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Commerce Emperor Chapter 28: Interlude: The Inquisitor Part II
🕑 Added 2023-10-17 07:48:10 +0000 UTCPrevious Chapter
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The sickness in his stomach wouldn’t leave him.
It only worsened when they returned to Port Nguruh, where a crowd of Iremian colonists welcomed them with cheers and acclaim. Cortaner caught flower necklaces with his bloodstained hands, the Fiddler laughed as women threw themselves at him, and Captain Kheti saluted the civilians like a conquering hero returning from a victorious campaign. Only the Silence reacted with utter indifference.
The Kheti Brigade selected a gambling den called the Abyss as its home base; the owner gave them rooms for free as ‘defenders of the nation’, though they would still have to pay for drinks and whores. Cortaner would have usually spent his hard-won coins on the former and ended the evening under a table.
Not this time.
Cortaner sat alone in a noisy pandemonium of vice and revelry. Flickering red lanterns hanging from the wooden ceiling and windows lined with crimson curtains gave the Abyss’ gambling hall a sense of sultry intimacy, though the colors only reminded Cortaner of the blood he had shed. The heady smell of rum and a haze of opium smoke gave him a headache. His fellow soldiers huddled around gambling tables side-by-side with sailors and cutthroats, spending their silver as swiftly as they collected it. Ever-shifting piles of coins and cards rose and fell to the turn of fast-paced games. The Fiddler danced on a table with his instrument, and he played passably well for once. Women of low virtue led fools to the rooms upstairs for a quick dalliance.
Cortaner usually enjoyed these places, yet he felt too sick for cards or whoring. A few others shared his sour mood too. Sergeant Seto and the Doc occupied a table not too far from his own, both of them with grim looks on their faces. They did order drinks unlike Cortaner, but hardly touched them. The massacre had shaken them more than they thought.
Weaklings, Cortaner told himself, though he felt like a hypocrite to think this. He was barely better than those two. What’s happening to me?
Another noticed his unusual behavior.
“What is it, Cortaner?” Captain Kheti asked as he sat at Cortaner’s table, a glass of wine in hand. “You don’t look so good.”
Whereas Sergeant Seto turned out to be no older than twenty and utterly unremarkable without his mask on, Captain Kheti was an aging, wrinkled Iremian man with a salt and pepper beard. His broad, weathered face belonged to the veteran of many battles. He possessed a strange grandfatherly aura which his cold, calculating eyes always betrayed.
“I don’t know,” Cortaner replied. He’d killed dozens across his years and participated in his fair share of slaughter. Death never stopped him from drinking or sleeping soundly. So why did this time feel different?
Cortaner thought about it a great many times. A single image always flared in the back of his mind: that of a mother patting her children’s heads right before the Silence’s knife struck her down. He couldn’t explain why, but that scene bothered Cortaner more than all the deaths the Brigade had sowed.
“The woman,” Cortaner rasped. “It’s that woman’s fault.”
“Ah, yes.” Captain Kheti sipped from his glass. “A shame, that one.”
A shame? Yes, Cortaner felt shamed by her death. He didn’t understand why. He hadn’t killed her—the Silence did—and he even let her surviving kid go. All he did was watch her die.
It was the Silence’s fault. No one else’s. Cortaner searched for the creep with his eyes, only to find him missing from the gambling hall.
“Where’s the Silence?” Cortaner wondered out loud.
“Upstairs with a whore.” Captain Kheti shrugged. “I suppose even people like him feel the need to be loved.”
Somehow Cortaner doubted the Silence was the kind of person to enjoy physical intimacy. Something about that mute creep rubbed him the wrong way. He’d seen freaks before, but that man’s soulless gaze managed to unnerve Cortaner to his core.
“Who is he?” Cortaner asked his superior officer.
“I don’t know. He’s not a prisoner on probation, but a volunteer. I don’t care where he comes from so long as he does the job.” Captain Kheti turned to a waitress who passed near their table. “Two plates of veal please.”
“I am not hungry,” Cortaner complained.
“You will be.” Captain Kheti played with his glass as the waitress left to get their food. “I’ve been deployed since the great revolt of six-hundred sixty-seven, Cortaner.”
“Good for you,” Cortaner replied with a grunt, uninterested.
Captain Kheti ignored the remark. “I will share with you a revelation I’ve had over my time here.” He slouched in his chair like some grandfather about to tell his wayward grandson a war story. “Iremian explorer ships discovered the Fire Islands over a century ago by following the journals left by Daniella the Wanderer. She had recorded this archipelago as ‘the Goddess’ Crown Jewel’ or something like that.”
“So I’ve heard.” The story was well known.
“This place lives up to its name, don’t you think? Beautiful waters, shining beaches of sand, warmth, and sun all year long, so many sweet fruits and spices… abundant resources. Including one of the largest runestone deposits in the world.” Captain Kheti smiled. “Not the West. The world. It’s why my superiors are willing to spend fortunes of gold and manpower on this region.”
Cortaner snorted. “I thought it was to protect the locals from themselves.”
“We need to cover security costs somehow,” Captain Kheti replied evasively. “Anyway, the islanders won fate’s lottery when compared to Irem. Where our lands are covered in lifeless deserts with scarce water, their own is abundant with natural resources. They’re so far away at sea that they never waged a modern war until the Shinkoku invaded them. Sure they share their homes with beastmen and behemoths, but most of them stick to the deep jungles. The natives had all the tools needed to build a peaceful and prosperous civilization.”
The waitress finally arrived with slices of veal. Captain Kheti slipped her a coin, grabbed a fork, and moved on to eat with aristocratic grace.
“And yet,” Captain Kheit said in between bites, “when our ancestors found them, the savages had yet to discover how to smelt iron. Iron. They were split into a hundred tribes who did little but raid each other, with no settlement worthy of being called a city. The first day the Kaliyara made contact with explorers, they tried to sell them captured slaves in exchange for shiny copper. Even after the Erebian League built schools for the natives and tried to integrate them into our modern civilization, most still struggle to do so.”
“What’s your point?” Cortaner asked wearily.
Captain Kheti met his eyes. “The brownies,” he said with a cold, sincere voice, “are not humans.”
Cortaner held his superior officer’s gaze without a word.
“They look humanoid the same way the beastmen do, enough that some perverts would breed with them, but they suffer from innate moral and intellectual deficiencies. They are like cattle who need a strong, steady hand to become productive members of society.” Captain Kheti quickly finished his plate while Cortaner didn’t touch his. “That woman you feel sorry for, Cortaner? She was fucking a cow.”
Cortaner’s fists clenched on their own, his blood boiling in his veins.
“So when you doubt yourself next time, Cortaner, think of that veal slice in front of you.” Captain Kheti set aside his empty plate. “Killing these savages is no different than piling more meat on the plate.”
The same urge that nearly caused Cortaner to kill the Fiddler returned. A surge of subdued anger awoke him from his gloomy mood, though he couldn’t explain why he felt that way. Cortaner held back, however. He might get away with a bar brawl, but not raising his hand against an Iremian officer that held his leash.
And he sadly wasn’t drunk enough not to care.
Captain Kheti eyed Cortaner without a word. Had he sensed his killing intent or distaste? Whatever the case, he turned away from Cortaner. Someone had slammed the tavern's door open with such strength that it nearly broke off its hinges.
An elderly priest walked into the gambling den. The very same one who confronted Captain Kheti the day the brigade landed in Nguruh.
“You monsters,” he said with more venom than any snake.
“Father Nimlot.” Captain Kheti’s courteous tone hardly hid the disgust underneath. He raised his glass of wine at the priest. “Have you come to drink with us?”
Father Nimlot spat into the captain’s glass.
The Fiddler stopped playing at the sight, while the rest of the brigade turned to observe the scene. Captain Kheti tensed up, his hand clenching his glass.
“Those people were not Kaliyarans,” the priest said, his eyes burning with anger.
“They looked that way to us,” Captain Kheti replied coldly. “How would you even know? Unless you’re friendly with the savages, of course…”
The priest didn’t back down. “How much did the runestone miners pay you for this atrocity, Kheti? Fifty silver? A hundred?”
“Why?” The Fiddler asked, vaguely interested. “You think they could pay us more?”
“Shut up,” Captain Kheti said, though Cortaner couldn’t tell whether his words were aimed at the Fiddler or the Priest.
Father Nimlot turned his attention to Sergeant Seto. “What of you, Seto? Can you still sleep with a clear conscience?”
The sergeant didn’t have the balls to meet the priest’s gaze. “It’s not my place to question the capital’s orders, Father.”
“So you are no more than a weapon to be wielded? A dog to be trained?” When the sergeant would not answer, the priest turned to Cortaner. “You… I’ve heard you’re a witchcrafter.”
“So what?” Cortaner snorted. “Leave me out of this, old man.”
“Why don’t you leave? A witchcrafter can find any kind of well-paying job. Why take the kind that involves killing children?”
Why are you wasting your life away? Master So Xian had asked him a long time ago.
Cortaner would have punched the priest dead for this, but the sickness in his stomach returned stronger than ever, draining him of his resolve.
“I’m serving my sentence,” he replied gruffly.
“By committing more crimes?” Father Nimlot glared at the gathered felons. “If our people back home heard half of what their armed forces have done–”
Captain Kheti laughed in the priest’s face. “You think they care what happens here, a thousand leagues away from the capital? They care about keeping runestone prices low. That’s all.” His smile had all the sweetness of rotting flesh. “Go home, Father, before I throw you out. You have no power here.”
Father Nimlot shook his head in disgust. “The Goddess will punish you all for this one day.”
“There is no sin to punish.” Captain Kheti ordered another glass of wine to replace the old one. “I shall sleep soundly tonight.”
Father Nimlot glared at the captain, then found himself facing an assembly of uncaring felons. He turned his back on them all and stepped back through the door. The Fiddler returned to his song, and the Abyss’ dwellers returned to wallowing in their vices.
All except for one.
Cortaner rose from his seat, leaving his plate of veal and Captain Kheti behind. He stepped across the gambling hall towards the stairs leading to the upper floors, only for someone to call his name.
“Hey, Cortaner?”
Cortaner looked at one of the gambling tables. A group of three prisoners had gathered there, with one seat empty.
“Wanna play cards?” one of the men suggested.
Cortaner’s fist flew straight into his face.
He felt the bones bend under his might before he realized what he had done. The man’s jaw dislocated on impact, teeth cracked, and blood stained Cortaner’s fingers. His victim’s face crashed on the table with enough strength to shatter wood. Cards and coins alike spilled onto the ground, while the man’s fellow players stepped up in fear and surprise.
Everyone looked in his direction, a tense silence taking over the gambling den. Cortaner stared at the man he had knocked out cold for a few seconds, then at his bloodstained hand. He walked away without a word towards the stairs while the Doc rushed to examine the wounded.
No one stopped him.
“I warned you,” Cortaner heard the Fiddler mock the card players. “I warned you, but no one listens to the singer.”
The raucous clamor below returned by the time Cortaner moved on to the upper floor. He passed by the Silence’s room, noticing liquid spilling from below the closed door. A thick, crimson fluid with a sinister metallic smell.
Blood.
Cortaner stared at the puddle for a moment, his thought process coming to a screeching halt. His mind came up with a thousand grisly scenarios, with one possibility standing atop all the others.
I suppose even people like him feel the need to be loved, the Captain had said.
People might feel that way… but not the Silence.
Cortaner stared at the door and strongly considered kicking it down. But what would it change? That girl was probably dead anyway, and Cortaner had already assaulted two other teammates. Captain Kheti would not forgive a third strike.
She deserved it, Cortaner told himself as he looked away from the door and the blood. Everyone could tell he was a creep. It’s not my problem… not my fight.
The words felt hollow even in his head.
Cortaner tried to clear his mind as he returned to his own room. It was far bigger than his cell, with a small bathroom and an ornate mirror near the window. Cortaner hated to look at his own reflection. Something in it always angered him. He sat on the mattress, trying and failing to clear his mind.
Why don’t you leave?
It was the priest’s fault. His words wouldn’t leave Cortaner’s head.
Why don’t I leave?
To his surprise, Cortaner found himself short of an easy answer. It couldn’t be money. He could earn a lot more by working as a witchcrafter polishing tools. It was what Master So Xian had hoped for him after he completed his training.
Was it the love of the fight? Cortaner enjoyed putting his skills to the test against worthy foes, but there was nothing glorious in killing women and children.
Was it fear of Irem? They did have a long reach, especially now that they collected his blood, but escape wasn’t impossible either. If Cortaner boarded a ship to the Everbright Empire and returned to the continent, he doubted Kheti and the others would hunt him down.
So why didn’t he leave? Why did he always get roped up in piracy and mercenary work?
Because it’s all I’ve ever known, Cortaner thought. I can’t see myself living any other way.
That was the answer he’d come up with, and somehow it sounded wrong.
He should clear his mind. Cortaner grabbed his waterskin and anointed his hands with oil. When meditation and alcohol failed him, essence crafting often helped him focus. He rubbed his fingers and let the flames flicker. The fire in his palms illuminated the room.
It was different from other times, somehow. His skin began to prickle near the fingers. His sweat boiled. The heat rose too quickly, too intensely. The essence was all wrong. The flames burned with an unnatural, sick yellow glow.
What’s this? Cortaner wondered. When he looked into the flames, he sensed something staring back at him. Was it the Firewand itself visiting him for his Second Awakening? No, the fire… it feels…
Wrathful.
A lion-headed shadow stared back at him from inside his burning palms, angry and malicious.
“Burn, soldier,” it said with a thundering voice backed by a thousand war drums. “War is a matchbox, and all men are kindling.”
A primal fear seized Cortaner’s heart. His body acted on its own, his feet carrying him to the bathroom where he doused the flames in a pool of water. A cloud of steam swallowed him whole, silencing the voice.
It haunted his nightmares all the same.
—-
The Brigade left in a hurry the next day.
Captain Kheti paid the innkeeper a hefty sum for the whore the Silence had murdered, then punished the man by docking his pay, cutting his rations by half, and extending his contract by another six months; a far lighter sentence than those enforced against deserters. Most men on the Brigade would have resented serving another six months with no financial gain to show for it, but Cortaner had the feeling the Silence didn’t care all that much.
“I’ve heard he gutted her chin to groin, like a fish,” Cortaner heard the men whisper among themselves; the gambler he crippled was among them, a host of bandages covering his mouth. “The Doc threw up when he found her.”
“Such a shame,” the Fiddler said in disgust. “She was one of the pretty ones.”
He’s not human, Cortaner thought as the Silence walked among them, silent and deadly. He was convinced of it now. Humans don’t do that.
Part of him wondered what would have happened if he had opened that door upon seeing the blood spilling on the floor. If he had gotten the Doc to her in time before the Silence completed his grisly work. If he had done something, anything.
She was weak and a fool, Cortaner told himself. She deserved it, to get caught like that… a weakling and a fool…
No matter how many times he repeated it in his mind, these words sounded hollow to him.
“Cortaner.” Captain Kheti’s voice shook him out of his dark thoughts. “Father Nimlot and his associates filed a complaint to the Iremian Protectorate. Said we nearly created a Blight back at the village. Is that the case?”
The face of that mother and her dead whelp burning in the pyre flared in Cortaner’s mind. A sharp pain erupted in his skull, as if his very brain boiled on the inside.
“Cortaner?” Captain Kheti asked with a hint of concern.
“I… I don’t think so. It would take…” More dead children? More screaming women, more rape and murder? “More.”
“That’s what I thought.” Captain Kheti nodded to himself, unconcerned. “That sentimental fool Nimlot can’t do much, but we can’t exploit lands tainted by a Blight. My superiors will put an end to the initiative if we create one.”
“What do we do, Captain?” Sergeant Seto asked. “What are your orders?”
“We’ll have to pick up the pace. Put Nimlot and his cowardly lot before accomplished facts.” Captain Kheti smiled as he put on his masked helmet. “We’ll burn the jungle from one side of the island to the other.”
Burn. Cortaner looked at his hands. His fingers still bore sores from last night. Burn.
—------
Burn them they did.
The second settlement they hit was too small to be called a village. It was no more than a set of houses around a strange totem of wood. Whatever spirit or Artifact it meant to represent, it went up in smoke with everything and everyone else.
Cortaner killed two more men during the attack. Brothers, from the look of it.
He didn’t use his flames this time. He was afraid. Afraid of seeing that creature looking back at him, accusing him, judging him.
Yet when they set the corpses upon a pyre there it was, a shadow sitting atop a plume of smoke and enthroned on a dozen burning dead. No one else could seem to see it yet there it stood, taunting Cortaner.
“There is no escaping the pyre of your guilt,” it said. “You carry its torch with you.”
—------
The days started to blur together.
One morning Sergeant Seto set a riverside on fire while crossbowmen waited near the water to ambush anyone trying to escape the flames. One night they hanged three men they caught… somehow. The alcohol dulled Cortaner’s wits and memories, but not the headaches nor the sharp pain in his stomach.
One day they ambushed natives in a clearing and were ambushed themselves the next. Both attacks ended the same way. Stones and wood always fell to steel. Death walked among the living, reaping its toll.
Cortaner felt sicker with each new sunset, each new attack. He no longer remembered the number of scalps added to his name, but he knew the number kept climbing. A few more stepstones on a fleshy stair reaching to the heavens.
He had come to learn more about his ‘teammates’ over the last few weeks... and came to loathe every single one of them. The Fiddler was a greedy coward good only for singing and counting scalps. Captain Kheti only opened his mouth to give orders or speeches about the righteousness of their cause. Sergeant Seto was a lapdog who acted strong with his men, and weak with his superior.
Only the Doc was halfway tolerable, and each new attack seemed to sap his strength a little more. He hardly spoke nowadays. Cortaner never bothered to learn what crime landed him in the unit, but it must have paled in comparison to what he’d witnessed over the last few operations.
The rest of the men were a bunch of cutthroats hardly better than the shit they left in their wake, though their cruelty paled before the Silence’s.
Now that he had observed him in battle, Cortaner would rate the Silence as the second deadliest member of the brigade in a fight behind himself. The madman’s refusal to wear armor would cost him his life someday, but his lethal precision and agility let him reap a harvest of blood. He had no tactical instinct whatsoever, attacking armed warriors and helpless children indiscriminately.
Cortaner had never seen him torment the natives before the kill the way other soldiers did. When a slaughter ended, the Silence would simply find a place to sit and slouch like a corpse until they moved on to the next target. He kept to himself. When the brigade stopped to rest, he ate and drank far from the group so no one would see his face. Cortaner never saw him play dice, read, or enjoy himself. The Silence killed more people than a third of the Brigade combined, but never bothered to claim a single scalp.
After a while, Cortaner had to accept the obvious.
The Silence lived to kill. Nothing else.
And worst of all… he didn’t even seem to enjoy it.
He’s not human, Cortaner kept telling himself. He’s a demon. Some masked beast that crawled out of a Blight. He’s Death.
Deep down, when he tried and failed to meditate, Cortaner knew he meant something else.
I’m not like him. I’m better. I’m human.
Six months, Cortaner kept telling himself. Six months and then he could leave. Leave it all behind.
Why don’t you leave? A witchcrafter can find any kind of well-paying job. Why take the kind that involves killing children?
What difference would it make? Cortaner always ended up working as a pirate or mercenary; whenever he tried to live an honest life, he blew it up by hitting the wrong person. There were always greater lows to fall deeper into.
Why did he always get roped up in these kinds of messes?
—----
The sentries perished without a sound. Two men crouched on roofs of reeds, little more than shadows cast by predawn gloom. Quarrels hit them in the chests and sent them tumbling down to the ground as Captain Kheti gave the attack order.
Word of the raids had spread to the frontier settlements. The Brigade mostly encountered empty houses nowadays. This village either refused to evacuate or didn’t receive a warning. Its people would pay the price.
More crossbow bolts flew, piercing through walls and entering through windows. Men with spears came bursting out only to be cut down by steel swords. Cortaner didn’t remember if he participated. By now he spent most of his time in his head, his soulless body going through terrible motions rehearsed far too many times. Sergeant Seto set a house on fire with people still inside. The helmeted shadow arose from the fire to oversee the devastation, unseen by all other than Cortaner, grimly holding on to a sword of smoke.
The battle did not last long, for it was not a battle. Kill, scalp, burn. Kill, scalp, burn. That was all they did. Cortaner only did the first part, yet as his eyes oversaw the burning shacks that used to be homes and the piled dead, he felt guilty of all three. The Fiddler played a song to cover the noise of cracking wood while Captain Kheti forced the Doc to scalp the dead; his punishment for arguing with his superior against the attack.
“Where are the Kaliyarans?” Cortaner muttered to himself.
“What?” the Fiddler asked while playing his instrument.
“It’s the…” Sixth? Seventh? How many settlements had they raided? Cortaner forgot to count. “So many dead, and we’ve yet to encounter Kaliyarans.”
The Doc gave him a weary glance. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” Cortaner rasped back. Something in the four-eyes’ tone annoyed him to no end.
“We’re on the wrong side of the island. There are no Kaliyarans settlements for leagues around us.” The Doc looked down. “But there are runestone deposits a few feet below us.”
The sick feeling in Cortaner’s stomach became unbearable. “The attacks–”
“There are attacks against colonists. Just not here.” The Doc stared at a freshly cut scalp with disgust. “We’re not protecting anyone; we’re clearing the land of its inhabitants for future exploitation.”
“Who cares?” the Fiddler asked with a shrug. “We get paid either way.”
The Doc glared at him. “This is wrong.”
“Then why haven’t you run away, Doc?” The Fiddler chuckled. “Methinks you are talking a big game about preserving the life of others, but yours comes first.”
The Doc looked down, his silence an answer in itself.
“Thought so,” the Fiddler mocked him.
“Shut up,” Cortaner snapped angrily. “Or I’ll kill you.”
The Fiddler had the sense to step back. He remembered their last physical encounter all too well. “Gee, Cortaner, why are you so angry all the time?” he muttered under his breath. “This is the job of a lifetime.”
Cortaner nearly punched him to death for that, yet confusion steered his hand away.
Why was he so angry all the time?
As far as Cortaner remembered the fury always lurked inside him, waiting to burst out for the simplest reasons. Like a sword waiting for an excuse to be drawn. What kept it so sharp all the time?
What was he angry at?
“The Berserk Flame burns within thy heart.”
The voice echoed from within the charnel pyres, stronger and more terrible than before. The very air choked with anger and corrupted essence. Cortaner glanced at the figure rising from the smoke, at this strange phantom who seemed to oversee this ashen land as if it were its kingdom. The edge of its silhouette had sharpened.
“Who…” Cortaner rasped, his throat dry and sore. “Who are you?”
The entity deigned to look down on him, the mark of a sinister sword glowing on his hand. “War is my crown and the battlefield my kingdom,” it said. “I am the Lord of Wrath, Belgoroth; the one true Knight whose sword shall drive evil from the realms. The despiser of all.”
The… The Lord of Wrath? The Demon Ancestor? Impossible. He was nothing more than a legend. A ghost from a past long gone.
“I have seen killers lay with widows and strangle virgins,” the demon said. “I have heard the screams of the faithless in the dungeons and those of the faithful on the stake. I have bore witness to starving masses and silent children buried in hills of mud. I have watched seven centuries of war and torment, of the young repeating the mistakes of the old.”
The Demon Ancestor waved a hand at the dead and the living, condemning them both with a grim sentence.
“Understand that you will find no salvation, fool. Thy wicked human nature cannot be changed; neither by time nor thy best efforts.”
“Go away,” Cortaner snapped, his brain burning within his skull. The smoke and ashes in the air only strengthened his headaches. “Stay out of my head!”
“Who are you talking to?” The Doc asked, his tone fearful.
“Then cease to call me,” the Lord of Wrath replied. “Your sins give me shape. Your fury grants me strength. Your faults stain the purity of my purpose and your crimes beckon my judgment. If you committed no sin, I would have nothing to punish.”
Nothing to punish?
Cortaner inhaled the fury-charged essence carried by the smoke. Evil itself had settled into the ashes of the dead; the very evil he had helped sow.
Their crimes wouldn’t create a Blight this time… but the next massacre might. Each new act of bloodshed stained this land a little more, like an open wound on one’s skin invited disease to settle in. Compounding corruption.
“I shall burn this ravaged land until evil has been driven from it,” the Lord of Wrath said. “There shall be no black and white among the gray ashes. Death shall be mankind’s absolution.”
The wind arose with the dawn, dispersing the shadowy demon and his throne of smoke. Cortaner stared at the flame in silence, his teammates warily gazing at his back. They must think him mad.
Perhaps they were right. Cortaner had been mad to follow them for so long.
“Pack your things,” Captain Kheti ordered behind him. “We’re leaving.”
“Already?” the Fiddler complained.
“The Silence spotted another settlement a little further north,” Captain Kheti explained. “Bigger than this one. If we’re quick, we can still hit the savages before they have time to flee.”
Cortaner heard the order, but did not acknowledge it. He looked at his greasy hands. The blood on them hadn’t dried yet. It still felt fresh. How many people had these hands killed? Dozens? Hundreds?
He had told himself they deserved it because they were weak. Because they pissed him off.
“Cortaner?” Captain Kheit asked behind him. “Pack your things.”
Now… Now Cortaner realized that no matter how many people he’d slain, it’d never alleviated the fury inside him. Someone else fueled him. Someone who had been at his side from the start.
Cortaner was angry at himself.
He was the weak one. Too weak to change his ways. Too weak to take control of his miserable life. Too weak to do better.
“Cortaner?” Captain Kheti repeated, his tone sharper than before.
“No,” Cortaner replied sternly.
The word flowed out of his mouth on its own, and the sickness in his stomach vanished with it. A weight was lifted from his shoulders.
A tense silence settled on, which Captain Kheti quickly broke. “No?”
“No.” Cortaner turned to face him. Him and the armed fools of the Kheti Brigade. “I’m done.”
Raids had caused the Kheti Brigade’s numbers to dwindle over twenty members; they had lost a handful of men to the jungle’s beasts, diseases, and the rare successful enemy ambush—a fact that annoyed Captain Kheti to no end. Twenty against one.
The men had gathered for the march and now faced Cortaner. Some like the Fiddler feared him; others, like the one he had punched back in Port Nguruh, kept their swords sharp, waiting for the order to attack. Sergeant Seto obediently stood behind his superior, his house-burning weapon twitching in his feeble hands. Only the Silence was still out there, scouting.
“Have I misheard, Cortaner?” the Captain threatened, a hand on his khopesh’s hilt. “Are you deserting?”
Cortaner shook his head. His mind was set. “I’m not running away this time.”
“Good,” Captain Kheti replied, satisfied. “Then get back to work–”
Cortaner’s open palm hit the captain’s throat faster than the wind.
His fingers aimed at the spot between the helmet and armor with deadly precision, crushing the windpipe in a single deadly blow. Cortaner felt bone crack under the pressure of his hand. Captain Kheti gargled and dropped to the ground in an instant. He was dead before he hit the ground; his body might still try gasping for air for a few more seconds, but it would perish all the same. No eloquent tirade would ever escape that crushed throat again.
The same technique had killed far better men.
For a few seconds, none of the brigade’s men dared to move. Their captain died so fast that their minds struggled to process what happened right before their eyes. None of them had expected Cortaner to go through with this; what sane man would have? Sergeant Seto himself stared at his officer falling to the ground with shock.
“You are monsters who need to die for the good of everyone else.” Cortaner gathered his breath and stepped forward. “And so am I.”
No more excuses.
Cortaner fearlessly jumped into the melee, no longer caring whether he lived or died. His fists hit a skull and pounded it into fine paste. The blood was warm on his fingers, and for once, it felt right.
The Kheti Brigade erupted like a boiling hornet hive answering a threat. Swords were drawn, crossbows raised and armed. The Doc, wiser than most, fled rather than fight. The rest stood their ground, either out of mistaken bravery or arrogance in their numbers.
“You’re dead, Cortaner!” the Fiddler warned as he and a few cutthroats moved to flank him. “Alone against twenty!”
You’re wrong, Cortaner thought as he dodged a sword swing aiming for his head. I was dead long before I joined your damned lot.
But today?
Today, he lived again.
Years of training kicked back into action. Skills Cortaner had honed in Seukaia awakened after a long slumber, focused by renewed purpose. He kicked a man’s head off his shoulders, plunged his fist through a chest, and sent the Fiddler flying with a backhand. Cortaner felt sharp pain in his back as a sword left a gash through it, his blood stained the ashen ground, but he did not stop. He turned to face the attacker just long enough to kill him in one decisive blow.
When three crossbowmen pointed their weapons at him, Cortaner grabbed Captain Kheti’s corpse and raised it as a shield. Two bolts impacted the corpse’s chest and while another hit Cortaner in the thigh, the pain felt nothing compared to the one within his heart. He threw Captain Kheti’s remains at the men and kept charging without pause.
Sergeant Seto raised his weapon and unleashed a stream of fire at Cortaner, caring not that two other men were in range too. The flames consumed the soldiers and Cortaner alike. But he did not scream. His hands wove the essence around his hands as he charged closer to their source.
When Cortaner emerged from the flames unscathed, Sergeant Seto could only blink in shock. Cortaner grabbed the metal tip of the weapon and then forcefully pointed it at the soldier’s face. Sergeant Seto let out a skyward scream as the flames he once unleashed upon so many innocents consumed him. His metal armor seared against his skin as his flesh went up in flames. He finished his course on the smoking ruins of an incinerated house, never to rise again.
The soldiers’ steel can stop spears, but Cortaner had trained to shatter stone in the mountains with his bare hands. The metal bent to his strength, as did the flesh underneath. Now that the advantage of their equipment no longer mattered, the difference in skill became clear and absolute. The Kheti Brigade fought with little discipline nor coordination. They were criminals used to fighting unarmed civilians and untrained militia, not a real warrior. When faced with overwhelming strength and resistance, they folded like paper.
By the time most of them lay dead at Cortaner’s feet, the rest tried to run away. Cortaner didn’t let them. After grabbing a crossbow from a dead man’s hands, he quickly unloaded the quarrels on the deserters. His aim was true and they fell like the rest.
Tossing the crossbow aside, Cortaner glanced over the area for survivors. He saw one on the ground trying to crawl away undetected.
The Fiddler paled like a ghost when he realized he had been caught. Cortaner noticed his instrument nearby, grabbed it, and took a step forward.
“W-w-w-wait!” the Fiddler pleaded on the ground, his arms raised in surrender. “Wait, I… I can pay you! I know where the money is st–”
Cortaner smashed the fiddle against its owner’s head, silencing him for good.
At long last, the village was dead silent. Cortaner was surrounded by the dead… almost. One last challenger remained. A shadow emerging without a word nor reason.
The Silence stepped over the dead with a knife in each hand. The Doc lay on the mud behind him, his throat slit open.
How long had the Silence been there, watching? Had he been waiting for this slaughter all along? He did not look surprised. In fact, his fingers twitched with what could pass for excitement. Like he’d been looking forward to this battle.
"Why?" Cortaner asked. "I want to know before I kill you.” He waved a hand at the Doc. “Why all this?”
For the first time since they’d met, the Silence’s gaze showed a hint of emotion; a look of absolute confusion, as if Cortaner had asked him an unsolvable question. The Silence considered his answer for a few seconds.
Then he spoke up.
"I don't know," the Silence said with a small, coarse voice. "I've never asked."
He flung one of the knives at Cortaner faster than any arrow.
Cortaner lowered his back to dodge the projectile; yet the pain in his thigh sharply reminded him of the quarrel still stuck in it. The knife missed by an inch and the Silence closed the gap between them in an instant, his final weapon aiming for Cortaner’s throat. Cortaner raised his arms to protect himself, the blade slicing his skin and drawing blood, before retaliating with a punch. The Silence dodged the blow with a panther’s grace, dancing around his prey with light steps.
Cortaner was stronger and more experienced, but he was wounded and the Silence walked into the battle fresh. The mute creep was fast too. He was in one place one second and hopping around the next. His knife left a flash of light with each swing, always aiming for the throat, the chest, and the vitals.
Cortaner did his best to dodge, but he felt the blade’s edge cut deeper with each swing. Deep wounds opened up on his chest, his thighs, and his shoulders, spilling blood onto the warm ground. Cortaner’s own fists hit only air or stone.
The rush of adrenaline faded and the pain of his wounds flared up all at once. He stumbled to his knees, his guard wide open. The Silence, sensing his chance, lunged for the kill.
His blade entered Cortaner’s chest, slipping between the armor’s chinks and kissing the flesh underneath. Crimson fluid spilled on the steel and painted it red.
The Silence only realized his mistake once Cortaner’s hand closed around his wrist. His eyes widened in a brief flash of fear, but it was already too late.
The Silence’s arm broke under the strength of Cortaner’s grip, forcing him to let go of his weapon. Cortaner’s other hand grabbed his foe by the throat and would not let it go. The pain in his chest was more terrible than anything he had ever experienced, but he still smiled ear to ear.
“Let’s see you hop around now,” Cortaner rasped.
He slammed the Silence’s head against the ground with all his strength. The man’s body went limp, his lack of armor costing him the fight. Cortaner’s hand removed the knife in his chest, blood flowing from the open wound, then raised it.
He plunged it right into the bastard’s twisted heart.
The Silence did not scream. Not even when Cortaner stabbed him through his chest and twisted the knife. He did not scream. He kept staring up at Cortaner with the same soulless gaze he always wore all the time right until the life went out of them.
When Cortaner’s weakening hand stripped the Silence of his mask, he half-expected to see a monster. A savage beastman, a horned horror straight out of the yellow flames the Kheti Brigade had sowed across the jungle.
The truth hidden under the mask was even more terrible.
A man.
A youth in his twenties, utterly unremarkable except for the color of his skin, so brown it verged on black.
An islander.
The Silence, who had killed more natives than anyone else in the Brigade, was an islander himself. Somehow it made him even more loathsome in Cortaner’s eyes.
No wonder the Silence hid his face from the others and felt so at home in the jungle. Did Captain Kheti suspect the truth? Did he even care?
Cortaner did not wonder for long. He collapsed on a bed of ash, blood pouring from the half dozen wounds he had sustained. Pain wracked his body worse than any hangover or post-battle fatigue, his life was slipping away, and yet… yet his mind was finally cleared.
After so many years, Cortaner felt satisfied.
He looked up to the morning sky. A shadow born of smoke loomed over him to pass judgment on him.
“It is now that you find in yourself a sliver of humanity?” The Lord of Wrath shook his head in disdain. “Convenient.”
Cortaner snorted, a gargle of blood erupting between his teeth. “Shut up and let me die.”
The Lord of Wrath lowered his head, his eyes burning with seething hatred. “You will never be forgiven.”
The wind carried the ghost away. Cortaner enjoyed the sight of a clear blue sky, then closed his eyes and waited for death.
—---------
The Goddess did not grant his wish.
When Cortaner awoke on a bed of feathers with metal shackles holding his hands and feet, he knew someone had cursed him with life. Wet bandages weighed on his chest and cold white walls surrounded him from all sides.
“Finally awake, are you?”
Cortaner managed to look up. Father Nimlot sat at his side, alongside a woman changing his bandages. An Arcane Abbey nun from the look of it.
“How?” Cortaner rasped, his throat hurting. His tongue still tasted of ash. “How am I still alive?”
“I don’t know. You were already half-dead when local hunters brought you to me.” Father Nimlot observed him sharply. “You might be the most resilient man I have ever encountered. Anyone else would have perished twice over under our emergency care.”
Saved by the very people he had been hired to kill. Cortaner would have found the irony laughable if it wasn’t so saddening. “They should have left me to die.”
“Some wanted to grant your wish, but I put a stop to it.” Father Nimlot shrugged. “You don’t deserve to die.”
“Because I fought for the right cause for once?” Cortaner rasped. “Or because death would be too easy a punishment?”
The priest did not say anything. He didn’t need to. Cortaner already knew the answer. The truth weighed on his heart and soul.
“There was a native among us,” Cortaner thought it important to mention.
Father Nimlot nodded grimly. “He was a Kaliyaran. A hunter exiled from his tribe for murdering a family member, or so I was told.”
The only Kaliyaran the Kheti Brigade had encountered fought under their banner. Cortaner would have laughed at the irony if it wasn’t so sickening.
“I suppose he joined your warband to get revenge on his kin,” Father Nimlot theorized. “Or maybe he found himself right at home among fellow murderers. Monsters flock to each other.”
Cortaner did not care for the Silence’s reasons. They would not excuse anything. “What now, Father?”
“You are now a prisoner of the Arcane Abbey,” Father Nimlot explained. “You will testify for what you have done under Kheti’s orders to a court of law in Irem. All of it. The public must know.”
Cortaner snorted. “Will it change anything?”
Father Nimlot glared at him. “Hopefully.”
Hopefully. The word made Cortaner want to laugh in scorn.
“Then I’ll die?” Cortaner asked.
Father Nimlot’s eyebrow curved slightly. “Do you want to die?”
Cortaner looked up at the wooden ceiling. “The blood I’ve shed… the things I’ve done…” He shook his head, ignoring the pain in his neck. “There’s no going back from that.”
You will never be forgiven, the Lord of Wrath had said. And he was right.
“It’s neither for you nor I to decide. The Goddess will decide your fate, as she judges us all.” Father Nimlot rose from his seat. “Perhaps only torment awaits. Perhaps redemption is yet within your reach. But you won’t know the answer until you work for it.”
The priest walked out of the room, leaving Cortaner alone with the nurse.
Cortaner looked at the symbol of the Four Artifacts atop the door’s threshold, then closed his eyes.
—----
- Present day, Archfrost
The spring sun rose on Archfrost, waking him up.
Cortaner hadn’t truly slept since the witchcrafters merged the armor with his flesh, though he meditated to rest. He found it easy to focus after letting go of the hate and the drinks. Master So Xian would have been proud.
The pain was worse in the morning. Each dawn felt like being stabbed by the Silence all over again as his armor’s spikes rammed into his flesh and nerves. But the torment sharpened his focus, letting him clear his mind. Cortaner found his peace in his own suffering.
He had testified in the end. Been called a beast and stoned in public. Father Nimlot was right though, something did change. The outcry was so great that the Magocracy of Irem abolished penal legions and support for the independence movement picked up in the capital.
But Irem did not leave the Fire Islands.
The colonialist party was too well-entrenched and the Magocracy’s hunger for runestones remained strong. The natives had organized under warlords and pirate queens, fighting back against fire with fire.
The war continued with no end in sight, its flames fueling the Lord of Wrath’s kingdom of death.
Irem wanted Cortaner dead for deserting, but agreed to spare him once the Arcane Abbey suggested that he put on a Penitence Armor. The sorcerers probably thought the procedure would be a fate worse than death… unaware that Cortaner had asked for this fate before the trial even began.
His pain didn’t equate to one-tenth of what he had put countless innocents through, but it ensured he would never forget his crimes. He had dedicated his life to the Goddess since, finding the purpose he had sought all his life in the Abbey’s teachings.
He had been flabbergasted when the mark of the Inquisitor chose him soon after that mess in the Riverlands. He had been hounding Chastel and the Knot of Wrath back then, and though he saw it as a divine sign it took a meeting with the Fatebinder for him to understand it all.
“The Inquisitor is the class of judgment,” Lady Alexios had told him. “The hero who condemns… and the one who absolves. What better judge is there, than the one who has sinned before and repented?”
He knew why the mark had guided him to Archfrost.
Belgoroth was his responsibility. Cortaner had helped him return to power, after all. Him, Kheti, and all of Irem. They had worshiped him by waging wars and fed his Berserk Flame one arson at a time. Kheti, the Silence, and the rest of that band might not have owned cursed coins nor served the Knots, but they were demons nonetheless. He’d had countless opportunities to stop them, to take the high road, and failed to act upon them.
Cortaner would never forget the cost of letting their kind live.
Then, when the Goddess would finally recall his soul to her side… perhaps she would look upon his work kindly.
That was all he could hope for.
-----------
Next Chapter
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A/N: phew, that was an interlude and a half.
I don't think any other hero interlude will ever be as bleak as this one; it was heavily inspired by works such as Blood Meridian, Heart of Darkness, and the tales of some people I know who've worked in places like Mali and French Algeria. The thing is, events like this chapter's horrors happened in the past and still happen to this day.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this two-part interlude for what it was: an examination of human evil and personal responsibility.
We're back to Robin and much lighter stuff next chappy. See you soon.
Comments
Void Herald
You're welcome! Yeah, good inquisitors do often give non-guilty verdicts ;)
Void Herald
If both survive that long, who knows ;)
George R
Super intense chapter- what an amazing line- The hero who condemns… and the one who absolves. What better judge is there, than the one who has sinned before and repented- thanks for the chapter
Kaze
I hope we get the Bard/Cortaner meeting one day
