A Call to War: C02S04

Moving through the inside of the manor was no small task. Furniture was thrown about the halls and rooms, and walls had collapsed. Several bodies were found by Taemis and Marcus on the first floor, bodies of children Taemis suspected to be the remains of Paeth’s heirs. On the next floor, the still breathing body of a nude woman, bound by chains and her flesh torn from her frame. Taemis ended her misery, putting his borrowed sword through her neck.

Neither of the men had seen any twisted horrors like this before. More bodies of children, these of little girls beaten and raped repeatedly, were closer to the narrow stairs to the next floor. Taemis thought that his young companion would loss his nerve, but each atrocity only strengthen Marcus’s resolve. He was beginning to accept their thinking, though it would never be his own.

Marcus could hardly fathom what force had driven a Lord Mayor to such extremes, but it did not matter. In the faces of each corpse they pasted, he saw someone he knew and gritted his teeth, feeling a white hot rage building in the pit of his stomach. He would kill the bastard that did these monstrous acts, and he would do it gladly. He could not bear the thought of such heinous men in the world, and would put them all to the blade if he could find them.

Room after room revealed one dark horror followed by another. The hall on the top floor was much shorter than the others, ending in a larger oaken door. Marcus guessed it led to the study of the manor. Within, they would find Paeth, he knew. Taemis motioned for his junior to stand at the side of the door, ready to swing into the room after him.

Marcus took his place at the side of the door, switching his sword from one hand to the other, and grasping the latch of the door. His eyes were affixed to Taemis, who gave a small nod. Marcus throw the door open and rushed in, bringing his sword to bear. A blast of hot air nearly knocked him off his feet. He saved himself at the last second, though, by bringing his right hand up and pushing against the silvery strands dancing about the room.

Taemis came in next, his hand already raised in protection from the mythier. “In the name of Lord Count Jerno Elibe, stand down, traitor Paeth Orelkel!” he bellowed. The air grew hotter and erupted into flames about the knights. With their meager skill in the art, though, they managed to protect themselves.

“Stand down? Why?” Paeth asked, his voice withered and twisted as the trees in his forest. “You’ve come to end my fun, have you not? I am to unleash a great force on all of Nols!” The flames receded. Paeth stood before the two, his skin a stark white and his hair a pitch black wild mane. He wore a beard on his jaw, but kept no hair on his cheeks or lips. Paeth was a short man, a full head shorter than Marcus.

His body was small, frail and looking like a skeleton draped in the barest flesh and muscles. His face was weathered and wrinkled, betraying his age to the knights. A tight blue jerkin, adorned with golden thread, covered his torso. His arms laid bare, and loose fitting black pants, made from Ilopaen silk, covered his legs. His dress was that of a higher noble, but he was only common gentry.

“He promised me that my desires would not be denied!” he screamed, making large motions with his hands. His blue eyes locked onto Marcus and a sly smile crossed his lips. “I’ll not hurt you, great one. The death that will flow forth from your hand will be a fitting monument to me.” He cocked his head to the side, looking to Taemis. “You, on the other hand.” His voice cracked with laughter and his mouth twisted into a lunatic smile. “I will tear the entrails from your body and force your wife to eat them as I rape her to death.” His voice grew louder and louder as his insane rambling continued. “Your daughters will bear my children and those children will live only long enough to eat their mother’s flesh entirely before I dash their head open and drink the blood from their skulls!”

Taemis took a step to charge Paeth, but the crazed mythier closed his hand at Taemis. The older knight stopped in his tracks, a terrified look crossing his face. Glee entered the mythier face and he made a throwing motion with his hand. Taemis lifted and flew back, crashing into the door frame before hitting a wall. He coughed sharply, a fine mist of blood spraying from his mouth. Marcus watched in horror.

He looked back to his target, and Paeth’s expression soured. “Perhaps I should kill you after all, great one. I doubt he would want an element such as you to disrupt his plans. He raised his hand to Marcus, and the silvery threads gathered into a ball in his palm before bursting into flame. “Be a good boy, and die like the worthless dog you are!”

The ball of fire leaped forward, chasing after Marcus. He raised his hand at the last moment, concentrating on the threads in the room. They gathered in his hand, forming a tighter ball as the fire reached them. The room erupted into flames as the ball of fire exploded. Marcus rushed forward, paying no heed to the pain in his arm, nor the flames that gathered around him. His sword was high, aimed at the heart of the lunatic. He could not see, but it didn’t matter. As the smoke cleared, the scene was finished.

Marcus stood, his sword buried to the guard in the chest of Paeth, He twisted it, causing Paeth to howl with a mixture of pain and laughter. “Good boy!” he screamed, having lost all touch with reality. “You’re path is set!” Marcus shoved his back, lifting him from the floor, still impaled by the blade. Paeth’s breaths became ragged and shallow as blood poured from him.

He let out a laugh, running his hands through his black hair. “You think you’ve won, but this is a piece in his plan. The Wooden Man will be pleased that you’ve fallen into place to easily.” Paeth coughed up blood, spraying Marcus with it. “The destruction you will bring. It is so beautiful, great one.” He lifted his hand and touched Marcus’s cheek. “To think that you would burn this land to ash for a woman.” He laughed again as Marcus recoiled from his touch.

The young knight brought his hand up to just beneath the edge of his blade. “Go to Hell, you maddened bastard.” The threads gathered in his hand once more, packing tighter and tighter. A flash of light filled the room. The mythier was thrown back from the blade, crashing through the window and plummeting to the street. Marcus stood still, his face still contorted with rage and anger. He was tempted to look out the window, but thought against it.

He walked back through the burning room, numb from the experience. He felt drained, but hand the energy to lift Taemis to his feet. The older knight was unconscious from being thrown against the wall, but would recover. As the blaze intensified, Marcus carried his elder down the stairs. As he reached the first floor, he heard the sound of the prime timbers supporting the third floor crack and snap from the fire.

He pulled the knight with him, beginning to cough from the smoke as he exited the building. He could see Paeth, laying by the feet of Thomlin in the street. The whole of the town was engulfed in flames then. Kyrl was walking back, ignoring the subtle cries of pain from the few residents of the destroyed town. It pained Marcus, but he understood what his elders had meant. This was a place of evil, and no goodness could ever spring from here. Kyrl came to Marcus, giving him a hand in carrying Taemis.

Marcus at once felt the burns he’d received and the singed pain in his arm. Mythis was a dangerous art after all. “Thomlin,” he said, looking to his side. He pointed to the body of the mythier. “Burn that wretched monster,” he ordered. Thomlin looked to the body of Paeth, then to the torch burning in his own hands. Marcus knew that the boy had never done anything like it before, but had a sense of pride as Thomlin touched the torch to Paeth’s clothes. The smell of burning flesh filled the night.

Marcus and Kyrl continued to carry their unconscious superior, the glow of the flames painting their faces orange. Thomlin followed, his eyes wide at the sight of such destruction. The buildings fell in on themselves as they exited the gate. The pair came to a tree in sight of the squires and rested Taemis against it before returning to the town for the bodies of their brothers. Kyrl carried the fat Unger and Marcus carried the slender Geoffrey over his should while dragging the linen wrapped body of the tax man.

When the pair returned to Taemis and Thomlin, the other squires had gathered around. Kyrl set Unger’s body on the ground before looking to Marcus. “That was a hell of a thing, brother.” Marcus nodded as Kyrl looked to the squires of Geoffrey and Unger. “Take our brother’s home to be put to rest, boys. You are squires no longer.” He looked to his own and Taemis’s. “Bury the tax man with the other. We shall wait the night here for Sir Taemis to regain himself.”

The squires set about their tasks with solemn silence. Geoffrey and Unger’s squires loaded their masters onto their tolces and mounted, setting off into the night to return their bodies. They would never be knights, now, but perhaps it was better that way. Unger was, after all, a disgrace; and Geoffrey tried too hard to cover for his brother. Taemis and Kyrl’s squires dragged the body of the tax man from the tree to the grave of his fellow.

They buried him in a shallow grave, affixing a small marker to it to let everyone know that once two men of the Lord Count of Elibe died here. Marcus set about tending to Taemis, taking medical salve from his field pouch and rubbing it onto the man’s face and neck. It would do little, as his injuries were internal, but it would numb him slightly. After finishing with Taemis, he rubbed what remained of the salve on his right arm and leg, trying to minimize the damage from the burns.

Kyrl sent Thomlin off to gather firewood and turned to Marcus, his expression distant. “Sir Marcus, did you think that your first assignment would end like this?” He looked up to the clear night sky, counting the stars. “I’ve been a knight for near ten years, now. Never before have I seen such a spectacle of chaos. Did Paeth give you any clue as to the source of his madness?”

Marcus leaned back on his palms, looking up as well. “I would be lying if I said I had expected this. The only feeling I had in me before entering Orelkel was pride.” He lowered his head and looked over to his fellow knight. “Paeth said something about a Wooden Man. Does that mean anything to you?”

Kyrl thought a moment, then shook his head, saying, “No. Maybe his madness ran too deep to expect any semblance of sanity from him.”

Thomlin returned, silent as the grave but carrying a bundle of sticks. Marcus took them from him, thanking him quickly before setting the tender ablaze with the device his father had given him. He thought briefly of gathering some food, but knew that he could not eat. Not after witnessing Orelkel.

He laid back instead, hoping that the peaceful embrace of sleep would still his mind. “Sir Kyrl, awaken me when we are to set out, all right?” he asked meekly.

Kyrl nodded, knowing that despite his rank and title, Marcus was still a young man. He knew the junior knight would be haunted by terrifying dreams of the things in that wretched place, but he had nothing to say to Marcus. He looked away to the blaze of Orelkel, thinking to himself.

Marcus closed his eyes, and saw their faces. Every single one of them for his entire slumber haunted him. He would not know rest again for years.