Axeton continued walking through the last clearing before the village, stepping through an old guard post that hadn’t been used in ages. The children of Avandale would sometimes play in and around it, then promptly shuffle off to the healer’s house to get the splinters pulled out of their little fingers. Their parents and Axeton had warned them against using it, but kids can’t be watched every hour of every day.
Avandale was a tiny village, nestled in a slight valley, hidden away from any main roads or trading highways. Brey’s homestead was up one side past the ridge opposite the river, a half hour’s walk away. Being such a small village of around 200 people, it rarely received visitors and was self-sustaining. Goods made in the village were simple, but made with care.
In the years living there, The priest had made a habit of stopping at the ridge outside of Brey’s and using his Sight to quickly scan the village on his way back into town. It didn’t take much glory to do it, and it gave him a good sense as to where everyone was or if there was a problem. The priest’s Sight still wasn’t working when he reached the ridge and tried to use it, a reminder that something was out of the ordinary. He looked anyway, squinting at the layout of the village below.
No movement, at least, none that he could see. There should at least be some people outside, chopping wood or preparing for the festival by hanging up decorations, but the priest couldn’t see a soul. A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.
Axeton had never really realized how much noise a village in the middle of nowhere makes, until it didn't. There were usually birds, gorks, and lempies calling out, mothers trying to get their children inside to do chores, or vendors in the village square shouting about their wares. None of this was happening, at least not that he could hear. A horrible urge to flee started screaming in the back of Axeton’s mind, but he pushed through it. It wasn’t just him involved this time, and he was going to do something about it.
Assess, prepare, fight, he thought, walking cautiously towards the village. He prayed that he was being paranoid, but knew that in a situation like this, it was just being naïve.
Something is wrong, an old voice niggled in the center of his mind. There has been innocent blood spilled. The priest quickened his step; the calm, old voice was never wrong, but it had never given him a portent of doom before.
Axeton's first stop was his house. The priest’s house was purposefully built at the opposite side of the village from the church, so he could walk to the church and bless and/or observe everyone on the way. It was a small, one bedroom home, but thankfully it was easy to keep heated in the winter.
The priest approached his home and opened the door, everything remained quiet. Normally when he was gone, the people of the village would write their prayers on strips of paper and shove them under the door. Again, nothing. He hadn’t felt panic in a long time, but his unease was starting to get out of control. Carefully and quietly checking to make sure there were no intruders, Axeton found his way to the bedroom.
Although the priest spent most of his time and sleeping hours at the church, he still liked to keep his room and house clean. The bedroom was small, with a bed slightly too short for his above average height. The bed was adorned with a lovingly made quilt, crafted by Molly Vergassen and a few others in town upon his arrival. Axeton approached a bookshelf on the wall opposite of the bed, then carefully pulled it towards the center of the room. Hidden behind the dusty bookshelf was a small iron hook jutting from the wall. He pulled it, which through the use of a system of internal wires, opened up a concealed wall panel on the north side of the room.
Reaching into the opened wall, Axeton pulled out a thin, long wooden box and placed it carefully onto the bed. He had hoped, despite the immense cost of the item, that he would never have to use it. It had taken him years at his meager priest’s salary to save up for it. But now was not the time for museum pieces. The priest reverently opened the box, preparing himself.
Sitting gracefully in the box, its slate gray steel catching the dusty rays of light from the nearby window, was his dueling blade. He had it made to exact specifications, just like the one he had to leave behind at the academy. A 45-inch-long straight blade, 2 inches wide at the wire hilt, maintaining that width to the angled point The dyed leather handle was green with thin gold filament, the colors of the house of Eldridge. Perfectly balanced, it was deceptively heavy, with a wickedly sharp edge that turned into a point with a sharp angle 3 inches from the tip. A hard, carbonized shell with a flexible core, perfect for his favorite combat stance; Stance Seven, Kawarri. Single-handed, focusing on disarming and injuring through quick strikes utilizing a long blade’s reach. Severely deadly against unshielded opponents, a lesson he had relished in too many times.
An old voice, harsh and cold, flooded the priest’s mind. The gruff, hissy, and angry demand sprung from the back of his skull and attempted to rush over his mind like a diseased wave.
KILL
The priest denied the request, forcing the order back.
He lifted the blade from its box, leaving an imprint of itself in the dark green velvet. Holding the blade in his right hand, he put his feet into the stance and extended the blade, then made a few slashes and jabs, his arms screaming with joy at the familiar, albeit distant, muscle memory being called upon once again. He lashed the sheathe to his belt and spun the blade in a defensive stance, testing its drag against the stale air.
The voice relished the brutal and familiar. It called to him again.
KILL
Axeton’s mind seemed to stop and go at the same time, veering into a corner and accessing memories against his will. Clashing blades, Torvald, the fire. His brain attempted to shift, his breathing becoming rapid, his grip tightened against the leather handle of the sword. He closed his eyes, muttering a quick prayer to Avara and slowing his breathing.
I will not lose control today, he thought. He sheathed the sword silently and stood in his bedroom, his heavy breathing the only sound. Axeton loosened the grip on the blade’s handle, which had been so tight that his hand had begun to shake. He closed the wooden box and walked outside, leaving his modest home behind to face the unknown, shrouded in silent, uneasy air.
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The priest quietly began his sweep of that side of town. He tried to check in on Mr. Brisbee’s tailor shop, empty. Cornell’s bakery had its fires lit but he couldn’t smell the delicious breads that were normally baking at this time of day. The Owarries, Melchamps, even the cantankerous old man Trenchling wasn’t home. The old man’s whittling knife was still sitting on the stump next to a well-worn rocking chair on his porch. He continued to look for any signs of life but saw and heard nothing until a small, high-pitched noise broke the silence.
Axeton froze, standing perfectly still as he heard the sound. There was an echo, as if the noise was coming from behind a wall. It happened a few more times, and he was able to figure out that it was coming from across the street, in a cluster of homes.
The first thing he saw as he walked towards the sound was the muddy drag marks, leading behind the home of Robert Vash, the local barber. Axeton stepped carefully, but his shoes still sloshed and squished in the mud. The sound became identifiable as a shivering whimper as he treaded closer. Turning the corner, the priest found Tommen Vash sitting in the mud, the source of the pained cries.
Tommen was an average-sized boy, slightly lanky, about twelve years old. For the past two years he had been pestering the priest to teach him how to fight, after catching him practicing a stance one morning on his day off. He wanted to see the world and protect the ones he cared about, bringing honor to his family and his home. Axeton didn’t want to teach him to fight offensively, but was able to show him some self-defense that he was more than happy to use against imaginary villains. He favored a large wooden shield and would wear it everywhere. His mother very sternly asked the priest to tell him that it wasn’t proper to wear it to the dinner table.
Unfortunately, whoever Tommen fought against was not imaginary. Axeton’s face paled as he approached.
The poor boy had taken a deep gash to the lower torso and was bleeding badly. His small dagger had been thrown aside, but even in the mud, Axeton could see some red on the blade.
Good boy, he thought.
Axeton walked up to him carefully, he didn’t want him to startle and move, making the wound worse.
“Tommen”, he called out, trying to be as quiet as he could.
The boy raised his head in alarm. Axeton could see now that his face was caked with blood; he must not have had enough arm strength left to wipe it off. He could see his brow furrowing as he tried in vain to blink the blood away from his once hopeful blue eyes.
“Father Axeton?” he called out, weakly.
“I’m here,” the priest replied. “Tommen…what happened? Who did this?”
The brave boy, the one the priest had seen grow up just wanting to help people, started to cry.
“Some men came, Mister Estes told us that if we all went into the church, it would all be ok”. He squealed out between sobs.
“They looked so mean. My mom and dad and sister and brother went to the church but I hid here. When everyone was gone, the bad men were talking about the Bell…one said they wanted to take it and I said no you’re not gonna take our Bell and I fought them…”
Axeton shushed him , trying to calm him down. “It’s ok. I saw you got one of them, good job.”
Tommen’s voice was losing more strength, the priest reached out and felt for a pulse, which was very weak. He had already lost so much blood. He still smiled at the priest’s praise, even if only for an instant.
Axeton looked around, still unable to see anyone else. Remembering the small linens he kept in his travel bag, he took them out and applied them to the wound as Tommen sat, his lower lip making random movements as if mouthing words. It had been years since the priest had provided any real level of medical care, the healers in town usually did it. He cursed his inadequacy, his own blue eyes tearing up as he uselessly applied the makeshift bandages into the mass of blood.
“Father…is it snowing?” the boy asked. Axeton blanched, knowing the delirium that came with blood loss all too well.
“No, Tommen”, the priest replied quietly. “It’s not winter yet. You know this, the festival is soon. It doesn’t get cold until after that.” He had to keep him talking, to keep him fighting to survive. He couldn’t get emotional and make the boy panic. He had to be strong.
“What are you most excited for about the festival?” Axeton asked, trying to fight back the doom for all parties involved as he attempted the bandaging. “I like the pies. Mrs Cornell makes the best pecan pies, doesn’t she?”
The boy slowly turned his head to the man. “It’s so cold”, he said in a weak whisper.
A voice, even older, filled the man’s mind.
There’s nothing you can do for him. Let him have peace.
The voice was right, as it always was.
Trying to keep his composure, the priest gently squeezed the boy’s arm before pulling him closer, his matted blood leeching itself onto his clothes. “Tommen,” he pleaded. “Can you promise me something?”
The boy nodded again, his head barely moving. Axeton didn’t have much time.
“Promise me”, he began, his voice quivering. “That you’ll come with me to the festival. The scarecrows frighten me, and I need someone brave to help him fight them off. Can you do that, please? I need you to stay so I can be brave too.”
The priest watched the boy, cold and bloody in the mud. If Tommen agreed to the promise, or even heard it, there was no indication. He closed his eyes, and exhaled for one final time.
Axeton sat for a moment, the boy in his arms, trying to process what had just happened. The children of this village were supposed to grow up, and move away. Have children of their own.
The acrid, angry voice screamed in the priest’s skull
HOW MANY ARE YOU GOING TO LET DIE THIS TIME, it hissed.
The priest’s jaw clenched in unbridled anger as the voices fought.
You can’t be brave and angry at the same time. Keep your composure.
NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR COMPOSURE, the angry voice cajoled. KILL THEM.
Get a hold of yourself. Honor yourself. Honor the boy, the older voice reasoned.
Wiping away tears, Axeton looked around and found Tommen’s dagger. The priest cleaned it off on his shirt, laid the boy down to the ground gently, and put the dagger in his hands before standing up. He made the Sign of the Duelist, a manifestation of fraternal understanding between those who took up the blade at Grenfield… Tommen had always wanted to go. Axeton touched his right eye with his index and middle fingers, then pivoted his wrist to swing his fingers in a horizontal arc, ending with them pointing towards the boy, as a brother in arms.
“May your blade rest when your journey is complete”, he recited quietly to the fallen Tommen, before turning away and heading towards church. The priest’s mind and body felt heavy, shouldering the loss made his soul feel like a loaf of burned bread; hopeless, burned, and hollow.
My little warrior. My little friend. My family, he thought, his desire for revenge fueling each methodical step.
Whoever did this is going to pay.