running thin. His breath ran heavy and sweat dripped from every pore. Keeping track of such a mobile target was impossible, but if he did nothing, more constables would die.
Another one nearly did. Not unconscious, but the concentrated soundwave blew both her legs off as she mistimed her dodge. Another’s arm was blown clear off at the shoulder as he attempted to deflect with an Infused arm. The man’s Kova had not been up to snuff and he’d paid the price. Ben’s anxiety filled his mind to the brim, his panting nearing hyperventilation, his aim more unsure with each moment that passed. The Inner Eye shattered.
They’re all going to die.
Tears joined with sweat, blurring his vision entirely now, instinct the only friend he had left.
He shot, setting forth yet another lance of green force.
He missed. He missed terribly.
Ben fell to his knees, the force of his shot blowing his hair back. Tears spilled from his eyes as his shot was engulfed him flames.
An explosion and a screech. Ben’s Kova shielded his ears. A blanket of residual heat covered him. The char of burnt nose hairs filled his nostrils as a pillar of green engulfed much of the clearing, burning branch and leaf and dirt and beast alike. The shockwave blew Ben backwards. He attempted to fully Infuse himself, but the Kova would not come. Months of exhaustion, battle, and eating poorly had finally caught up.
He landed on his back, white light flashing in his skull as his head whipped the dirt. He did his best to Rejuvenate the concussion before he passed out. As it healed, he felt himself succumb to the exhaustion, the lives of Fohrs and the others heavy on his heart.