Cairn
Cairn eyed the horizon. Somewhere among the rolling hills and smattering of trees lay Hedath and the monastery. He leaned into the wall of the wagon bed, shifting his attention to the clear blue sky above.
Home… he thought to himself. It just doesn’t seem fair. Was everything they taught us empty?
He turned to his brother. Vahti was meditating again. It was his way of coping.
The monks always spoke of the differing paths. Of how everyone has a road to walk, and while the journey was different for the individual, each diverging path led to the same destination.
Vahti has chosen the Way of the Fist. Mastering body, will, and emotion. It came easily to him. He understood his limitations, gaining the resolve to overcome them or accept what was beyond his reach. He tempered his heart through the strict disciplines he learned. At least he tried to.
Brother Arridus always said there was strength in emotion, but like any tool it required understanding in its use. If not properly honed and kept in check, it would become a distraction. Mistakes are born of these distractions.
It’s my fault, Anki. I’m your distraction.
Cairn cradled his legs against his chest and closed his eyes. He could feel it, just under the surface. Like a looming thunderstorm, the latent power within demanded release. He knew his abilities and his emotions were linked, but keeping them in check was difficult. It seemed counterintuitive to who he was.
Cairn closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing. The pain of being rejected and the sorrow at losing their home stabbed his heart. The monks held no malice or ill will; they were just scared and concerned for the community. Like them, the question lingered: What if I Surge and it’s more than something catching fire or a stray burst of lighting?
Cairn shuddered. Regardless, it changed nothing. He was a pariah to the community and Vahti just another injury left in his wake. Serindeth lay ahead, and while they meant it to be a temporary home, he couldn’t shake the feeling it would become more. The histories spoke for themselves. Absonians were a stringent people. One bent on law and order.
With his blonde hair and blue eyes, they would mistake him for a Sokoran, while Vahti’s dark hair with red highlights and hazel eyes would stand out. Their skin tone was lighter, so even with their hair dyed, passing as Absonian would be difficult.
We aren’t given to a spirit of fear… he told himself. But one of power, love, and a sound mind. It was a mantra Brother Justus often quoted. He said it was about identity, about knowing who you are, and that fear is the enemy of the soul. He often referenced history and spoke of men who, if they had allowed fear to control their destinies, couldn’t have accomplished the great things they had if they let it take root.
‘The Creator didn’t imbue us with a fearful nature. Fear comes from the doubts within us. It is born of the negative things we allow ourselves to believe.’
“Serindeth isn’t a terrible place you know.”
Cairn tore himself from his thoughts, turning to the trader paid to carry them to the capital. “It’s easy for you to say. I’m sure you’ve been everywhere.”
“Mostly northern Absion, but Serindeth is my home. I grew up there.”
“I heard people are strict there. That the Inquisitors will arrest you for even the slightest infraction.”
The trader laughed. “Rumors mostly. The Inquisition is powerful, but the Senate and the Emperor keep them in check. The Advocacy monitors what they do. Besides, I thought those watchdogs were forbidden from interfering with you monks.”
“Supposedly, but The Order and The Inquisition rarely talk.”
The trader grew quiet, seemingly content to stare ahead. Occasionally Cairn noticed the trader peer at him from the corner of his eye. “You’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?” he asked.
Cairn locked his emotions, quelling his fear. The latent power within him pushed back. He felt it trying to break his hold.
“No,” he replied.
“I have ears, boy, and eyes,” the trader commented. “Your Brothers seemed eager to be rid of you. You make them nervous; the question is why?”
Cairn pursed his lip. “We aren’t being sent away,” he replied. “Our brothers in the capital need help and we were asked to aid them.”
The trader turned his head, doubt showing on his face. “We will see, but I give you fair warning,” he said. “If you are a sorcerer or have talent, keep it to yourself. Some people aren’t very understanding. If you know our history, the only magic Absonian’s trust is that which we can control.”
Cairn nodded, though inwardly he wanted to run. He felt someone grab his left forearm and turned to Vahti. His brother’s expression was stern.
“Be strong, little brother, we will be okay,” he said.
“Will we Anki?”
Vahti smiled. “No matter what, I will keep you safe.”
“But what if I need to protect you?”
Seeing Vahti tense gave him his answer. Even if they had both received the same training, his older brother knew the longer the fight went on, the greater the risk of a Surge. It wasn’t just the Surges that made him tense. The Order was against using the various martial styles to harm others.
“You won’t have to,” he replied.
Cairn turned to the trader. He was obviously listening. I hope you’re right, Anki.
Gmork
“On your guard with that one! Don’t let his chains fool you.”
“You can’t be serious. Look at him, that’s blacksteel they’ve bound him with.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Lysius.”
Gmork lifted his eyes, staring at the guardsmen from his cell. The one called Lysius was rather thin, but like most Absonians he had dark brown hair and tanned skin. The other guardsmen’s name was Siccarius. He was plumper. While some might mistake his build as fat, Siccarius was anything but. As humans went, the was man fairly strong.
“Got something to say?” Lysius asked.
Gmork tightened his lower lip, feeling his tusks brush against it. “You wouldn’t last a moment out there against me.”
Lysius narrowed his eyes. “You should watch that tone slave.”
“It’s hard to seeing how afraid you are.”
Lysius reached for the bars when Sicarius stepped forward and grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” he warned. “He has a fight today. If the Arena Master hears you laid a hand on him, he’ll throw you in that cell.”
Lysius sneered and backed away. “He’ll die here, eventually. Maybe we’ll be lucky enough to see him fight Her.”
“That depends on the crowd.”
Gmork shifted his weight, using the blacksteel chains anchored to the wall to pull himself to his feet. The chains kept his arms bound to his chest. Lysius seemed nervous while he watched, which was comforting. It didn’t matter though, blacksteel was the hardest metal anyone knew. Charnoans often used it to bind drakes before they killed them.
“He’s been fed,” Lysius commented, looking at the plate at Gmork’s feet. “We have others to attend.”
I can hear it in your voice, Lysius… You’re scared.
Gmork eyed the plate at his feet. It was the same mush they fed him the day before, and the day before that. The flies had already begun gathering, but nonetheless, he knelt, burying his face in it and eating it up.
Senka, please be alive. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I can’t keep killing for them.
Is that really so bad, Gmork?
Gmork lifted his head, his eyes falling on the shadowy figure sitting the corner. Its face was obscured, but in form it resembled an orc. It never stepped into the light and clung to the darkness like a sloth to a tree.
Don’t you feel more alive when you’re fighting? it asked. Just a minute ago you were thinking about snapping Lysius’ neck.
“No. No matter how angry he makes me. I can’t do that.”
The shadow laughed. But you can. It’s easy, just let go of that thread holding you back. Become who you were meant to be.
“I wasn’t meant to be this… I’m not a monster!”
The loud click of the chamber door opened and Lysius stepped in. He was holding a club with metal bands molded into it.
Now’s your chance, Gmork. He’s gonna kill you if you don’t give in. Do it… He’s tormented you for months. What mercy does he deserve?
“Slaves should know their place,” he sneered. “Look at you with the mush we fed you covering your face. You’re no better than a dog and we beat dogs who forget who their masters are.”
Gmork stood. “Lysius, please, don’t do this.” He cast a glance at the shadow as the guardsmen stepped up to his cell, unlocking it. It laughed and Gmork felt the rage within ignite.
Lysius flung the gate open, cudgel in hand, and came at Gmork, smashing the weapon against his skull. Flashes of white cascaded across Gmork’s vision and he stumbled. His chest burned, his thoughts parading numerous ways in which Lysius could die.
“Where is the beast the crowd chants so vigorously for?” he taunted. “Where is the Butcher of Men, as they call you?”
He swung again, but the pain held no sting.
Stop fighting, Gmork, the shadow said. Let go…
Another blow followed, and Gmork screamed. “No, Lysius… Please.”
“Begging, are we?” the guardsman laughed. “Come now Butcher, I thought orcs had more pride. I can only imagine how much shame it would bring your family if they could see you now.”
The next blow came, but it was like a dull thud. Gmork’s chest burned like the sun. He tensed instinctively, his muscles growing taut.
Lysius’ voice became nothing more than a faint buzz against the thudding of his own heartbeat. The coppery taste of something warm filling his mouth, the tight grip of the chains binding him suddenly loosened. A sense of satisfaction washed over Gmork and like a gentle whisper, instinct told him he was free.
Amid the haze, more faint buzzings pricked his ears, but as it cleared, they grew louder… “Don’t let him breach the door! Barricade him inside!”
“But Lysius! We can’t leave him!”
“Open that door guardsman and if the Butcher doesn’t kill you, I will!”
Gmork turned his head, blinking and gathering his senses. Through the bars of the tiny window of the chamber door, he saw half dozen guardsmen on the other side bracing it. The door had splintered with cracks in the grain across its surface. The metal bracings binding the wood together were twisted and bent.
Pain shot through his skull and he looked behind him. Lysius’ lay dead in a pool of his own blood with his face smashed in and throat torn out. Looking to the wall, Gmork saw two divots where anchors to his chains had once been. Like black serpents, they trailed behind him.
His stomach turned at the aftertaste of Lysius’ blood in his mouth, and he looked toward the panicked guardsmen on the other side of the door. “I surrender,” he panted, falling to his knees, realizing how winded he was. “I’ve got nothing left.”
The banging against the door stopped, and he heard them set their tools down. One of them looked through the barred window of the door. “Get the Inquisitor and an Apothecary,” he shouted.
Gmork heard boots clomping against the stone as one of them ran off, but his attention was elsewhere. “You win,” he said, his gaze falling to the dark corner of his cell where the shadow haunting him sat. The orc stood, stepping into the light, and Gmork’s heart sank upon seeing his tormentor’s face.
It’s about time, his shadowy twin said. Let the carnage begin, Butcher of Men.