Thick swathes of crimson blood littered the campsite. The path of carnage that Ishilip wrought had churned the otherwise pristine example of clean camping, into the murderous barbaric slaughterhouse they were supposedly sending Andrus to.
Ishilip looked pleased with itself, themself? Definitely themself.
Andrus couldn’t remember if this was what Ishilip was supposed to be. How does one accurately know of one’s own religious idol when one doesn’t even remember who oneself is. ‘Ishilip’ could be anything. Which surprisingly coming to think of it, Ishilip could be anything, and when was the last time Andrus had seen a squirrel do something like this? He clutched his head, the recollection of no recollection was hard to maintain.
Ishilip wandered over to the confused and pained Andrus, small furry paws wiping away chewed flesh and gnashed linen. The guards were not expecting the incoming destruction that the small burgundy squirrel unleashed. Without bronze breastplates to protect themselves, the gnashing teeth of the dark one reincarnate had eviscerated their fabric covered flesh.
The magister had called Ishilip a dark god, harbinger of damage and death, perhaps this is what he meant.
“I can’t remember the last time flesh tasted so good.” Ishilip licked his lips. “Although truth be told I’m not normally into flesh.” He continued licking.
“Don’t worry, I won’t kill you. Consider me your protection for the time being.” Ishilip looked itself over, stroking and matting its fur. Damp blood was caught amidst wet tufts. “I mean it’s not like killings all I’m good for. I can do other things to, but that’s irrelevant for the time being.”
Andrus was struggling to bring any thought or statement out of his mouth. The scene that had just unfolded in front of him had harrowed his soul. Now the behemoth that had butchered several trained guards claimed to have no ill inclination towards him. He gasped and sweated; stuttered and breathed through gritted teeth.
He was in no fit state to run, he could barely walk. He would have tried to escape but had lain in shock at the guts and gore pouring forth from the slaughtered soldiers. The magister and apprentice had been ripped to shreds as they tried to flee. The horses had bolted at the first smell of trouble, as Ishilip’s talon shredded the throat of the first unsuspecting guard.
Chaos had broken loose and Ishilip had leapt from body to body, pouncing and slashing, dodging and slicing. Eventually the camp site had stood quiet, and now.
“I think it’s best that we head to the temple to Ignoia at Ultya. We can commune with the Rock Dweller there. Ignoia will know where to go next. I think there was supposed to be another with you. Galiad? But you’re doing that thing of not being able to remember things so we’re fucked if we can find him without divine help.”
Andrus couldn’t catch the words before they’d left his mouth. “You know about my memory?” He paused, interrupting the free-flowing consciousness. Ishilip stopped pruning and looked him in the eyes. The two pits sunk deep into the furred mammals face
“Of course I do. I’m Ishilip. When you pray for protection you get it.”
“Now I heard you were about to get sacrificed, and like that hare-brained magister said, you get a warden not of your choosing.”
Ishilip continued the unblinking gaze deep through Andrus.
“Can we consider this line of questioning done and make camp for the night? I don’t sleep so I’ll keep watch.”
Andrus readily agreed. His mouth was still clamped shut with fear, his head nodding repetitively. Ishilip cautiously moved over and finally sliced away his bindings. Andrus felt the flow of blood and refreshed circulation. He felt himself start to calm. Ishilip’s hollow words continued.
“Maybe you should sleep in that tent, I think there’s even a cushioned bed.”
Andrus wasn’t sure how much sleep he would get, although he was certain there was no threat to face.
Well, other than Ishilip.
He didn’t want to drift off,
however, he slept like a log.
- - - - - - - - - -
Galiad was busy doing things. Things do themselves infinitely onwards in an all manner of ways and meanings, especially when they are around Galiad. Forwards, backwards, sideways and, his all-time favourite, underneath. Galiad had a penchant for doing them, getting them done, and dancing with the devil in the dust of their demise.
The demise currently being printed across the fraying tapestry of Galiad’s life was still not his. Many moons and threads of cloth and silk had still not described Galiad’s noble and fortuitous death. It had to be fortuitous, by this point in Galiad’s career if fortuitousness wasn’t a part of his death he might as well kick the bucket, part from his mortal parcel, shear his soul, all for the nothing and most definitely not the glory.
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Glory however was currently spitting at him. Slicing with razor sharp wit and cunning. Shattering blow after blow across the stoic bronze shield that Galiad was using to rebound the vicious horror’s attempts. Glory and horror go hand in hand in the times of the Wild Gods. Galiad smiled the grin that had seen wyrms slit and golems fractured. His blade quickly pierced the defence, and thus the throat, of the sharp appendaged humanoid knitted from bone and pain. He drew his blade south through the ridged carapace. Tides of green blood gushed forth as the monster in the cave was finally put to rest.
He stopped to take a breath, finally noticing the patchwork quilt of cuts and nicks scattered across his arms and legs. Galiad’s chest plate was forged from the tears of a Minoxios, a fiend of iron and flesh with two metallic protrusions similar to bull horns. It was therefore impervious to any foul monstrosity his servitude to Ishilip was bound to place him against. And many a foul monstrosity had tried.
He heard a voice from the cave entrance. A slight soprano.
“Galiad, is the beast dead? Are you okay?”
It was Timio, the child of the family who had asked for help.
Timio had caught him at the village square as Galiad had returned from slaying the sky wyrm in its mountain den. The villagers had offered him a reward, but that seemed in excess.
Naturally as a custodian of Ishilip’s rebellion he had to agree. First with the villagers, now with Timio. With the horror slain Timio’s family could finally use the cave’s spring water. Something infinitely better than the toxic well left by the ‘glorious’ war effort.
He rustled Timio’s hair as he left the cave.
“Yes, the monster’s slain, now go to tell your father. I’ll head off so he doesn’t feel compelled to pay me.” Galiad’s smile stretched from ear to ear, he waved Timio off as the boy crested the hill and began the descent down to the family homestead.
Galiad slugged off towards Tyri. “Perhaps I will venture into Tyri, the Decaying City’s stench is too rich for me at this time.” His voice trailed. The absence of Andrus left a hole in the conversation.
“I hope Ishilip heard my prayer. I’ve still not heard word of where the Godseers are keeping him.”
His thoughts turned to a dark softness. His feet continuing the slow trudge on.
- - - - - - - - - -
Andrus awoke to birdsong, sweet sonorous calls and chirrups as the flocks and ruffles of feathers began. He must have quickly fallen asleep; he was still alive which could be a good thing. He didn’t know if the harlequin known as Ishilip was still his warden, whatever it meant by that.
“Andrus is that you up?”
Oh fuck. He would have to respond. Ishilip’s shadow appeared at the edge of the tent.
“Andrus come on its time to break fast, or maybe break camp. Do you need to eat food yet is basically what I’m asking?” Ishilip’s hollow tenor had a warmer tone this morning. The clash of ferociousness missing from his voice. He waited by the doorway; his silhouette traced onto the tent entrance.
“Andrus. I’ve caught deer, I’ll cook it now. Come out when you’re less catatonic.”
A sigh of relief fell from Andrus. It trailed down to the magister’s soft bedding. His sleep had been luxurious compared to the malicious floor of the dungeon. The blanket and warmth, a loving embrace after months of back strain and abrasion. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to leave this linen paradise for the gritty aftermath of a war stained world lurking outside.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to prompt Ishilip to treat him as anything other than than a wary companion. Andrus resolved to leave the safety of the bed, cross the blanket shored grass, and leave the tent to meet whatever grizzly fate Ishilip had left the deer at.
Can squirrels even tend to a fire? The question stung.
As he emerged into the sunlight the glare disrupted his perplexion.
The fire was roaring, a metallic rod skewering a large chunk of severed deer meat hung across it. Ishilip gently rotating the spit as the red fibres seared and cooked. The flames licked the meat into heated submission, eventually leaving a charcoaled kebab for Andrus to eat.
Andrus sat upon the log closest to the fire, watching Ishilip work.
“So where exactly are we going to head? I’ve never really, been the protectorate of a god before.”
“I told you last night. We are heading back to Ultya.” Ishilip was nonplussed with Andrus’ questions.
“We’re heading back to Ultya?” Andrus’ heart skipped a beat. “For what reason do you think I’d want to go back to the hellhole that consigned me to death by sacrifice?”
“We’re going to speak to Ignioa the Rock Dweller.” Ishilip concentrated solely on the fires, prodding embers, and charcoal, into heated debate. “We’re going to get our map of fun and pleasure, and deal with the situation.”
“Situation?” Andrus noticed Ishilip’s tone spoke of a dedicated seriousness.
“The situation that has led to my incarnation. I’m not impressed with this, and yet, you’re the one who’s actually going to have to work.
I need a mediator.”
“And what exactly makes you think I’ll do it?” Andrus’ comment was succinct. There was nothing to hold him to be the mouthpiece of a squirrel, even if the squirrel was the god he was sworn to serve. Although he was sure the original emblem was different.
He felt the tension in his head grow.
Ishilip responded by thrusting the charcoaled meat towards him.
Andrus took the deer meat and dashed it with his teeth. The juices dripped from his lips and stained the shoddy tattered cloth that was still wrapped around his body.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take any of the clothes from the guards? Maybe the apprentice or magister’s robes would do you better than the jail cell rags you're still currently fitted in.” Ishilip sneered at the aesthetics he was currently chaperoning.
“It’ll provoke more danger if I’m wearing the uniform of the magisterial guard. What if they ask me something to test my knowledge? I have little enough left as it is. Little enough to bluff my way through a disastrous sequence.”
Ishilip was undeterred, “We’ll have to find you something soon. I can’t be seen with this kind of vagrancy. Image is power, and we need all the power we can get.”
Andrus felt like clinging to aestheticism at this time missed the point of his, only just, recognisable salvation. He was still yet to acknowledge his freedom from the dungeon. His mind still wary of waking up on a dark, sodden floor.
There was movement in the scrub by the camp edge. Andrus noticed it through Ishilip’s pricking ears.
Andrus made to swallow his last mouth full as several shining arrows emerged, all aimed directly at him.
He swallowed his tongue in fear, the food in his mouth following suit.