Cassius - 1

Celedon

Out in the sticks of the Celeonian countryside laid a farming village by the name of Sweetwyn. It was a humble town with a population of around fifty, known for its extensive sweetgrass farms. For hours, the farmers labored in the sun while their children played, then as a community, they would come together to cook and eat dinner in the village square.

Today there were gentle rains, but that didn’t stop the good-natured people of Sweetwyn from continuing with their daily rituals. They gave their thanks to the Saints for the rain and went to work the fields.

Diana always said that working in the rain was bad luck, that it brought the storm, but nobody ever listened. Her father had pulled her to the field to help him. In his eyes, she was ‘old enough to pull her weight’ now, which meant she got to pluck shucks of sweet grass from their stems until her fingers bled. ‘You’ll build callouses soon’ her father told her, a jolly smile on his face. She stuffed the sweet grass into a woven basket and when it was full, she anchored it on her hip and went to drop it off at the mill.

She hummed a working tune as she went, feet sinking into the wet, lush grass as she made her way up the big hill that the sweetgrass mill sat on. When she reached the top, she took a moment to admire the countryside. In the far distance, she saw a forest that led straight to the Ivory Road. Something in the tree line caught her eye. A sea of red swaying in the wind like fire. Only it wasn’t fire. She squinted, trying to get a better look. That’s when she realized-

“PA!” she hollered, dashing down the hill, dropping the basket without a second thought. “IT’S THE LEGION!”

⦽

Cassius could see a storm brewing in the distance. He cringed at the thought of water seeping through his armor, leaving him humid and itchy and miserable. The trees had kept the rain off of him and his squad so far, but he would feel much better being back in the city before the weather turned nasty.

“Private Lance,” he called out, “How’s our guest?”

A red-haired boy in leather armor piped up from behind him, “Captian! He hasn’t given confession yet, sir!”

Cassius turned his back to the hills, walking back to where he ordered his squad to halt. Private Lance sat on top of his horse, holding onto a rope leash. On the end of that rope was a dirty, bloodied, gagged young man. They had bound him by the wrists and stripped him of his shoes to walk barefoot through the forest. He glared as Cassius approached, and his broken face twisted into an expression so foul that Cassius thought he might be trying to murder him with his mind.

“Saint’s! Aren’t you ugly?” Cassius remarked flatly. “My apologies, I hadn’t realized we’d beaten you to the point of disfigurement.”

The man made a snarling sort of noise in response, gargled and hoarse. It was incredibly amusing to the Captain, like watching a small dog bark at the wolves. “If I take that gag out of your ugly mouth, are you going to tell me what I need, or should we run another lap around the Ivory Road?”

He pulled the white rag out of the man’s mouth, watching as bloody spit dripped down onto his chin. Cassius grabbed a fistful of his matted hair and forced the man to look up at him. “Well, ugly? Are you going home? Or are you going for another run?”

Cassius recognized defiance in the poor farmer’s eyes. He had to give the man props, the horses had dragged him around the Ivory Road twice today, and he still had fight left in him.

“Stop calling me ugly,” he rasped, before spitting a hefty glob of blood onto Cassius’ chest plate.

“Oh my,” Cassius chuckled, “You’re right, pardon my lack of decorum. How are you called?”

“Wenton!” he snarled. “This one is called Wenton!”

Cassius’ scrunched his nose up at the man as if he had smelled something foul. “Wenton? That’s an unfortunate name,” he looked up at Private Lance, who was watching their conversation with rapted attention. “I think I like ‘Ugly’ better, what do you think Private?”

“It suits him, Sir!” The Private answered in a subordinate tone. A ripple of laughter passed through the squad.

“It suits you!” Cassius laughed, “Ugly it is.”

Suddenly, the amusement fell from the Captian’s face, and he took the leash from Private Lance’s hands, yanking the prisoner closer to him. He steadied a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going, to be honest with you, boy,” he coldly rasped, “I don’t have time to run you again. If you don’t confess before the storm starts, I will split you belly to sternum, and hang you by your entrails.”

There was no change in expression on young Wenton’s face. He had put on a brave face and was committed to playing hero.

So Cassius hauled him to the treeline, pointing at the hill in the distance. A girl was standing next to the mill, barely visible.

“Do you see that?” Cassius asked. “If you don’t give the witch up, then after I’m done killing you, I’m going to take that girl into my custody, and run her round the Ivory Road in your stead.” Cassius could feel the man tense in his grasp, so he pressed on. “Perhaps she doesn’t know that a witch lives in your town, but until I get a confession, I have to assume that everyone is an accomplice.”

Wenton swallowed hard. He was shaking now, Cassius could feel it. He seized the boy by his chin,

“I know….that you know about the witch. Who he is. Where he lives. So be a good samaritan and let me do my job. Tell me, so I don’t have to kill anyone else.”

Tears welled in Wenton’s eyes, the tough facade cracking like glass under Cassius’ amber stare.

“P-Please!” he sobbed, “Cleetus is a good man- He helps the crops! He never hurt anybody!”

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⦽

Cassius dragged the boy back to the squad, tossing him onto the ground. “WHERE’S THE JUSTICAR?” he barked.

A man in a red cassock rode forward on his horse. He wore a scarlet veil, with a golden weeping mask over it to cover his face. Cassius always wondered how the Justicars could see, considering there were no apparent eye holes in the masks. The bleeding sun was carved into the forehead, marking his alleged holiness.

Cassius gave Wenton a sharp kick to his ribs, the boy moaned in pain beneath him. Cassius raised his voice once more, “Give the Justicar your confession so I can move on with my day!”

Wenton looked up at the masked man, cheeks stained with tears and rain and dried blood. “Cleetus is a mage- he lives next to the apothecary. I consorted with him! I give my life to the saints- please don’t hurt anyone else!”

The Justicar looked to Cassius, and the Captian could feel displeasure radiating from behind the mask, but he couldn’t care less about how Ser ‘Holier-Than-Thou’ felt about his methods. He raised a brow at the Justicar, waiting for him to accept the confession that he had worked so hard to obtain.

The Justicar gave him a small nod.

“Thank you, Justicar,” he bowed, “And thank you, Wenton. As punishment for colluding with witches, you will be sent to the Temple of the Bleeding Sun to be castrated and lashed etcetera etcetera.”

The Justicar scoffed in disgust and dropped from his horse to help Wenton off of the ground.

Cassius pushed past them, mounting his steed and whistling for his squad to assume formation. “MEN! WITH ME!”

⦽

An orchestra of hoofbeats and war horns filled the air as the Legion spilled into Sweetwyn. Cassius watched as the villagers scurried and fled into their homes like rats. Thunder crashed above their heads. It reeked of petrichor. Cassius took a long, deep breath of it.

Then he brought the storm.

Everyone was rounded into the square, questioned, and then sentenced. Punishments ranged from fines to beatings, to lashings. There wasn’t a single drop of that sick humor from earlier in the Captain now. No more jokes. No laughter. No nicknames. Only a mild horror was left because, for the first time in his ten years of service, everyone in the village was found guilty of collusion. Even worse, no one would identify the spellcaster. No one claimed the name of Cleetus. The witch had fully corrupted their minds. All of them.

Cassius spotted the girl from the hill, cowering next to her father. His men had cut the old man’s hands open so that he couldn’t work his fields until they healed. Even still, neither of them gave the witch up. The girl, however, kept looking towards the barn on the outskirts of the town. A nervous tic? Or perhaps something more. ‘You don’t even realize you’re telling on yourself,’ he thought.

He stepped away from the townspeople and approached the old oak building. He put his hand on the door, and he heard at least three villagers gasp in horror.

“Private,” he called, “Finish the reprimands and escort the townspeople back to their homes.”

Private Lance nodded, “Yes Captain!”

⦽

Cassius slipped inside the barn, hand resting on the ivory hilt of his sword. It was quiet, save for the sound of rain pelting the roof. His eyes flicked downwards, a fresh set of footprints were imprinted in the wet dirt. Quiet as a shadow, he stepped alongside the trail. The witch’s gait seemed uneven from the tracks. Cassius assumed he had a limp…which explained why he chose to hide instead of flee.

The footprints ended at a pile of hay towards the back of the barn. Cassius stilled in front of it. “You can come out now,” he said quietly. “It’s over.”

A minute or so passed before the hay pile shifted. Out crawled an elderly man who looked Sudorian in the face, but his pointed ears suggested he was Celonian. He was dressed in brown rags, and a sparkling red amulet hung from his neck. Cassius stared into his big black eyes, searching for fear or anger or bloodlust….but there was none of that. Only acceptance.

“Are you one called Cleetus?” he asked.

“That’s what the townsfolk call me,” the old man said, “My mother called me Aryn.”

“Aryn…” Cassius echoed. He was confused, most of the time when he caught a witch, they fought for their. Even the old ones, and especially the Islanders. “Was your mother Celonian?”

“Yes.”

“Where from?”

“Sovereignty Hold.”

“And your father?”

“From Ebonar.”

Cassius scoffed, “Ebonar has been gone for three hundred years.”

Aryn chuckled at that, a warm sound that sounded out of place given the context of the confrontation. “They only started calling it Black Rock, because you Imperials told them to. It was Ebonar before the Cataclysm, and it’ll be Ebonar until the Saints come home.”

“Black Rock bent the knee,” Cassius reminded him, “They willingly joined the Empire.”

“And yet they govern themselves,” Aryn hummed thoughtfully, “Only place in the Empire you and your Witchunters cant spoil.”

“By that logic, you should claim The Bay of Teeth for ‘Ebonar’ as well,” Cassius argued, “All of those islands were a part of Ebonar too…..before you blew it up.”

Aryn made himself comfortable among the hay, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Can I ask who you’re referring to when you say…’you’?”

“Mages,” he answered flatly. “Your natural instincts compel you to commit acts of unspeakable greed. Your lot coveted power that was only for the Saints to understand….and now your homeland is gone.”

“Leave it to an Imperial to explain your own history to you,” Aryn laughed again.

Cassius couldn’t understand how the man was so calm. Was this some sort of trap? Or was the geezer just fresh out of his mind?

“I’ve lived in Celedon my entire life,” Aryn continued, “And I learned my magic from my mother, a full-blooded Celonian woman. You equate magic with Ebonar and it’s people. They’ll live in terror all their lives as long as you lot are around. Innocent, mundane people.”

“You misunderstand me,” Cassius’ eyes widened with his malice, “Im not referring to the Ebonari, or the Sudorians, or the Geddish, or the Curoneese. Those are people. I live to serve and protect the people.”

Aryn sat up, his interest suddenly peaked. “Then who are you referring to, boy?”

Cassius drew his sword, the steel catching stray rays of sunlight that had filtered in through the gaps in the ceiling. “I’m referring to the race of mages. You who taint your souls with magic. You forfeit your humanity in the process. You become something separate. Something inhuman.”

For the first time since they started speaking, Cassius saw concern…and maybe even anger flash in the old mage's eyes.

“Those people outside….you...you beat them! You whipped them! The very people you claim to protect. How is that good?”

“I whipped them yes, for harboring you,” Cassius replied, a distinct lack of guilt in his tone. Suddenly, the old man jumped to his feet. Cassius raised his sword, pressing the point of it against his tunic. “They know the law, old man.”

“And the law dictates what is moral?!” he shouted, “You’re terrorizing them! I used my magic for good…I cured their sickness. I strengthened their crops- that’s why they protected me! How can you say I’m worse than you?”

“Save your breath,” Cassius spat. “I’ve seen what magic is really capable of. If the Empire allows it to spread, the world will fall into chaos.”

“So this is you preserving order then?” Aryn asked disbelief stuck to his face like a bruise that refused to heal. Cassius shook his head.

“This is me saving the world.”

The old man deflated, melancholy in his eyes. Eyes that he almost recognized as human.

“Then we are long since doomed.”

Cassius watched as Aryn knelt in front of him, arms spread wide for the Saints to receive him.

“Do what you came here to do.”

Cassius stared down at him for a moment. They had been talking for so long, he had almost forgotten the point of it all. “You would go without a fight?”

“What’s the point?” he let out a dry laugh, “You’re saving the world.” There was a pause before Aryn raised his head to meet Cassius’ eyes. “You know, son, I sense a great deal of pain in you. You've rejected the love of the Saints. The Empire has become your religion. I pray you survive the day you finally see it for what it is.”

Cassius was silent. Expressionless.

“Do you have any last words, Aryn of Sovereignty Hold?” he asked, as he anchored his sword against the old man’s neck.

“What is the name of the boy who will slay me?”

Cassius steeled himself. “The boy is called Cassius Amata. Of Wytear. And I sentence you to die.”

⦽

Cassius left the barn and stepped into the storm outside. He looked up at the dark clouds….it had been a sunny day before they arrived. The rain stuck his hair to his face and seeped through his armor.

He allowed the blood to rinse clean from his blade. And he absolved himself of his guilt.