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Commerce Emperor Chapter Twenty-Seven: Interlude: The Inquisitor, Part I
🕑 Added 2023-10-10 07:52:10 +0000 UTCA/N: as I wrote the Inquisitor interlude, I realized it just kept getting longer and longer (even more than the Artisan one) and I wouldn't be able to finish it by today, so... had to split it in two. I hope to finish the second by Thursday, but no promises since I've got to finish the next B&F chapter too.
A bit of a warning, while the second half will be more uplifting, this might be the story's bleakest chapter yet. Expect some gruesome violence ahead.
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A/N 2: for a reason that escapes me, Patreon seems to remove all italicized effect text when I post; I've got no idea why this is happening or why.
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Previous Chapter
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-Ten years ago, penal colony of World’s Edge, Fire Islands.
The cell smelled of sweat and blood. The former was his, the latter his cellmate’s.
It was a pain to focus inside a seventy square feet block of steel and concrete when you shared it with a corpse. The runestone handcuffs didn’t help either. He felt them eat away at his essence the same way mosquitos sucked his blood. Moving alone had become a chore, so he spent most of his time trying to meditate. So far he had failed to focus properly. He hadn’t managed to clear his mind since he left Seukaia. He missed those moments of silence and peace, where his thoughts no longer tormented him. Drunkenness-induced oblivion didn’t quite achieve the same effect.
Meditating had made him happy once.
It wasn’t like he could do anything else other than try. While his hands remained strong, they couldn’t bend steel bars without witchcrafting. He often looked up at the small barred window letting a glimmer of sunlight in, but it mostly worsened his mood. He didn’t need reminders that he would likely die in this Goddess-forsaken dump. Weeks, months, years… it didn’t matter. Three out of four men died in World’s Edge each year, and he would be here for life. If the grueling runestone mining work wouldn’t put him in the dirt, the tropical diseases would.
What he would do to turn back the wheel of time…
He heard steps coming from the nearby corridor. As far as he knew, he was the only prisoner on this floor—at least ever since he bashed his cellmate’s skull against a wall. Had the wardens finally come to bury the remains two days too late?
“Cortaner,” he heard someone call his name. A warden’s voice. “Wake up, fucker. You’ve got a visitor.”
Cortaner rose from his bed, stepped over his cellmate’s remains, and lumbered towards the steel bars standing between him and his freedom.
Three men watched him, the light of their torches dimly repelling the jail’s thick darkness. Cortaner recognized the warden in charge of his floor, but the other two were cut from a different cloth altogether. From their padded steel breastplates and crested helmets, they belonged to the Iremian army. Metal masks covered their faces, and the tallest of the two carried a khopesh at his belt.
Cortaner remembered that an Iremian soldier’s mask showcased their ranks. Silver and bronze. A captain and his adjutant. Strange…
“Are you here for him?” Cortaner asked, pointing at his dead cellmate.
The warden hit the cell’s bars with a bludgeon. “Shut up, scum!” he snarled. “You’ll speak when spoken to!”
Cortaner would have strangled the rabid dog without his handcuffs getting in the way. The small fry wouldn’t look so brave with his bludgeon stuffed up his arse.
The captain glanced at the corpse with cold blue eyes peering through his mask. Much to Cortaner’s confusion, he showed none of the disdain he had grown to expect from the prison staff. In fact, he almost looked… pleased.
“Why did you kill that man?” the captain asked with a thick, southern Iremian accent.
“He tried to stick his loins where he shouldn’t have.” Cortaner crushed them before he did the same to his skull. “Was he important?”
The soldier scoffed. “I doubt it.”
“Then what does an Iremian army captain want with me?” Cortaner asked, ignoring the warden threateningly raising his bludgeon at him for speaking out of turn.
“I am surprised you can identify my rank on sight,” the soldier commented while sharply studying Cortaner. His gaze lingered on the runestone handcuffs. “So you are a witchcrafter. I’m surprised.”
Being a bald, swarthy man as tall as he was strong, Cortaner knew he didn’t look like a stereotypical witchcrafter, let alone one that fought with their body rather than weapons. A lifetime of fighting had marked his skin with plenty of scars, and each of them carried their own story.
“I’ve heard you killed five men on your lonesome during a bar brawl, bare-handed, and with fire coursing through your fingers,” the soldier said. “The city watch says they only brought you down because you were inebriated.”
“That’s true,” Cortner replied sharply. The booze had always been his weakness, even back when he still studied with the Firehand Sect. He had kept the bottle demon in check during that time, but his exile changed that. “You’re here to execute me or what?”
The man ignored his question. “From what I gathered, you arrived in the Fire Islands on a ship coming in from Seukaia. I assume you received your combat training there?”
Cortaner’s hands curled into fists. “Yes.”
“Why did you come to the Fire Islands?”
“For work.” Cortaner shrugged. “All I know is how to fight. I’ve heard Irem was looking for mercenaries in the area.”
“We are.” The soldier nodded to himself, as if Cortaner had passed some sort of hidden test. “I’m Captain Kheti of the Iremian Expedition Force. The man next to me is my assistant, Sergeant Seto. I’ll go straight to the point: do you want to die here?”
Cortaner glanced at his dead cellmate, then back at the soldier. “No.”
“I had the feeling you’d say that.” The captain crossed his arms. “Since we’re lacking manpower, I’ve been allowed to empty our prisons for recruits. Here’s the deal: you sign on for six months with me, you do what I say, and when that time’s up, you’re free to go.”
“Six months?” Cortaner squinted in suspicion. He had learned to be wary of deals that sounded too good to be true, because they always were. “What’s the catch?”
“They will be tough months,” the captain replied. “The brownies have been conducting raids on the good people of Irem for years. One tribe of degenerates in particular needs to be taught some manners.”
“You’ll be paid based on your results,” his sergeant added. “One silver coin per enemy scalp.”
A silver coin for a life was a hefty sum, especially so far south.
“Must be tough bastards you’re after,” Cortaner commented.
“These savages are a slippery lot and know the jungle well,” Captain Kheti conceded. “Are you scared?”
“No.” Cortaner had yet to meet someone he couldn’t kill. “Will you remove my shackles if I say yes?”
“Yes.”
“And my previous crimes?”
“So long as you stick to killing brownies from now on, the Magocracy will overlook your past indiscretions.” Captain Kheti looked out the window. “So? Are you ready to seize the day?”
Was this even a choice? Cortaner loved to be paid for what he did best. “When do I start?”
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Captain Kheti kept his promise. Within a day’s turn, Cortaner left the prison through the front door, his shackles gone, and his criminal record expunged from the Iremian bureaucracy.
He wasn’t a free man yet though. The Iremians had him sign a contract in blood. Their witchcrafters could easily track him down if he ever tried to flee. The thought still crossed his mind when the captain had him board a ship away from World’s Edge with a dozen other volunteers, but why bother? The contract was a good one.
From what he could tell, Captain Kheti had toured other prisons before coming to World’s Edge. Their penal company—which the men had taken to call the Kheti Brigade—included thirty cutthroats, murderers, mercenaries, and a handful of professional soldiers eager to claim the reward. Most of them were the usual rowdy bunch of brutes Cortaner had grown familiar with over his years of piracy, but he noticed a few anomalies among the circus. The troop’s medic was a thin middle-aged man with a short beard, bespectacled, and a guarded attitude that befitted a school teacher more than a mercenary. A handsome, slender young singer played the fiddle on the deck with an insolent look Cortaner already despised.
Every circus also had its freaks and clowns. One of the men stood out from the rest from his choice of clothing. Tight black rags covered every inch of his body except for the head, which he instead hid under a black capirote hood; small holes let two brown eyes peer through it. He wore gloves despite the atrocious heat and he kept to himself. He must have been a burn victim or something to dress like that.
“Alright boys, listen up!” Captain Kheti addressed his recruits after they gathered on the deck, his voice booming like thunder. “Our targets are the Kaliyara, a lawless tribe from Nguruh! They’ve been raiding the good citizens of Irem in the dead of night, killing innocent men, raping women of virtue, and kidnapping children to sell off as slaves! Our job will be to wipe them out!”
“With what, my cock?” a rowdy prisoner boldly asked, causing a few others to laugh it off. “I ain’t got any other sword!”
“We’ll distribute weapons to you, but you’ll take care of your equipment’s upkeep,” Sergeant Seto explained calmly. “Any other equipment must be purchased out of your own pocket. You’ll be paid a silver coin per Kaliyaran scalp and may keep any loot you find.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Captain Kheti warned. “In this army, it takes more courage to back down than advance forward. A swift death awaits those who desert. Until your contract expires, your ass is mine.”
“Fiddler wouldn’t mind that!” someone in the crowd said, the crude joke echoed by a chorus of laughter. The singer glared at the responsible with a murderous look.
Cortaner paid it no mind, nor did move an inch as Sergeant Seto brought two barrels full of swords, small spears, axes, and other weapons to the deck. He did take note of who chose what, however, in case he had to fight any of them. Most seized the usual spears and swords, though the medic took a crossbow and the hooded man a set of throwing knives. All weapons had been reinforced with steel essence and their material enhanced to the height of quality. Irem might have the smallest army of all major nations, but it also had the most witchcrafters to spare on improving equipment.
Captain Kheti quickly noticed Cortaner’s refusal to bear weapons. “You will go into battle unarmed?”
“I am armed.” Cortaner raised his fists with pride. Without runestones handcuffs to bind them, they felt strong again. “All I need is oil to set them ablaze.”
“Oh.” Captain Kheti sounded halfway impressed. “You’ve undergone the Second Awakening?”
Cortaner shrugged. Of course a captain from a country ruled by sorcerers would know of these things. “I’m halfway there.”
“Impressive. In that case, I’ll pair you up with Seto. You won’t run out of fire with him around, and he would benefit from a teammate covering him in melee.” Captain Kheti glanced at the azure sea. “I have the feeling you will do very well among us.”
“I have the feeling you will do very well,” Master So Xian’s voice echoed in Cortaner’s mind. “If you do not waste your potential on the wrong cause.”
Cortaner shook his head in frustration. His old mentor’s words sounded so bitter now. “Whatever.”
Their destination came into sight of the ship a few hours later. While World’s Edge was the smallest and most remote of the Fire Islands—hence its name—none rivaled Ngurah in size and importance. Its pleasure port gleamed like a golden nugget amidst a diadem of emerald forests. Palm trees swayed under the rising sun and over beaches of simmering sands. The warm wind carried the smell of precious spice and roasted meat. Cortaner would have found the place beautiful were it not for the walls splitting the city in two.
Whereas galleons and swift sloops docked in the bay’s central port, with its well-maintained warehouses and fancy inns, poorer fishermen had to retreat back to dirty shacks and crumbling piers. The city’s mansions, lush gardens, and central, unfinished pyramid loomed over the guarded fortifications separating the inner district from surrounding shantytowns.
Tall walls, Cortaner mused as their ship gently slid along the sapphire sea and approached an essence-reinforced pier. But nowhere near as wide as the gulf of wealth.
Cortaner had tried to jump over it long ago, when he ran away from his dirt-poor home to try his luck in the big city. He remembered his first day of honest work. He’d been paid a copper for cleaning shoes and got it stolen by other urchins before the night was done. It was only when he started breaking legs that he managed to keep what he earned. To survive, you couldn’t show weakness. Ever.
Cortaner banished these thoughts from his mind. A small group awaited their ship on the dock. An elderly man in Arcane Abbey clerical clothes, men and women whose olive skin marked them as Iremian, and a few people whose darker, deep-brown tone marked them as Fire Island natives. The latter didn’t wear the rags Cortaner had come to associate with the country’s underclass. Quite the contrary, their linen robes, draped chemises, and silky cloaks marked them as quite well-off. Half a dozen armored members of the city watch escorted them; Cortaner recognized a few of those responsible for his arrest among them. He was tempted to pay them back with blood and death, but he loathed the prison more than he desired revenge.
Captain Kheti’s eyes squinted in displeasure upon noticing the priest, though his gaze only turned to disgust catching the natives. “These fools again,” he mumbled with a hint of disdain. “How irritating.”
“Who are these people?” Cortaner asked without really paying attention.
“The Arcane Abbey and the Free Fire Assembly,” Sergeant Seto said. His tone lacked his superior’s venom. “They’ve been protesting against the Iremian occupation for decades.”
“The Iremian Protectorate,” Captain Kheti insisted sharply. “The islanders called us for help when the Shinkoku invaded them, Sergeant. We’re here to protect them.”
“From whom?” Cortaner scoffed, unimpressed. “The Shinkokan left half a century ago.”
Captain Kheti’s cold glare carried more ice than an Archfrostian winter. “From themselves.”
Then why did the wall keep the suburbs out? Cortaner didn’t care enough to say it out loud, however. A good mercenary never argued with their employer. Let him believe what he wants, so long as I get paid.
Cortaner knew his history well. When the Shinkokan Empire arose in the east a hundred and fifty years ago, they had promptly annexed the Fire Islands and used them as a springboard to invasions against Irem and the Everbright Empire. The resulting decades of conflict led to the creation of the Erebian League between Pangeal’s nations. They eventually repelled the Shinkoku and the Fire Islands became a protectorate of Irem.
Cortaner had heard the islanders were pretty happy about the arrangements at first… until their ‘protectors’ overstayed their welcome.
The islanders could only blame themselves. If they wanted things to change, they only had to tear down the walls. Nobody would give them their wealth. Those who couldn’t keep what they owned never deserved it in the first place.
“The Shinkoku will return one day,” Captain Kheti insisted, more for himself than Cortaner’s sake. “Until then, we will keep watch.”
After the ship docked, Captain Kheti and Sergeant Seto ordered their brigade to stay put on the deck while they went on to confront the delegation. Cortaner couldn’t hear their discussion, but he noticed his employer putting a hand on his kopesh’s hilt midway through. A few minutes later, Captain Kheti said something to the city watch guards and the latter promptly escorted the delegation away. One of the natives loudly protested and took a bludgeoned hit to his face for his trouble, before being dragged away screaming and spitting. The rest got the message and dispersed more or less peacefully.
Cowards, Cortaner thought. In this cruel world, people only listened to pretty words when they were backed by resolve and cold hard steel.
“We’ll leave for the jungle immediately,” Captain Kheti ordered upon returning to the ship. “I’m sure these enemy sympathizers will send word of our arrival to every hostile within reach.” His words were met with a chorus of groans, which he silenced with a mere glare. “You will have your fun when we get back.”
One hour later, the troop left the city on foot through its front gates. Two men tried to slip away before they even departed, but Captain Kheti had them beheaded on the spot for their trouble. Their heads were impaled on spikes atop the city walls, and any talk of desertion among the men died swiftly with them.
The Iremian army’s quartermasters distributed bags of supplies to the Brigade alongside a slew of padded armor, boiled leather mail, and other forms of protection. Cortaner had to admire the Magocracy’s logistics, though his own chainmail and segmented helmet only worsened the searing heat. The designs were outdated too. They probably received old stocks. At least they’d provided a waterskin full of black oil for Cortaner to grease his hands with.
While his superior stuck to a traditional khopesh and shield, Sergeant Seto carried the strangest of weapons: a closed metal reservoir he carried on his back, and attached to some kind of metal rod by a small rubber pipe. Cortaner had never seen anything like this, though he identified the presence of fire runestones at the rod’s tip.
Captain Kheti swiftly split the company into five units. Cortaner found himself under Seto’s direct orders alongside the fiddler, the doctor, and the hooded man; the mercenary assumed his employer mixed experienced soldiers with unreliable recruits to ensure the former would look over the latter. Captain Kheti’s team walked at the front of the column while Cortaner’s group closed the march with orders to intercept any would-be deserter.
They soon left the city’s cobbled streets behind for the green, untamed expanse beyond its suburbs. A dense, foreboding canopy of exotic trees stretched as far as the eye could see. By the time they found a walkable trail through the dense foliage, the sunlight struggled to get past the thick branches and leaves.
Too many sounds. While Captain Kheti appeared to know his way forward through the forest, Cortaner remained on edge. The humid air and heat left him sweating, while the chorus of bird cries and the buzzing noise of whatever insects lurked in the forest prevented him from hearing his own steps. I hate it.
Years of back-alley fighting had given Cortaner a sharp instinct for ambushes. Noticing small details often made the difference between life and death, but there were too many sounds to catch anything in particular. He couldn’t see much through the foliage either. Vines thicker than a man’s arms and ancient with colossal roots obstructed most of the landscape. The men ahead had to cut their way with swords. Only the hooded freak appeared unbothered by the terrain. He alone hadn’t taken any armor with him, stealthily stepping over branches without making a sound.
“Do not touch the vines,” Sergeant Seto warned their group. “Some might be vinesnakes in disguise. They’ll flee rather than confront a group like ours, but a bite in the ankle will cost you a leg. Do not approach bodies of water either, especially the bigger ones. Young behemoths often claim them as territory.”
“What the fuck are we looking for?” Cortaner asked, frustration surging in his flesh and bones. This jungle made him feel vulnerable, and he hated that. “Trees?”
“Informants gave us the location of a hidden Kaliyara outpost. Captain Kheti wants to check the intel.” Sergeant Seto gripped his metal rod. “Might be a bust. We’ll see.”
“Well, at least we’ll do some sightseeing,” the Fiddler said. Cortaner didn’t bother to learn the man’s name nor did he intend to. “Mayhaps I should play a merry tune to cheer the men up?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Cortaner warned him, his fists clenching. He would not die from a poisoned arrow because of a foolish singer giving away their position. “This place is dangerous.”
“Calm down, calm down, I was kidding.” The Fiddler let out a heavy sigh. “You people have no sense of humor…”
Cortaner ignored him and continued to focus on his surroundings. He attuned himself to the ambient essence. The forest turned into a simmering kaleidoscope of vivid colors to his eyes. Every inch of wood oozed life. It reminded him of the Seukaian mountains. The temple had been eerily silent, but its stones breathed for those who could listen.
Cortaner had been happy there, for perhaps the first time in his aimless life. Studying essence-based martial arts gave him structure and purpose. He’d even considered settling down there. If only that fool Yun Jun hadn’t provoked him… if Cortaner could kill him again, he would.
He was weak, Cortaner told himself. A true Firehand disciple would have survived that blow.
But Master So Xian didn’t see it that way and had him kicked out of the sect for slaying a fellow student. Cortaner had found himself aimless again ever since, hopping from one job and country to another.
“So…” the Fiddler said. For some reason, he seemed intent on making small talk. “What did they get you in for, Baldy?”
“Murder,” Cortaner replied, his blood boiling. He was steadily losing patience. “And I’ll add you to the list if you open your mouth again.”
The fool didn’t listen. “My, how original! You’re a member of the majority, my frie–”
Cortaner’s hand lunged at the Fiddler and grabbed him by the throat.
The man gasped as Cortaner slammed him against the nearest tree. The trunk shook under the strain of the impact, startling the rest of the group.
The idiot was light. Light enough that Cortaner could lift him up with one hand while crushing his windpipe. A smarter lad would have reached for his sword, but the Fiddler instinctively grabbed Cortaner’s fingers with his own.
“I warned you!” Cortaner snarled as he slammed the Fiddler against the tree once more. “I told you to shut up!”
The singer’s skin was already turning purple, but Cortaner wouldn’t wait that long. He raised his free hand and prepared to shatter the man’s soft skull with a well-placed punch; the way he had killed that idiot Yun Jun.
Sergeant Seto’s voice cut through the murderous rage. “Cortaner!”
Cortaner turned to the rest of his group. The Doc and Sergeant Seto were both aiming their weapons in his direction; the former quivering, the latter firmly. The hooded mute observed them without a sound, his twitchy hands playing with his knives.
“Drop him!” Sergeant Seto ordered firmly. “Drop him now!”
Cortaner grit his teeth and struggled with the urge to kill the Fiddler nonetheless. “Or what?”
“Or I will kill you right there,” the sergeant replied without a hint of fear. “Now drop him.”
Cortaner was tempted to ignore the warning nonetheless, but the interruption gave him enough time for his blood to cool down. He turned his attention back to the Fiddler, who stared at him with abject dread.
After a moment’s consideration, Cortaner decided killing this fool wasn’t worth bringing the might of Irem upon himself. He threw the Fiddler at the ground and released his grip on him as the singer desperately gasped for air.
“Never do that again,” Sergeant Seto warned Cortaner before glancing at the Fiddler. “And you shut up too before I execute you myself.”
The Fiddler took the hint this time, and the rest of the march happened in near-complete silence. Sergeant Seto didn’t lower his weapon though, and the others gave Cortaner a wide berth afterward.
They stopped once in a small clearing to eat and drink, but little noteworthy happened until sundown. The column abruptly stopped, and a messenger traveled down to relay orders to Sergeant Seto’s group.
“We’re almost there,” the officer said after the messenger returned to the column’s front. “We’ll move to encircle the outpost so they can’t escape into the jungle. Encroaching darkness should cover our approach.”
A wise choice. Cortaner eagerly opened his waterskin and coated his hands with oil. After so many tense hours of walking blind in this green hell, he more than welcomed a straight fight. Perhaps there would be a worthy opponent among the Kaliyaran. It had been too long since Cortaner could truly put his skills to the test, especially when sober.
“Cortaner, you and I go first,” the sergeant ordered. “Silence, you cover us. The rest stays at the back. No assault until I say so, understood?”
Silence? Cortaner wondered before glancing at the hooded man among them. Eh. They call him that because he’s mute? That’s almost funny.
The group waded their way through the greenery, losing sight of the others and focusing on advancing forward. It didn’t take them long to find the outpost nested within a secluded glade… if Cortaner could call that an outpost.
What’s this? Cortaner wondered as he peered through the foliage. A gathering of wooden houses built atop sturdy stilts sprawled before them, their roofs woven with reeds and overlapping leaves longer than horses. He counted a dozen abodes, maybe two, with no defensive walls nor watchtower. It’s undefended.
The outpost was far from uninhabited. Smoke rose from its center, joined by the smell of roasted meat and the beat of mighty drums. Cortaner noticed two brown-skinned women filling ceramic pots with fruits under the shadow of a house, their intricate tattoos partly covered by soft fabrics adorned with feathers. A man with a spear sat on a stone near their position and spoke with two children in a tongue Cortaner did not recognize.
Cortaner exchanged a glance with Sergeant Seto as the group remained unseen. “Are these people Kaliyarans?”
“No, they are not,” Sergeant Seto said quickly. “We would see more warriors and vigils otherwise. Our intel was wrong.”
“They clearly belong to another tribe,” the Doctor whispered at the back. He appeared especially fascinated by the houses. “Should we approach them? I recognize their dialect. I could establish contact with them, maybe extract some intelligence on the Kaliyara.”
The sergeant pondered the proposal and then shook his head. “Too risky. They might inform the other tribes in the area instead and expose us.”
The Fiddler stroked his throat, which still bore red marks shaped like Cortaner’s fingers. “I say they are Kaliyaran, sergeant,” he rasped with a weak, broken voice. “All of them.”
“They are not,” the Doctor insisted. “Their tattoos identify them as an offshoot of–”
“Doc, Doc, don’t you see? Nobody outside your classroom can tell the difference.” The Fiddler smirked maliciously. “Brown is brown.”
Sergeant Seto glared at the Fiddler with genuine outrage. “What are you saying?”
The Fiddler shrugged. “How much are you paid, sergeant?”
The soldier’s hands tightened on his weapon.
“Twenty silver a month? Twenty-five? I say it’s nowhere near enough for risking your life on foreign shores.” The Fiddler drew his sword. “I’m sure the captain won’t mind if he gets his share.”
Sergeant Seto remained silent as a tomb, his eyes darting from the Fiddler’s weapon to the native village.
He’s considering it, Cortaner thought. This turn of events pleased him. It’s a good plan, if the captain goes along with it.
Cortaner didn’t particularly mind raiding the place. He’d been a pirate before after all. He would follow his contract, but he didn’t mind seizing an extra bit of cash now and then. Men were meat.
Only the Doc protested. “They have children among them.”
“So what?” Cortaner replied coldly. He counted two kids, both girls with white hair and slightly lighter skin than the other natives. These two looked no older than ten. “If they’re smart, they’ll keep their heads down and stay out of our way.”
Cortaner glanced at the rest of the team. Sergeant Seto still hadn’t reached a decision, the Doc gulped at the back, the Fiddler hardly held himself back from jumping into the fray… and the Silence was nowhere to be seen.
Where has that mute creep gone? Cortaner looked around and saw nothing. He found it eerie. Nobody ever managed to sneak up on him before. I didn’t hear a sound.
He turned his attention back to the village and noticed someone exit one of the houses. A woman.
An Iremian woman.
If her smooth olive skin and facial features wouldn’t confirm her origins, her expensive linen clothing did. She climbed down the house thanks to a ladder and landed on the ground, her sandals smoothly stepping on the grass.
“Must be a hostage,” Sergeant Seto muttered. This new information seemed to embolden him. “Change of plans. We’ll rescue her.”
“Saving a damsel in distress and getting paid for it?” The Fiddler chuckled, though it swiftly turned into a cough. “What more… can a man want?”
Cortaner rubbed his hands in preparation for the fight… until the children rushed to the hostage, smiling and laughing. The woman giggled and petted them both on the hair, the same way Cortaner’s mother did back when he was a wee child.
He couldn’t tell why, but the sight made him feel… morose.
“Wait,” the Doc warned them at the back. “She doesn’t look like a hostage to m–”
A throwing knife flew past Cortaner and nailed the woman in the forehead.
The blade coursed across the air with such speed and strength that he hardly noticed it until the impact. The projectile whistled like an instrument as it cut through bones between the woman’s eyes. She stood in place, her body frozen in place, her eyes wide and hollow. She didn’t realize she was already dead. Time seemed to come to a halt as the children and the warrior on the stone looked at the knife, their minds struggling to process what happened.
The Silence emerged from the foliage without a sound and threw another knife.
Cortaner thought he would target the warrior; that was what he would have done in the Silence’s place, take out the bigger threat first. Instead, the knife ended its flight in one of the children’ throats. Her head tilted to the left like an owl, a fountain of blood erupting from her wound. Cortaner only had time to see the terror and shock in her eyes before she collapsed on the ground.
Finally realizing the danger, the other native women screamed, screamed, and screamed, their high-pitched screeches drowning out even the forest’s chorus. The warrior roared in fury as he grabbed his spear.
Cortaner’s training kicked in and he emerged from the foliage, his oil-soaked hands igniting. The Doctor hastily fired a crossbow behind him; whatever target he had in mind, he missed. The Fiddler and a startled Sergeant Seto charged after him.
“Attack!” the latter shouted way too late. “Attack!”
Before Cortaner could think of anything, his hands caught fire.
He had rehearsed this technique countless times, guiding the fiery essence of the flames so they would swirl around his fingers without consuming his skin. Anger, iron, those were easy essences to manipulate. Men understood emotions better than anything, and solid matter could be grasped. But fire, light, sound, the cold? These primal energies and elemental forces of reality derived from the very Artifacts that had shaped the world on the Goddess’ behalf. To manipulate them, one needed to attune their very spirit to one of the four.
That was the Second Awakening.
Only those who had undergone this training could manipulate an Artifact’s evasive elemental essence and store it into runestones, which allowed any witchcrafter to then redirect it. But to attune oneself with one of the Four meant to reject the others. Those who dedicated themselves to the Firewand could manipulate flames and heat, but the Windsword’s lightning or the Seacup’s cold would be forever denied to them. Only the Mage could manipulate all forms of essence without restriction or the use of runestones.
Cortaner had been working on his Second Awakening before the Firehand Sect exiled him, selecting the Firewand as his patron. Raging flames suited him well.
The native warrior threw his spear at him. Cortaner deflected the weapon with a wave of his hand, the sharpened stone tip shattering upon impact. He closed the gap within seconds and struck his foe in the chest. His blazing hand entered the chest and exited through the back, smashing bones and organs alike.
Cortaner struck the killing blow without hesitation. He was nothing but another nameless slab of meat in an endless pile of them. He removed his hand from the corpse and let it fall with a loud thump, his mind obscured by the call of battle.
Cortaner looked around as chaos overwhelmed the village. The last of the children screamed and cried in fear near her mother’s corpse. Screeches and the noise of clashing weapons echoed in the distance; the rest of the Kheti Brigade had sprung into action and started assaulting the village from all directions.
Sergeant Seto rubbed his metal rod, and the mysterious weapon finally activated. A stream of green flames erupted from its tip in a surge of light and destruction. He turned his torrent of flames upon the nearest house. Reeds and woods went up in flames, smoke rising to the sky as the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the horizon.
“Calm down!” the Fiddler shouted at the sergeant. Though he had drawn his weapon, he stayed at the back with the quivering Doctor. “We can’t collect the money if you burn them to a crisp!”
Greed had managed to cure his strained voice.
Meanwhile, the Silence stalked the camp like death itself. He grabbed a knife off his belt and immediately threw it at one of the women trying to run away. The projectile struck her in the back of the head with lethal precision. By the time she fell, the Silence had already moved on to his next victim.
Cortaner prepared to walk after him to earn his keep when he noticed the crying girl.
She hadn’t fled yet for some obscure reason. Instead, she glared at him with red eyes full of tears, one of the Silence’s bloody knives in her shaking hands. She had removed it from her fellow child’s throat and now pointed it at Cortaner.
He recognized her glare. He had seen it in his own reflections many times in his childhood. That seething, impotent hatred mixed with fear… It filled Cortaner with loathing and disgust.
“Strike me, if you dare,” he told the girl in Iremian.
She seemed to understand him, her hands trembling with such dread that the bloody knife slipped out of her fingers. When she wouldn’t pick it up again, Cortaner threateningly raised his flaming fist. The girl’s bravery turned to cowardice and she fled.
“Weakling,” Cortaner rasped as she fled into the night and out of his sight. He didn’t bother giving pursuit.
He turned to look for worthy foes, when he noticed the Silence looking at him.
His brown eyes, so brown and unfeeling, chilled Cortaner to the bone. They were devoid of anger, malice, or whatever emotions he would have expected to see in a soldier. In fact, Cortaner saw… nothing.
Nothing at all.
He’s a thing, Cortaner thought, a shiver of dread racing down his spine. It took a lot to unsettle him, yet this… man managed to shake him to his core. A soulless thing.
This gaze unnerved Cortaner for a reason he couldn’t explain. Like he was being judged.
“What are you looking at, freak?!” Cortaner raised his flaming fists. “You want to fight?!”
The Silence stayed still like a panther ready to jump. Cortaner’s heart pounded in his chest, his body alert and his spine straight.
“What are you two doing?” a voice called out to them.
Cortaner turned toward the village. Captain Kheti walked into sight with two other men, his khopesh drawn and stained with blood. One of his soldiers was dragging a screaming native woman by the hair.
Cortaner hesitated like he did with the Fiddler earlier, then said, “Nothing.”
“Yes, nothing. So get to work.” Captain Kheti walked past him. “There’s more of these savages north of our position.”
Cortaner lowered his hands, his fists curling in frustration. The Silence lost interest in him and walked deeper into the village without a word. Captain Kheti oversaw the corpses, his eyes widening in shock upon noticing the Iremian woman among them… and then squinting upon noticing the dead child with lighter skin.
“What a whore,” the captain whispered under his breath. “Repulsive.”
The rest of the night was a blur, a whirlwind of blood and flames and screams and death. Cortaner somewhat remembered killing two more men, or maybe three. Battle was easier when he let his numbed mind and body act through the motions.
He would have loved to say this had been a fight worth remembering, but that would have been a lie. The natives brought stones in a clash of steel and iron. Their arrows bounced off the Brigade’s armor and their spears couldn’t pierce through chain mail. It could only end one way.
When at last the village became silent, naught but smoke and ashes remained. Cortaner looked down on the dead. The Doctor scalped them with a grim expression while a few accomplices looted them of their belongings. The Fiddler sawed a woman’s hand with his sword to take her ivory bracelet. Sergeant Seto stood in front of a scalped corpse pile with a haunted look before setting them on fire with his weapon. Other men laughed at the spectacle and exchanged jokes about roasted meat. If the red-eyed girl was among them, Cortaner couldn’t tell.
The dead all looked the same to him.
Cortaner had looted corpses before, but this time… this time, he did not. Somehow the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn’t explain why. This victory felt hollow.
Maybe it was the scale of the slaughter? He had killed men before in bar brawls and combat, and raided a few coastal villages for money as a pirate, but never put a whole place to the torch. Usually, mercenaries always spared a few peasants, if only to ransom them, yet Captain Kheti insisted on executing everyone. When a soldier argued with him over keeping one of the women for himself, their commander had her beheaded instead.
If Captain Kheti knew these people weren’t Kaliyarans, he didn’t mention it. Cortaner guessed he didn’t care either way.
“Cortaner,” the Fiddler called him somewhat fearfully. “Here.”
Cortaner turned toward the fool. The fires in his hands had long died out, so he easily grabbed the set of bloodied skin and hair thrown at him. He stared at them with a strange feeling building up in his stomach. One he didn’t like one bit.
“What’s this?” Cortaner asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Your share.” The Fiddler gave him a fearful look, as if expecting to be killed if he misspoke. “You got four out of fifty-three.”
Fifty-three. Cortaner glanced at the burned ruins. All of this for fifty-three silver.
He had sowed his fair share of slaughter in the past, so why… Why did it feel different this time?
This sick feeling in his stomach only worsened when he noticed soldiers adding the Iremian woman and the child the Silence killed to the burning pile. The image of the former patting the latter’s head vividly flared back in his mind, quickly followed by that kid’s seething glare. A beautiful moment soiled with violence.
Was this feeling in his stomach… shame?
What was there to be ashamed of?
Cortaner searched for the hooded bastard who started this whole mess. The Silence sat atop the charred ruins of a house, slouched and still as stone. Waiting for something.
Cortaner could have mistaken the Silence for another corpse in his current position. Whereas every man in the Brigade carried either loot or trophies of their own, he alone shunned any trophy. Somehow that detail alone unnerved Cortaner more than all the blood and destruction.
“What of him?” Cortaner asked. The Silence had killed more people than anyone else today, then he carried no scalp. “Why is he empty-handed?”
“I tried to give him his share of scalps.” The Fiddler shrugged his shoulders. “He didn’t want them.”
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She ran all night long.
Her lungs burned within her chest. Her feet bled and her throat was dry as sand. She had no tears left to cry with. And why bother? No one was left to listen anyway. When she stumbled on roots and crashed on flowers, no one helped her get back up.
Everyone was dead.
Mother… It hurt her in the head to remember. To remember the knife and the blood. As for her sister Merites… the way her head had fallen off her shoulders… she struggled with the urge to vomit.
And Father… That bald man killed Father too with his burning evil hands. He’d killed Father and then let her go. He’d killed Father and then let her go.
Because she wasn’t worth his time.
Because she was weak.
“Neferoa?”
She looked up as she heard her name being called. A man in clergy clothes stepped out of the foliage, his hand covering his mouth at the sight of her. Armed warriors follow him; people from the nearest village.
She recognized the man. Father Nimlot of the Arcane Abbey. He often gave lessons at the school Mother sent her to each Barday.
“Neferoa?” The priest immediately crouched next to Neferoa and helped her get to her feet. “What happened? We saw the smoke and…”
“Irem,” she said, her voice deepened by all the crying. It was always Irem. “Irem… Irem killed them.”
One day, she would destroy them.
One day.
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Next Chapter
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A/N: yeah... the Kheti Brigade was heavily inspired by penal legions like the Wagner Group and the Dirlewanger Brigade. You can see how gathering a group of violent felons and giving them weapons usually turned out for civilian populations.
Anyway, this part is Cortaner stewing in the darkness and the next his slow crawl back to the light. Hope you enjoyed that half, however bleak it was.
And of course, Neferoa is the future Bard ;)
Comments
Void Herald
She would definitively remember his voice for sure. As for why the Inquisitor mark chose Cortaner, it'll be revealed next chapter, but it's mostly because having sunken so low makes him uniquely suited to judge other sinners.
mhaj58
It’s hard to imagine that anyone who could do this would be able to earn a mark of heroism. Would Neferoa even be able to recognize Cortaner with his armor and scars? I’m betting that the demon of lust will be Neferoas nemesis. Considering that Eris would sleep with anyone she met I wonder if the lust demon can influence the heroes indirectly. Brace yourself Robin ;)
George R
Super intense chapter- even more interesting is connection between the bard and inquisitor- can he still wield his fire powers I can’t remember
