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Chapter 12 - Talinnius

I

        The city was quiet, even though it felt like every soul was out to watch what had become a grand parade. This was no triumph, despite its spectacle. A funerary pyre – taller than the surrounding buildings – rolled through the wide street. Wheels – almost as tall as a man – creaked and moaned with each rotation. At the pyre’s zenith, an ornate casket made from pure gold rested. The gold was decorated with stylized wars and other great moments in the occupant's life. The occupant was recreated in realistic manner on the casket’s lid, with his arms crossed and eye closed, sleeping atop his final resting place. The whole device was pulled by one hundred oxen and escorted by an entire Legion wearing mortuary masks made from polished silver. Black banners and streamers floated in the soft breeze from the legionnaires’ ceremonial gold spears. Their normal rich purple tunics were also replaced with black.
        At the processions heart, the Champions marched. They formed around the pyre and beside the oxen pulling it. They wore no extra ostentatious displays or extra livery; their steel back armour and rich crimson half kilts were unmodified. Their skeletal helms were directed forward and unwavering. They looked identical in all aspects as if one person were mirrored thousands of times and made to march in unison. Each step in their march was a like a deep drum that seemed to cut through the silence and the processions white noise.

II

        Talinnius watched from a shadowed terrace. This display was for the public; not the inner circle he was about to enter. As the pyre rolled by, he turned away and his emotions warred within. Achamus would not have wanted this, but the Emperor had insisted in a grand send off and so the parade was made.
        He made his way to street level and flipped a hood to cover his helmeted head. It did a respectable job obscuring all but his helm’s skeletal grin and forked chin. The heavy cloak only shifted slightly as his tread brushed its edges. He travelled the deserted streets and peeled into an alley. Two figures rested like beggars on the grit covered stone. Talinnius saw through there demeanor immediately and approached – knowing full well they were far more than Carthirose’s poorer dregs. When the figures noticed his coming, they stood with such grace that they almost appeared spectral. They pulled away cloth scraps and cast them aside, revealing the same cloak that he wore. Talinnius could just make out their skeletal grins in their cowl’s shadow. His passage had been arranged and although he did not need an escort, it was a tradition. He saluted the figures – by placing a hand to his chest – when it was appropriate to do so. They bowed in return and beckoned him to follow.
        The stairwell was made invisible by its unassuming nature. One figure took the lead, while the other flanked behind Talinnius. He would have been unnerved if he did not know exactly who the figures were, despite the cloaks hiding their features and movements. The staircase was hardly big enough for one person to walk abreast and Talinnius could not see past the leading figure. Each stair was narrow, only allowing his heel to sit comfortably on the slick, weather worn, stone. He was thankful there were mercifully few in the case. They came to an abrupt halt and the first figure freed a key from her cloak to unlock the barrier blocking further descent. The door opened with an almost avian cry, due to the rusted hinges, and Talinnius was ushered into the darkness beyond. The door closed behind him and the lock reengaged with a click.
        Torches came to life – dispelling the dark and revealed the ten Champions stood with backs to the wall. The two figures let their cloaks fall, to reveal their dark steel armour plates and took their place beside the others. They were all as still as statues. Talinnius took a deep breath to focus, and the trance came to him; shutting down the emotions that were beginning to quest into his gut. The apprehension for what was to come was not gone, just subdued by the meditative state. He let his own cloak fall and strode forward without further hesitation. The Champions only moved as he passed, forming two columns behind him and kept his pace. Talinnius recognized them all, despite their features being completely obscured by their armour. He had spent a lifetime training with each one. The slight imperceptible differences in their movements gave him all the clues he needed to determine who was who. He smiled at the last Champion in the line - who was the figure who led him down the stairs. Despite the emotions the trance quashed, he was glad to have Cordia at his side as he made this sojourn outside Carthirose.

III

        Carthirose was known as the Eternal City, not because her current Empire determined it so. The city had existed long before Achamus and the First Emperor rebuilt after the God Wars. All who lived in the Empire, knew Carthirose would exist in one form or another until time’s ending. Its grandeur was not the palace or the great Ampitheater's. Nor was it the Senate House or the spectacles unleashed upon its populace – whether it be triumphs or smaller parades. Carthirose’s true scale and beauty lay beneath the cobblestone streets that cut between the buildings that to conquer the land’s surface. The city’s roots stretched deep underground, like an ancient tree. Catacombs, layered atop each other, were made in a scale that was impossible to fathom. The knowledge to make such structures - with the strength to hold the vast city above up - no longer existed. Those few who had seen the catacombs, determined it was the Gods who made them – making the city even more blessed in its reputation. Talinnius knew better.
        The Order was older than the Empire, stretching back in one form or another to the first men. A people who no longer exist built Carthirose’s initial bones and those civilizations who followed built atop. It was a miracle that the catacombs still existed at all, considering the wars, bloodshed, and natural disasters that ensued since their creation. Even the Gods’ multiple awakenings had not the power to destroy them. Over time, the catacombs came to represent countless civilizations and their stories; the Empire was only the latest and was incredibly young in comparison to those that predated it.
        Talinnius wanted to venture further into the depths, to see the catacomb’s true majesty and become lost for a lifetime exploring them. No one in recent memory had done such a thing; only the known areas were traversed, which were but a drop in the bucket when compared to their entirety. Duty did not allow for that and he knew the explorative feeling only came from apprehension - what was to come would forever change him and the Order. To become First Champion was to take on a mantle of responsibility that he felt no way to prepare for. In a lifetime, where preparation and training for every scenario was key to survival, this unpredictable sat ill with him. If it were not the for the Trance, he doubted he would be able to walk as surely as he did through the subterranean halls towards his destination. With another deep breath, he pushed it all away and his mind focused into a razor’s edge. This was not who he was. No personal doubts would interfere with his path. I will make you proud, Achamus, he swore to himself.
        The halls narrowed into a slim tunnel, and he knew it was the final stretch to his destination. Channels were wrought into the stone on either side, allowing rain and melt water to run down the slightly inclined passage back to the sewer systems incorporated into the catacombs. The passage was long, and the silence was grating. No one spoke; they were solemn in their march and, for once, he wished his fellow Champion were less taciturn.
        Eventually, the channels split off into the smooth walls, vanishing into the stone’s solidity. It was a sign the tunnel was coming to its zenith. As if on cue, faint natural light cut the darkness through seams around a rectangular barrier, marking the tunnel’s end. Talinnius pressed a stone on the wall beside him and the barrier pushed forward on near invisible mechanical tracks. With a rumble, deep in the stone, it stopped before sliding to the side, opening the way.
        It took a moment for Talinnius’s eyes to adjust as he stepped into the pouring light. He could not make out the temple’s vast openness as it was overshadowed by a statue, which supplied relief from the sudden light change as he stepped into its shadow. Even though he had seen the statue many times, he could not help but be awed by its impossible scale.
        He circled its base slowly and kept his eyes forward to maintain his disciplined demeanor, doing his best not to become lost to the statue’s wonder. Fortunately, he did not have to look, to appreciate its grandeur and beauty. Its image was permanently etched into his mind’s eye from the first time he witnessed it.
        Sarith, the Creator, saluted with his spear towards the temple’s central dais. Antlers stretched above the statue's smooth oval masked face, creating a crown. Meticulously sculpted vines and moss made a natural armour around the statue’s legs and chest. The details were so crisp and flawless that Talinnius could pick out the pours on the muscular frame’s skin where the armour did not cover. He could not imagine the effort it took create such a masterpiece – it was as if the sculptors had trapped the Creator beneath a thin stone layer for all eternity.
        He marched around the statue, into the temple proper and took in its vast open scale. Columns, which made up the temple's perimeter were hazed by distance and a morning fog settling over the ground level. Sarith’s statue was not alone. Four others circled the temple’s periphery, built in the same massive scale, and flanked the Creator, two to either side.
        Although, he had the ability to resist looking at Sarith’s tower form, there was no helping his gaze trailing upon the statue to the Creator’s left. Nith, the God of the afterlife, seemed to stare back from beneath his bestial skull helm with malicious intent. Where Sarith projected life, Nith projected the opposite. Thick armour with sharp edges, and made to resemble bones, covered the statue’s entire frame. Cloth streamers hung from the massive, spiked, shoulder pauldrons and were carved to resemble a breeze pushing them backwards. Two long curved swords - one in each hand - were held at the ready as if the statue sought to come to life and slay entire civilizations. Talinnius found it remarkable that something made from stone could inspire such dread in his heart.
        To Sarith’s right stood Altana, the goddess of love. Unlike her two brothers, her face could be seen in part under the T-shaped opening in her helm. She was utterly flawless in her fierce beauty. Her femininity was intact from fitting armour covered her torso and with a thin chainmail skirt left her thighs partially exposed. Greaves and vambraces covered in floral designs made up her remaining armour pieces. Unlike her brothers, she bore no weapons and instead had her arms outstretched in welcome.
        The remaining two statues were known as the twins. They flanked the temple’s main entrance – opposite to the secret entrance from where Talinnius and the twelve other Champions had entered – and were hidden behind columns, despite their scale. That seemed to suit their character as it was said they were less concerned with man’s dealings, when compared to the other three. Lotek, the trickster, stood to Nith’s left. A tri pointed hat and bells hung in a bandolier across the statue’s chest - making the God statue look like a street performer. His grin was both comically big and sinister. It was little more than a mask however as he held an almost identical mask projecting sorrow in a hand at his side. Lotek was said to guide souls off the paths through the underworld’s nine levels, making them forever lost to suffer and wander.
        Harmis was the last. Compared to the other statues, Harmis was plain and bore little detail. This was done be design and not a lack of skill in the sculptor’s hand. Harmis was known as the thief. Unlike the other God’s, no gender could be decided as a cowl and think robe covered the God’s non-descript form. Much like Lotek, the Thief was said to harness abilities in their plethora but to unknowable ends.
        Talinnius tore his gaze away from the statues and paused before the dais at the temple’s heart. It was the only other note-worthy feature within the temple’s grand open space. It rose like a man-made mountain. Circular stones stacked atop each other - each slightly smaller than the one beneath - created stairs up its height, like a farm terraced hillside. A similar dais housed the Emperor’s throne in Carthirose’s throne room, but this one dwarfed the Empire’s seat of power many times over. It was as tall as the statues and from its height a person could stare directly into Gods’ eyes. He looked to the top and knew what would be waiting for him.
        He sensed, more than saw, his entourage spread out around the temple’s boundaries. He tried to pick out Corida, but, for once, could not. It made his heart wretch. He wanted to meet his friend’s eyes and feel her support. With the world’s weight on his shoulders, he swallowed and took the first step up.

IV

        Each step was heavy and with every stair up he felt more alone. Abandoned too his thoughts, Talinnius’s mind spiraled with shock. What was about to come weighed on him to such a degree that everything else fell away; it was if his internal voice called across an impossibly vast gulf. His body moved on its own, without conscious will.
        Everything rushed back as he neared his destination. The Trance settled comfortably across his body as his breathing normalized. He was being summoned to a new duty and he would not be found wanting. When he reached the top, he took a moment to look across the open vista and appreciate the grand temple at its height. Vertigo twisted his stomach as his body adjusted to the dais’s altitude and steep terraced slopes, but the Trance prevented the sensation from becoming little more than an annoyance. The God’s statues felt both close and impossibly fair away. They all looked upon him, judging with their lifeless stone features. Only Altana seemed to show any compassion in her hard eyes.
        Briefly, he looked down upon those who had followed him to the temple. They were made small by distance and were little more than black stick figures against the temple’s rich granite columns and walls. Yet somehow, he was still able to meet her eyes. Emotions that should have been blocked by the Trance stirred in his chest. They were strong and he had no way to explain them to himself, let alone her. Cordia kept the eye contact until she caught herself. Her head fell forward, breaking the moment. While it had lasted, Talinnius felt stronger and ready to confront what was to come. He wished she had not turned away and felt weaker from her sudden withdrawal. He did not know why his heart clenched this way and quickly determined his grief from Achamus’s passing was making him seek a friend’s solace.
        He turned to Sarith and Nith, the two he served above all others and took a knee. With a deep controlled breath, he pushed himself deeper into the Trance. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Everything fell away, both emotion and touch. His body felt light, ready to float away.
        Hours passed, but he did not stir from mediation. He moved so deep into the Trance that it was as if he could feel every cell in his body. The blood travelling through his veins, each muscle strand, and even his skin, were all at once felt and under his control. He pushed them through his body with will alone and controlled his nervous system to do so with conscious thought. His heart’s beat and his respiration were perfectly matched. Every muscle fibre was perfectly tense to maintain his position but not grow sore or bored from inactivity.
        Hairs prickling underneath his armour warned him about new arrivals. His muscles remained loose but were ready to tense at a moment’s notice. Blood began to surge through his veins in anticipation. His hands left their rest on his knee and hung a breath’s distance from his swords. Talinnius opened his eyes and found himself surrounded. He rose slowly and met the five new arrivals’ shadowed gazes.
        One stood before each Gods’ statue and stared with the same unrelenting intensity as the stone behind. There was no doubt in his mind that he knew each concealed figure, but he could not determine their individual identities. Unlike the other Champions – who had followed him to the temple – these men and women gave no hints as to who they were with their subtle movements. Not even their heights varied, and any identifiable feature was hidden perfectly. If it were not for the Trance, he would have been unnerved by such a thing. A Champion’s training centred around noticing subtleties in others. It helped predict an opponent’s actions and force influence where necessary. There was still so much to learn – if he were to be judged against these five individuals. He knew those around him had abilities that far outstretched his own. Perhaps not martially, but how to wield a weapon was only one aspect in a Champion’s arsenal and life.
        Slowly, as one, figures removed their cloaks, and let them drop to the dais with gravities pull. Each wore a mask in the same as guise as the statue behind them. Only the figure standing before Harmis remained hidden, matching the mysterious God’s aspect perfectly. Talinnius saluted with a fist against his breast and head bowed. The figures merely stared in judgement, unmoving and cold.

V

        Talinnius was about to speak – his desire to break the silence as palpable - but the figure with Nith’s mask cut through the silence with a melting glacier’s cracking force, “Who speaks for this man?”
        The Sarith masked figure spoke, “I do.”
        The Nith figured nodded and bade to continue with a sweeping hand, “Reveal yourself.”
        Echoed footfalls ran through the temple as the Sarith figure moved forward and removed the mask. Quintis’s hard eyes cut through the dim light. His age lines and scars seemed less defined, as if he were ten years younger, but were made harder by his stern expression.
        A wave rush through Talinnius, despite the Trance’s soothing touch. Quintis had taught him everything he knew, second only to Achamus. He could not help but feel weight on his shoulders as he met his only remaining mentor’s stern gaze.
        “I, Quintis, give my blessing to this warrior to take on leadership’s burden,” Quintis announced with a clear voice. “This warrior is the only one worthy to take on the mantle of First Champion of the Order.”

        Talinnius stood taller at Quintis’s words and felt pride swell in his gut. It was as if an adoptive father had given him his blessing.
        The others remained still, unperturbed by Quintis’s proclamation. They stared from beneath their masks, unwilling to disturb the new silence that followed Quintis’s echoing words. Talinnius remained still and calm – there were no cracks in his mental wall, which held his emotions at bay.
        At last, the stillness and quiet was broken. The figured dressed as Altana pulled back her helm, to reveal herself, and spoke, “I, Camellia, will give my blessing to this warrior to take on leadership’s burden.”
        Talinnius turned to the woman. He had only seen her once before when her face was less cragged and aged. But he knew her reputation. With Achamus’s passing Camellia was the oldest member within the Order and her voiced held more weight than any other due to her accomplishments. She helped Tiber’s father secure the Empire’s expansion – very much like how Achamus had helped the first Emperor establish the Empire’s original borders. It was said she was a hero on a hundred battlefields. Her greatest accomplishment saw her duel the great barbarian chieftain Tor’hiem in single combat as his hordes sought to crush Carthirose’s Empire. It was her sword that broke the barbarian avalanche and sundered their hordes, which opened the way for Carthirose to expand beyond the Old Defenses into the North.
        With both Quintis and Camellia revealed, Talinnius guessed the other figures were the remaining three elders. He had only seen them from afar and could not recall their faces – it was rare for such a gathering. Months or even years, in some cases, could go by before they returned to the Order’s barracks. In a word, they were retired, though duty never truly ended for a Champion. Each had earned peace, but each continued to share their experience by giving the Order’s aspirants their final teachings before approving their induction as a full-fledged Champion. They did this from secluded cottages hidden throughout the Empire. An aspirant’s final task was to quest and survive in the wilds without aid or supplies to find one of these great warriors and learn their teachings. In Talinnius’s journey, he had found Quintis and thus received his final training from the grizzled old man. Where Achamus had shaped him and continued to do so until his final day, Quintis had sharpened Talinnius into the weapon he was today. There was one other Elder outside the five present; a sixth that none spoke of and who did not take part with the Order’s activities – Talinnius could only guess as to why.
        Achamus was the Order’s leader and never sought to give those responsibilities to another, therefore never was given the relative peace the elders had found in age and was never considered one. Until his passing, their presence was not needed and so they maintained their isolation outside the Capital, until now. Talinnius knew he would follow in Achamus’s footsteps and never know peace, while others who lived long enough to retire took on the Elder’s mantle.
        The Elder in Nith’s mask nodded and said, “Camellia’s and Quintis’s voices have been heard. Are there any who would oppose their blessings?”
        None moved and another uncomfortable stillness followed. The Elder with Nith’s mask finally nodded and the remaining two figures did the same.
        “There is no opposition,” Quintis announced and then asked, “Talinnius will you take the oath?”
        Talinnius faced his mentor and said, “I will.”
        “Kneel and remove your helm,” Quintis said.

VI

        Talinnius did as he was bidden; his helm felt heavy as he lifted it and set it on the stone, while he knelt on one knee. His eyes widened slightly as Quintis drew a sword and spun it gracefully to press its tip against his throat. Blood rolled in a thin bead as the blade’s tip bit shallowly into his throat.
        “Should you speak false,” Quintis declared, “this blade will pierce your throat. Your soul will know damnation and find no peace within the underworld.”
        “I understand,” Talinnius said, doing his best to ignore the blade’s discomfort as he spoke.
        Quintis nodded and took a deep breath before continuing, “With this oath, you shall be reborn not as an equal within the Order as has been your lot until this point. With this oath, you shall become the Order’s leader and protector. Not only will you give the Order its direction, but you will also ensure its spirit remains whole. Do you understand?”
        “I do.”
        Again, Quintis gave his ascent and continued, “Let us begin.”
        The other Elder’s drew their swords and pointed them at Talinnius’s throat as well – with the exception of the Elder dressed as Harmis. Talinnius resisted the urge to swallow.
        Quintis’s voice reached out, throughout the entire temple, with a tempest’s force, “The Gods stand as our witnesses! Do you swear to serve them as they command you?”
        “I swear,” Talinnius said firmly.
        “Do you swear to be an anathema to fear and face the Carthirose’s enemies with courage?” Quintis boomed.
        “I swear!” Talinnius declared.
        “Do you swear to stand brave and upright so that the Gods see you?”
        “I swear!”
        “Do you swear to always speak the truth, even if it should lead to your death and the death of those who are dear to you?”
        “I swear!”
        “Do you swear to not to seek riches and personal gains?”
        “I swear!”
        “Do you swear to protect Carthirose and her people, with your life and your blood? Will you protect her Empire, whether the threat arise from within or without?”
        “I swear!”
        “Blessed are the Gods, who make your soul like stone. Blessed are the Gods, who give you the strength to train and fight in their name. Blessed are the Gods, who harden your hands for war. Blessed are the Gods, for their love. In their name, your soul is a fortress, and, in their name, you are a shield made to protect Carthirose. Your life is no longer your own; it belongs to Carthirose... it belongs to the Order... it belongs to the Gods. With this understanding and the oath that goes with it, you will become the First amongst the Order and be titled as First Champion of the Order. Do you take this oath freely of your own will?”
        “I do,” Talinnius said with a voice as steady as the stone beneath his knee.
        Quintis pulled away his sword and the other Elders did the same. All was quiet. Talinnius wonder what was next and resisted the urge to ask. He met Quintis’s hard eyes.
        Before he could react, Quintis’s sword lashed out. The cut was perfect and reached from just above Talinnius’s temple down to his jaw. He did not react to the pain that flared across his nerves, nor did he retreat from it. He embraced it as he embraced any duty the Order had given him before.
        “With the scar that will form this cut, you will forever remember your oath,” Quintis declared. “This is the same scar that purified the one before you and when your days end, those who follow in your footsteps shall also take on this mark. Your oath is baptized in blood and in the skin that will seal over the wound. Arise First Champion of the Order.”
        Talinnius stood. As he did so, the Elder’s took a knee as one and bowed their heads in reverence. The oath was similar to the oath he had sworn when he first became a Champion. All that was added were the references to the First Champion. He was grateful for this. It meant he could remain himself. However, at the same time, the oath had more weight it. The throbbing pain along his face was testament to the new responsibilities he bore. He knew it was no longer just his own oath, but an oath made for all those that were already Champions or were to become Champions in the future. Unlike before, he was a not just a piece of the whole, but an influence too every piece.
        The cut began to cry its outrage in more earnest. He had not even felt the blow as his skin was parted and was only just registering that it had happened at all. He resisted the urge to touch it, thinking it unbecoming. He had to appear strong now that he was the First Champion.
        Before he could do or say anything, Camella spoke, “You are oathed, Talinnius... but there is one more step to your ascension.”
        She stood and turned to the temple’s proper entrance – between Lotek and Harmis. Talinnius felt his gut twist at the sight. Robed priests walked in a procession, guarded by Champions at their flanks. Their skull masks were hung low, and their strides were somewhat tentative. At once, he saw why. Eunuchs followed the priests and carried a stone slab upon their shoulders.
        Talinnius felt his teeth clench involuntarily.
        Achamus lay on the stone with his arms crossed and his sword resting between them against his chest. The former First Champion was fully armoured, minus his helm, which rested just above his crown on the stone as if watching over the fallen warrior.

VII

        “As with all things, blood will decide fate,” said Camella.

        Talinnius watched the procession begin their climb up the dais. Breath come out in shallow ragged gasps. The Trance fell away, and tears welled in his eyes. His heart pounded in his chest and he could not look away from Achamus’s corpse pale face.
        Camella continued, “You must be chosen not by us, but by the one who preceded you.”
        “Achamus’s blood will decide your fate, Talinnius,” Quintis explained.
        The elder dressed as Harmis reached into the robes and procured a simple clay cup, along with a wine bottle. Quintis and Camella each took one and withdrew, while the remaining elders rested their blade’s tip on the dais. Slowly, with an almost malicious intent, the Harmis dressed elder freed a leaf shaped dagger from his or her robes.
        Before Talinnius could comment, the procession reached the summit and fanned out around the dais’s upper sections, while the eunuchs mounted the last level and set the stone slab at its centre. They backed away quickly; unwilling to make eye contact with the elders or Talinnius.
        “So, lies the First Champion,” Camella said somberly. She stared at Achamus’s relaxed features in silence for a few seconds, then turned her sharp eyes upwards and said, “It is time.”
        The Elder dressed as Harmis hovered over Achamus like a ghastly spectre and lowered the dagger. Languidly, the blade was run across Achamus’s throat. The crypt’s cold had kept the body from turning and frost still lined the former First Champion’s hair. Dead flesh parted and thick, almost black, blood drooled from the opening. Before it could reach the stone slab, Camella knelt and offered the cup so that the Harmis elder could collected the stream in the cup. The cup was raised and Quintis poured wine into it. Reverently, the Harmis Elder stood and offered the cup to Talinnius.
        “Wine is the blood of the Gods,” Quintis said, “fitting it should be mixed with Achamus’s.”
        “Drink,” The Harmis Elder said with a harsh rasping voice that gave no indications to his or her gender.
        Hesitantly, Talinnius took the offering and gazed into its shadowed depths. Iron in the blood overpowered the wine’s rich aroma. As he brought it closer to his mouth, he found that the wine had only diluted Achamus’s semi-congealed blood and had done little to dilute the bloods flavour. With one gulp, he drained it.

Thank you for reading!

Brett  

Wait if you have not read the previous Chapters, click the Carthirose Saga button above or Click here. 

Chapter 11 - Lars

I

        “Wake up you tub of lard!”
        Water splashed him in a torrent. The rats scattered from the oncoming wave – hissing with unnatural bravado. Lars gagged as an unexpected mouthful went into his lungs. His coughs echoed through the dungeon, temporarily overshadowing the constant dripping that acted as metronome from the leaking ceilings.
        “Ye bastards,” Lars spat between ragged breaths.
        “What’s that fat man?” The guard asked, almost pleasantly, from beyond the cell’s bars. “What did you say?”
        Lars spat in the guard’s - whose name he had never bother to learn – direction, which caused laughter to erupt in an uproar. The saliva ball was feeble, just managing to dangle from Lar’s mouth onto his chest. He was so weak and could not even feel his defiance’s failure on his skin.
        “You waste of flesh,” The guard smiled with cruel delight. “I am sorry for waking you... but I wanted to ensure you were up for your big day. Today is the day you get put on a cross you pathetic fat bastard. I can’t wait.”
        As if summoned from Lars’s darkest imagination, a lank form rose behind the guard. The obscurity caused by the dungeon’s shadows seemed to cling onto it as it moved into the poor light. It made no sound and its decaying smell blended perfectly with permeated soured flesh odours throughout the dungeon. Impossibly long fingers, tipped with knife-like claws, unfurred from its only hand.
        The guard turned at the low hiss rumbling from the thing’s throat – just in time to see his death. The fingers did not slash but gripped to choke. Rich crimson washed out as the claws stabbed in and tore out the guard’s throat, preventing all protest except a gurgling blood jet that coated the ceiling. The thing took a savage bite from the torn flesh in its palm, before launching itself at the doomed man with a bestial snarl. Its long fangs plunged into the leaking throat. It slurped, bit, and twisted like an animal stilling prey in its death thralls. Gore splashed in all directions and Lars squealed as a particular thick stream traced a line across his rugged face. His cry drew the thing’s attention. Everything grew still as Lars met its cold black eyes. He could see no life in those dark orbs. They stole his complete focus, and he ignored the dead guard’s death twisted face – who was allowed to slump against the bars. Fear made Lars’s muscles tight, and voice finally found him. He screamed with all the air in his lung. The thing smiled with a skeleton’s glee; fully revealing its dagger-like fangs.
        Metal clanged on stone and air rushed through the dungeon. Lars knew the sound well; more guards were coming down into the dungeon. The thing’s mouth twisted into a snarl and reared to face the sound – hissing with a snake’s venom. It took flight and the shadows consumed it greedily, like parents welcoming a long-lost child home. Lars just managed to catch the thing exiting into a sewer hole.
        The guards’ footfalls shattered the brief silence as they rushed down the halls. Torchlight wobbled closer with the same tempo as the running feet. Lars could hear their horror as they rounded the bend within his cell’s sight, and he imagined their eyes widening in fear as they took in their fallen comrade. The thing had almost taken the man’s head from his shoulders with its savagery.
        With tentative care, the torch came into view – held aloft by the guard who stopped Lars’s earlier beating. Two others flanked him, and their legs wobbled with each careful step. Shock twisted their faces.
        “H-how?” The torch-holder stammered. His face turned to anger, and his eyes filled with accusation, then hate. With a raging slowness, he directed those eyes to Lars.
        “I didn’t do it!” Lars cried at once when he took in the Guard’s demeanour and its full meaning.
        The guard freed the cell’s keys and passed the torch off to another. With an angry clang, the cell’s door swung open, and the three men rushed in with fist clenched.
        “I’ve been in chains the whole time!” Lars pleaded with all his might and did his best to make as much noise with his tight restraints as possible, “I couldn’t’ve reached him!”
        A fist cracked his jaw before he could continue his plea. Another made him gag out air in a heave as it rocked his gut. The kick to his ribs sent his nerves spinning, but it was the final blow that took his consciousness. The guard grabbed his chin and teed off with a blow that caused Lars’s head to bounce off the stone wall. Black overtook his vision and with it the pain went away.

II

        The sun stung his eyes with the same ferocity as a needle sowing flesh. Even with the overcast sky it burned bright. Lars remembered hangovers fondly. Again, he wished he could experience that particular sensation one more time. Funny, how a few days ago he would have never believed that wish possible. Life was simpler then and, for the first time in his life, he appreciated what he had.
        With more force than was necessary, his escorting guard pushed him forward. Lars swore as he stumbled and bashed his toe against a lip in the road. His eyes were drawn to the red beads in the shadows as he regained his footing, and he growled at their gaze. They scurried beyond his reach – hissing with an almost gleeful tone. They were the choir to his doom, and he wanted nothing more than to smash their heads in. He hated his situation, he hated the guards, but he hated the rats more than the rest.
        “Keep moving,” The guard – another whose name he had never learned – ordered.
        Lars regained his footing and did his best not to limp. Lavici had changed since the rats had become his only true company. The once vibrant colours painted onto the walls and streets seemed dulled – as if years had passed, not days. Cracks, he never noticed before, ran up stone pillars and walls; they looked infirm and ready to crumble. The wood structures fared no better. Jagged splinters sagged off the walls and beams, like waterlogged rot wood. Clay shingles were missing everywhere and many lay shattered in the gutters.
        Few people walked the streets, and they were little better looking than the albino rats. Their cloths were so besmirched with grit that it was anyone’s guess what the fabric’s original appearance was. They all looked like the dregs that Lars use to beat near to death outside the drinking halls. He did not recognize any and they were not his regular brawlers. He got the impression they were not from Lavici.
        A hot rage filled him. Why are piss poor bastards like these allowed to walk around, while I am in chains!? He thought.
        “What happened to my town,” Lars spat between clenched teeth.
        The guard responded with another hard push, which caused Lars to fall. His hands were useless – being firmly secured behand his back. There was no break to his fall. His face landed first onto the cobblestoned road and did little to cushion the blow. He could feel the heat from new swells enter where it impacted. With all the pain doled out to him over the last few days, he was impressed that his body could still swell. That made him chuckle darkly.
        “Get up you bastard,” The guard growled, “Your cross awaits you outside the gates.”
        Whether it was rage, or the insanity born from desperation, Lars roared with a bull’s fury. He found his old strength once more and kicked out, like a mule. The blow connected and the sickly bone crunching was only drowned out by the guard’s agonized scream.
        Lars rushed to his knees and flopped onto the prone guard. He bit down, hard, on the guard’s throat. Iron from the warm rich liquid danced across his taste buds and for a moment he enjoyed it – he had not eaten in days and the lifeblood was almost refreshing in his madness.
        Sanity took hold a few seconds later and he spat. The bloody flesh glob landed with a fat thud on the street. With a moan the guard tried to roll away. Lars examined the wound with a glance and new the guard could survive if it were sealed.
        “It's unfortunate my hands are bound, ye bastard,” Lars snarled, “Else I could help ye with your lil’ cut.”
        Lars spat another bloody saliva onto the guard’s face and punched the man’s larynx with his forehead for good measure. The moaning wails were silenced. Shakily, he got to his feet. As adrenaline made his mind sharp, he wondered why only one guard was escorting him from the dungeon. He decided he did not care. Never to be one to question good fortune, Lars darted for the nearest alley. The rats scurried around him, dodging his heavy and desperate footfalls. For a moment, he rested and gazed back the way he came. He watched the hairless albino vermin as they approached the dying guard like a wolf pack from all directions. He smiled with a murder’s delight when they finally pounced. The guard could not stop them or cry for help. Lars turned away as they began to pull out the guard’s eyes. His stomach may have been empty, but he could not control its turn at the grizzle sight; though, a sinister part – welled deep inside and finally freed – enjoyed the suffering the guard was undergoing. Revenge felt good.
        He stumbled down the alley, like a drunkard. Weakness was returning as adrenaline subsided. His mind raced. He had no idea what the best course was. The rats gave him his answer. They swarmed around an iron grill, which covered an entrance to the sewers.
        It took effort to get it open with his hands secured behind his back. When he finally managed to get the right leverage, the iron clanged open as it bounced on its hinges. The rats hopped, happily, into the abyss now that their path was unbarred. A smell, he could not name, rose from the uncovered hole and instinct told him not to go down. He pulled away, repulsed by it.
        His heart skipped a beat as an outraged shout rose from the street where he had left the guard. With no choice, he followed the rats and dropped into the abyss below the streets.

III

        The fall was not long, but Lars hit the shallow grey water hard, which did little to break his fall. Somehow, he managed to keep the air in his lungs, despite the impact’s violence. He rolled onto his knees and stumbled to his feet, soaking wet. He had to lean against the sewer’s grim covered wall to keep his balance and he wondered if he hit his head in the fall. He felt foggy as if in a dream.
        “This better be real,” He growled to himself, “If I am hallucinating and rotting in that – God's be damned – cell, I am going to bash my own skull in against the wall when I wake up!”
        He could hear heavy footfalls above, racing towards the opening he had fallen through. Panic rose in his breast in a quick surge, and he pushed off the wall with fresh adrenaline rushing through his veins. Not a dream after all, He thought. With unsure feet, he sloshed through the putrid liquid coating his feet and ankles. There was no light, aside from the opening behind him, and he felt a gut twisting vertigo without his hands outstretched before him to guide his way.
        As his eyes adjusted, somewhat, and hazed shapes became visible in the black. He could make out the sewer walls and water channel’s curb near his feet. The sewer was cramped, and he had to keep his chin tucked to his chest and knees slightly bent to fit the space.
        He found he was not alone. His constant companions travelled with him. Now that he could see the rats, he could also make out their red beady eyes in the dark. Exhaustion prevented him from scaring them away, but he felt it weird that they raced with him along the curb and in the water as if guiding his way as a dog might. Unwilling to argue with his good fortune, he followed them with more confidence now that he could pick is way through the dark.
        “At the worse, ye little bastards will find me an exit,” He whispered to them.
        The sewer curved to the left and he carefully rounded the corner. Sunlight streamed into the tunnel from where the grey water poured into the river and he blessed the gods. He knew it was dumb luck to have found such an exit; the sewers were a labyrinth. And knowing full well that he could not escape through a similar grill as to the one he used to enter with his hands bound.
        Renewed vigour filled him, and he half ran, half stumbled with desperation towards his freedom. Before the light touched his skin, a figure rose from the sewer water with an unnatural slowness. Lars slowed and halted, unable to make out who the figure with the backlighting against its slender, almost skeletal silhouette.
        “Who goes there?” Lars questioned and his blood began to run cold.
        The rats gathered around the silhouette and turned to stare at Lars. A shiver made him tremble and realization struck him. As if sharing his thoughts, the thing smiled, revealing its long fangs and it lifted its only arm in welcome.
        A tear rolled from Lars’s eye and a hopeless defeat filled his gut until it ached. The thing launched itself at him and he did not struggle as its teeth tore into his throat with an unquenchable greed. He did not scream at the pain; it was no more than he had already suffered. In a way, this pain was a release... a freedom from the others that made his body sore. His vision ebbed away into a haze and then he was gone.

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Brett