The sun was setting. The glow was matched by the glow of a village in flames. A man on horseback barked orders to soldiers in blood red armor. Fire danced off ringlets of gold and silver from the commander’s arms. Tan men ran from hovel to hovel looting before lighting more fires.
A figure rose from the flames, his imposing shadow cast long over the dirt road by dying sun and rising flames. A quick glint of steel flashed, a cry of pain followed. The commander fell from his horse, head falling further than the body and rolling away. Another quick swing took out another man charging with spear thrust out before him.
Quickly, Kiljar moved from shadow to shadow. His grandfather’s blade was at the ready. One by one, red-armored men fell into pools of their own blood. And back into the shadow Kiljar went, stalking his next victim like a hunched tiger, pouncing on prey after prey.
Within ten minutes, the whole band lay dead. Unfortunately, Kiljar had arrived too late to help the village. Those that had survived had already fled. Among the flames, Kiljar picked the treasures from the dead soldiers. He came away with a pound and a half of gold and silver, mostly in ringlets. A few necklaces and rings were found, but nothing Kiljar was interested in wearing. It would bring ale and lodging for the night and supplies for the next few days travel.
Kiljar had been on the trail of the red-clad army for three months. In those three months, he had stopped eight attacks, minimized four more, and this made the seventh one that he had been unable to get to in time. He had gained little information about the crimson-armored warriors except that they called themselves “The Flame of Soranus”, they were brutal to their enemies, even by Kiljar’s standards, and they removed chunks of the bowels from the dead and carried them in elaborate rituals across hot flaming coals. Kiljar had never seen that last part for himself, but had seen plenty of disemboweled corpses left in their wake. In three months, he had not found the source of this horrid army. It angered him in a way he did not fully understand. What he did understand was that a Calium warlord wanted as many dead as possible and was willing to pay a heavy gold coin to Kiljar for every one of them he killed and let him keep the loot he found on them. All he had to do was bring back the helmets of the soldiers he killed. Kiljar understood metal, whether the metal of a sword, or the metal of a coin. Those languages he understood better than all the ones he had picked up in his twenty-eight winters of life.
Looking at the dead bodies in the dying embers that had been a village, the only lead he found was orders, now blood-stained, from a person named Vogel. Could be the head honcho, but Kiljar thought he was more likely some sort of underboss. The letter was misspelled in many places, the writing sloppy. It took Kiljar a while to decipher what the writer meant.
Whoever the big boss was, Kiljar could tell he was affluent enough to outfit these bands with above-average armor and weapons. Such a person would likely have been rich enough to afford lessons in spelling and writing. Vogel? Vogel was smart enough to do as he was told.
Vogel thumped his way down the stone stairs, parchment scoll in hand with the latest reports. Sweat poured in rivulets down his body. His hefty frame hid quite a bit of muscle underneath. It was cool underground and the sweat begin to dry to his skin as it rolled down his chest and portly stomach.
He reached the heavy wooden door of his master’s chambers. Before he could knock, the deep voice on the other side told him to enter. He hated when his master did that.
Vogel opened the door. Within five steps of the master, he bowed deeply and waited for the order to arise before handing over the reports. His master read with clear disgust on his face.
“Who does this barbarian think he is? Killing my men, pillaging their bodies, waving around that Atlantean sword of his?” The master spat in the floor. “I want his head, Vogel! Not your damned reports of ineptitude!”
“Yes, my Lord,” Vogel replied meekly.
“Do it yourself this time. Lure him here to Navae. Spring the whole army on him if you must. But I want him dead at all costs. The Order of Soranus must not be extinguished. We have much still to do. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, Lord Manos. The barbarian will be brought here and slain. I’ll bring you his bowels myself and you can dance in the fires with them.”
“Excellent. Go now and see to it.”
Vogel ascended the stairs as quickly as his girth would allow. Back in the main temple, he gathered a guard and headed to the armory. They all fitted themselves with the red armor and strong swords. Red circular shields cimpleted their armor. Into the country side they headed to find Kiljar.
Kiljar stood on a hill looking at Navae in the valley below. He was looking to resupply and find information. But he could see all the information he needed. Atop a watch tower flew a red banner and from the gates issued thirty men, dressed in the crimson armor. More stood along the city walls. More he could see from his vantage point patrolling the city.
Another red banner flew from the top of a stone temple. Outside were guards in the red armor, priests in red robes, page boys in red tunics. Outside of a sign saying, “Here we are, Kiljar; come and kill us,” they could not have been more obvious.
Kiljar studied the walls. Too high to scale. He studied the gates. No way to charge them before they could close him out. If he wanted in, he would have to find a less used route.
One of the wall guards picked up a bucket and dumped it over the wall. Sludge, feces, and other wastes poured out into a river below. It carried the disgusting mix out of the city via an aqueduct. It was a mere two feet tall but went right under the city wall.
Kiljar traced its path back through the city. It came along the east side, open at the top for people to pour out their wastes. Kiljar looked at it long and weighed all options. He hated it, but it seemed that was the only way in short of spending months digging his own tunnel at night.
He removed the cloak and necklace that had been gifts from his family long ago. These he hid with such skill that the most experienced eye would not pick up on their hiding place.
Kiljar sat and waited. He ate dried meat and washed it down with water that had not been cold in a day and a half. Slowly the sun began its western descent. When there was only the barest of lights from beyond the horizon, he headed toward the opening in the city wall.
He tried to hold his breath, but the covered part of the aqueduct was longer than he had guessed. He was forced to exhale and breathe in the stinking waste if the town. He gasped for fresh air when he finally reached the uncovered part of the drains. His keen eye was still on the lookout for patrols or people emptying their waste buckets.
He skirted a patrol and moved north and west towards the temple. He dodge another patrol by jumping on a thatched roof and laying flat. As soon as they passed, he jumped to an open second floor window of an inn and climbed his way onto its roof. From here he had a decent vantage point of the temple.
Four guards stood out front. A portly man stood talking to them. Kiljar was too far to hear what was said but, by the demeanor of the troops, he gathered the portly man was someone important. They stood up straighter and nodded vigorously to his every word. When the rotund man was done speaking they saluted and let him pass.
Kiljar saw no way through them. A few hops to another roof let him see the rear of the temple. There was no other entrance. For hours he pondered how he would get in. He did not think they would be fooled by disguises. Brute force could get him through the door, but he knew nothing about the layout for once he was inside.
The sun was rising in a few hours. He snuck back out of town the way he had come in. There was only one way he could think of to get inside that temple.
It was the first hour of full daylight. Kiljar watched from the hill as another patrol led by the portly man exited the city gates. Kilhar backed down the hill swiftly.
He made his timing just right to look like he “accidentally” wandered into the patrol. He wanted things to be as legitimate as possible. He took out several of the guards. Of thirty, seventeen were left when he was done with them. Four of those were wounded, one severely. But that left some room for them to underestimate him.
They bound him in rope. Kiljar could have easily slipped his bonds, but he played along. As he had hoped, they led him bound, straight into the temple. They turned him around at the altar to a fiery diety. He heard a click, a secret compartment opened somewhere behind him. He was turned around again to see a staircase, which he was shoved impatiently down.
There were fifty-six steps before he was brought to a thick wooden door. A booming and eager voice called to come in without a knock. The portly man opened the door and led Kiljar inside.
A tall man waited on the other side. He dwarfed Kiljar by head and shoulders. Kiljar could not put an age to him. His hair was salt and peppered, his eyes looked wise with years. But there were no crows feet, no wrinkles.
With a nod and a wave he bid the others depart. Vogel stayed behind and shut the doors. He presented his master with the Dwarf-metal sword. Kiljar grimaced and squirmed a bit. He could have had another life as an actor. Just enough to seem real without overselling it.
The ageless man chuckled. “Where does one such as you come by such a sword?”
Kiljar stayed silent. The man looked him over carefully. His wise eyes searched until they looked into Kiljar’s own. Then it made sense. The green eyes of an Atlantean.
“I see. Which parent? Must be the mother. Such weak genes.”
For a moment, Kiljar’s rage sparked. His eyes flashed before he knew it and the taller man knew he had guessed correctly. Kiljar still did not want to break his cherade though. He tugged the ropes slightly and sneered.
Vogel moved in next to his master. He too now studied Kiljar. Vogel could not look so long into Kiljar’s eyes as his master had. The fire was too great there.
“Who are you,” Kiljar finally asked.
“I am Rudegard, Keeper of the Flame of Soranus!” His voice was over-the-top as he said it. A mania danced in his eyes as he made a grandiose gesture of his hands and bowed exaggeratingly low. He smiled as he raised his head. “And who might you be?”
“Kiljar. Just Kiljar.”
A small bell made the tiniest of dings. Vogel took no notice, but Kiljar heard it as easily as Rudegard did. The Keeper of the Flame of Soranus called out an “Enter” and the door behind Kiljar opened.
A guard walked through and bowed to his master. Though they tried to whisper, Kiljar had keen ears that picked up the whole conversation.
“A peasent revolt has been put down in the east section. Twelve are dead, twenty-six are injured, including two of the three leaders. All those still alive are in the public jail being bandaged and awaiting your judgement, Master.”
“Very good work. I will be there momentarily.”
The guard nodded and left. Rudegard handed Kiljar’s sword to Vogel.
“Put him in the private dungeon. I want to cook up something special for him. I will return shortly.”
With that, Rudegard was gone. Vogel led Kiljar to the far wall. Pushing aside a tapestry, he led Kiljar down a flight of stone stairs. Fifty-six again, Kiljar noted.
Vogel went forward and unlocked a cell. He did not notice Kiljar had slipped his bonds while coming down the stairs. He did not notice Kiljar close the gap between them as Vogel fumbled to pull the large door open. He did, however, notice Kiljar’s muscular arm around his neck. He noticed the crunch of his own neck a fraction of a second before he would notice nothing in this world again.
Kiljar threw the man’s limp body in the cell that had been intended for him. He picked up his grandfather’s sword from where Vogel had dropped it. Kiljar closed the cell and picked up the keys. He bounded up the stairs and peeked from behind the tapestry. No one had returned. He waited, sword ready, for Rudegard’s return.
Rudegard stood in the public jail, nose pinched to mute the stench. He looked over the ragged peasants who had attempted to rally a revolt. Most of them were farmers. One or two merchants were there also. They had been among the leaders. The other leader was one of the wealthier artisans that made prayer bracelets for the other gods, an act which Rudegard had outlawed. His punishment would be the most severe.
“All peasants who recant their deed and swear loyalty to Soranus will be spared. The three leaders will have their innards dance the coals.”
Without waiting for a word of acknowledgment, Rudegard turned and departed. He walked back to the temple thinking of how to tie Kiljar to the uprising giving the followers a reason to stay even more loyal when Kiljar faced harsher punishment than had ever been doled out in this town.
Rudegard reached the temple just as a gleefully painful punishment for Kiljar entered his mind. He would make Kiljar watch the disembowelment of the others before he was truly punished. Rudegard would do it himself. He would skin Kiljar alive, roast him over the fire, and disembowel him just before he died. Then he would fashion a shirt from Kiljar’s skin. He had it all planned out when he reached the bottom of the secret stairs. A surprise awaited him on the other side of the door.
Kiljar sprang the moment the door opened. One arm was around Rudegard’s throat and the other slammed the door shut. Rudegard tried in vain to call for Vogel.
“He’s not coming,” Kiljar whispered sinisterly.
He shoved Rudegard to his desk. Bolting the exit shut, Kiljar gave a wide, devilish smile. He advanced slowly.
“Will you call upon Soranus? Will he save you from me? I have fought gods before. Will yours challenge me for the life of his priest?”
“Fool,” spat Rudegard. “I need not call upon Soranus; I am Soranus!”
The room darkened though none of the torches seemed to dim. If anything, they seemed to flare. Rudegard grew taller. His already imposing height grew three more feet. His arms bulged the sleeves of his robe, ripped them, left tatters. His face grew distorted and his jaw expanded.
Kiljar did not wait to see where this transformation would end. Charging forward, he thrust at Rudegard. The man/god caught the blade and ripped it from Kiljar’s hands. Flinging it behind him, Rudegard clamped his large hand over Kiljar’s jaw, lifted him from the stone floor.
Both of Kiljar’s hands clamped onto the wrist. Rudegard was still changing. His skin turned red as blood. Fire, literal fire, burned in his eye sockets.
Kiljar used Rudegard’s arm for leverage and planted his feet on the god’s chest. Unable to find purchase, Kiljar put one hand over the hand clutching his face and jammed his other upwards into Rudegard’s elbow. The arm folded and Kiljar threw Rudegard into an arm lock.
Rudegard merely laughed. He threw his other hand up and fire shot forth. Kiljar nimbly dodged out of the way and put space between him and his opponent.
“Do you see, barbarian? You stand no chance. You may be better than most men, but you are still only mortal.”
Rudegard moved forward menacingly. Kiljar was cut off from his sword. Knowing nothing else he could do, he charged forward. He slammed his knee into Rudegard’s stomach, rained punches into his face, chopped at his throat. But nothing slowed the god down. A quick, open-handed blow to the chest threw Kiljar back.
He landed hard on the stone floor and skidded two feet until he hit the wall. His head thumped with the impact. He was fortunate his skull did not crack. Vision blurred, he stood slowly as Rudegard approached.
Rolling under a ball of fire and past Rudegard, Kiljar snatched his sword. More chance and force than skill and finesse brought the blade through Rudegard’s right arm, severing it below the elbow and biting deep into flesh and organs. There was no cry of pain. The sword was lodged but Kiljar would not let go.
They spun around in a circle, Kiljar trying to free his sword. Rudegard’s left hand crashed down again and again into Kiljar’s ear, temple, and cheek. It was all Kiljar could do to keep consciousness. But he refused to release his sword and the dance continued.
After numerous pulls, Kiljar finally dislodged his blade. Stumbling back, he regained composure. He dodged right and a wild swing removed Rudegard’s left arm below the shoulder. There was still no outcry of pain, no nasty remark or threat. Not even a grunt. Rudegard paid no attention to the missing limb. Eyes blazing, he spat blood at Kiljar. Kiljar responded with a swing of the sword.
With nothing to block the blow, the blade cut through flesh and muscle and bit into bone. It did not cut clean as Kiljar had expected. Rudegard’s neck held on by a thread, lolling to the side. The jaw still bounced up and down as if trying to speak.
In disgust, Kiljar sheathed his sword. Leaping up the tall man’s back, he grabbed the dangling head and pulled. The flesh gave way, the spine snapped. Rudegard’s body dropped and diminished in size. The head resumed its more human features in Kiljar’s hands.
Tired, he stumbled to the door. He unbarred it and climbed the stairs. He reached the temple proper and a small group of guards stood in shock. Kiljar stood imposing and bloody, in a place they did not expect him, with their master’s head clutched by the hair in his hands. One half raised his sword but then dropped it and all of them scattered. Kiljar heard the shouts of “He’s dead” and “Rudegard is no more” from without.
He expected an angry mob with weapons and farm tools to greet him with rage. Instead, Kiljar was met by awestruck peasants, merchants, and even guards. None drew weapons of any kind. Rather, a cheer went up. Claps and loud huzzahs and triumphant screams rose from the crowd.
Kiljar walked onward. He wondered if these people knew he had also killed Soranus. The thought passed quickly though. He cared little about their applause or if they continued worshipping a dead god. All he cared about was the reward for this man’s head that he was about to claim. After a week’s ride, the head would stink of rot and decay, but he would have his reward and could drown himself in the best ales and women coin could buy.
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