Lee Swords Fishing

Chapter

 

Battle Ready

 

 

The Spider of Life rested herself for a moment, she had worked hard to construct the silken bridge between the continents of Eurodarkia and Atrussia, the technical detail that tied the logistical requirements to move four million souls from one place to the other in such a short period of time had been most demanding but now this phase of her construction was over she could take a moment to admire this magnificent legend that was beginning to show the colossal scale of its creators imagination, not in a hundred lifetimes are creations such as this brought to fruition. Every single thread of the web glisters with a heady mixture of joy, heartbreak, malice and goodwill, the balance of light and dark silk being critical in its creation. The Spider of Life still unsure of the final outcome decides to replenish herself with the prelude, a small but very savoury hors d’oeuvre that would get her juices flowing and prepare her for the final harvest. Death stood ready, he expected that over the coming days, weeks, months and in most likelihoods years he would be working hard but as just rewards for his labour he would be featuring rather heavily within the Daily Chronicles. He was happy about this. Death is, when all is said and done nothing but a headline hungry media whore that would do anything to anyone if it meant that he would receive a good headline and plenty of column inches out of it.

 

 

 

Kingfisher dismissed the guard before he pulled out his mobile Orb, he needed Talia and Sh’Vorn up to speed on the situation ASAP, the small black orb in the palm of his hand clouded and cleared several times before it was answered, upon its surface were the faces of both Talia and Sh’Vorn in separate milky clouds, they looked a little surprised to see their King at this time in a morning, generally he would wait until the morning Scrolls and Daily Chronicles had been delivered before contacting them. Kingfisher said four words before he severed the connection “Initiate the Arrasian protocol”

 

He did not feel the need to say anymore, they would know what to do, time is now of the essence, there was no place for small talk on occasions such as this, action and not hesitation was the key to everything. Kingfisher went to his armoury, he needed to dress himself for the occasion, one must always try to meet Death looking ones best and Kingfisher intended to appear glorious when he looked Death in the face.

 

He would not quail…He would not shy away…He would meet his death on his own terms.

 

Carefully Kingfisher dressed himself, he secured every buckle and fastened every cord and when he was satisfied that everything was in order he then set about checking every blade and close quarter weapon on his person after that he reached up to a small shelf set above the stand that had held his armor and took down two small crystal vials, the first one being a small black vial stoppered with a silver cap, he cracked the cap off with his thumb and swallowed the contents in one gulp. Necrototh had prepared these particular elixirs for this very occasion, Kingfisher placed the second almost identical vial behind his breastplate for later but this one rather than being black seemed to glow with an iridescence that continually shifted hue from milky white to pale blue, he had hoped that he would never have been in the situation where the ingestion of these particular concoctions was necessary, unfortunately as the old say goes “shit happens”.

 

Detail was everything in such situations therefore Kingfisher finished ‘the look’ by ‘blacking off’ his braids with a mixture of soot and grease, in the old times enemy archers would search for the blue hair of the Sh’Greena royalty and make them their first target, only a fool would go into battle with a target upon themselves so over time the surviving Sh’Greena took to reducing the odds of their demise by painting themselves black following a rather vicious encounter where all but one of the attending ‘blues’ were caught by arrow fire. The lucky one that escaped the bodkin it seems had been extremely drunk the night previous and as a dare had painted his entire self in tar, when he went to visit his less fortunate family members in the infirmary he was heard to enquire of them “Do you think it was because I is black?”

 

They said that they didn’t think so but the habit of blacking up before battle stuck and passed into clan ritual, it couldn’t after all hurt could it? The only difference is that they did not use tar as their painting medium as it tended to take away even the smallest of hairs on its removal leaving the cleaned up warrior looking something like the produce on the plucked poultry counter at the local market, bald is a good look on hot girls but only then when it has been applied in small doses to particular places rather than the all over cue-ball effect of a tar bath.

 

Kingfisher looked at himself in the mirror and gazed upon a reflection that he did not recognise, what was this terrible creature before him? His once blue braids were now almost black as he finished slicking them back with soot and grease, his face he left unmarked barring the dual bar of crimson he painted through his right eye and down his right cheek, the Sh’Greena took a lot of pride in their battlefield appearance, never before had he worn the face paint of a Sh’Greena war lord in the lands of Eurodarkia as he had never wanted to remind himself of what he was and where he was from but today is different, today things have changed…today he had no intention of meeting Death in any other manner.

 

Not today, not this time, if Death found him today, Kingfisher’s was to be an Atrussian death.

 

His concentration was interrupted by the single loud knock on his chamber door.

 

Taking a short but deep bladed weapon from the sword rack he turned towards the door, his trusty war axe was left standing by the mirror, the short “Shanking Sword” was the primary close quarter weapon of an Atrussian warrior, It looked like a butchers cleaver at first glance but the blade had a slight upwards curve and its end was finished with a chisel point, for thrusting through armour and then bone.

 

The war axe being both a Dwarven and Eurodarkian weapon would have to forgo the pleasures of the flesh this time.

 

Kingfisher wrapped a heavy hooded cape over himself before he opened the door to leave; outside the room, waiting patiently stood Talia and Sh’Vorn, both were dressed in full amour, with them was Torrix the armourer, he was caped just as his king and he also was carrying the primary close quarter weapon of choice, the weapon looked to be a cruel but effective blade and not one designed for ceremonial subtlety or the attraction of admiring glances.

 

Nobody spoke, the details of the plan were already known, the Arrasians would have always made their way to the State Church or major place of worship to beg for asylum and refuge from the attending holy men, the holy men would then place pressure upon the kingdoms ruler to grant them their wish, only a fool goes against the wishes of his cleric and risks offending the Gods, the Arrasian plan is a cunning one but one that has unfortunately for them been witnessed before, this time, if needs be, kingfisher is willing to offend everyone of the Gods both old and new in his attempt to halt the repeat of history.

 

Kingfisher and his entourage approached the Cathedral of the State Church, outside were around twenty others dressed exactly as Kingfisher and Torrix, Atrussian’s, blood family everyone. Today was a day when blood counted for everything.

 

Monks were not an unusual sight around the entrance to the State Church and so they were pretty much ignored as they gathered to their king and awaited orders.

 

Kingfisher split the group into three, the majority of them were directed to the rear and side entrances, where they were to make sure that nobody made good their escape.

 

Kingfisher pulled his cowl further over his face and prepared to enter the State Church by the front way, this he would do alone. Talia and Sh’Vorn would command a small number of the younger Atrussian’s these were ordered to stay outside the City Church to bar exit or entry and if truth be told Kingfisher did not want them to witness what was about to occur.

 

Kingfisher stares at the dark heavily grained doors of the State Church, he takes a deep breath to compose his body before reaching behind his breastplate for the second vial just as with the first it was swallowed in one gulp, the effects were immediate, he could feel the White Magic begin to run through his body, placing one hand on either door he pushed hard.

The doors although being extremely heavy and ornately wrought with a thick iron inlay had been crafted with all the engineering skill of the Dwarves and this being so they swung open with an almost imperceptible swish.

 

He is inside. He takes a moment to observe.

 

The opulently rich light of the Cathedral of the State Church is thanks to the bright early morning sun that illuminates the interior by flowing into the hallowed heart of the building after being infused with a myriad of colours via the huge stained glass windows and once inside it is further enriched by many dozens of huge wax candles that gutter and dip with the onrush of air from the opening of the public doorway the tang of the burning tallow stimulates Kingfishers senses, a long suppressed memory tears through to the fore of his consciousness.

 

He looks at the candle as the liquid fat runs slowly down its side creating strange tortured shapes.

 

The vivid nature of the memory makes his heart smash against the inside of his ribs even harder, the sudden rush of adrenalin and white magic threatens to kill him or at the very least draw him into a dead faint.

 

He sees his sister. He sees his mother.

 

He see them burn.

 

Anger rises.

 

Silhouetted by the bright sun pouring in through the public entrance of the State Church he casts an imposing figure down the center isle, this is his moment, this is his time, behind him the doors close and all hope of escape goes with it.

 

The air feels warm, almost intoxicating, it is redolent with incense, food and the stale but not altogether unpleasant smell of unwashed people. Immediately he sees small groups of these so called refugee’s dotted around the high alter and on the first three rows of pews.

 

Halfway down the central aisle the Bishop is talking with a man that obviously has authority amongst his people. The man’s robes although tatty now were obviously once very ornate and expensively tailored with great craftsmanship and skill, the occasional patch still displaying some measure of its original beauty.

 

At his side stands a smaller rat-like man with long thin whips of heavily greased hair that hang loosely from his head like a hundred dead vipers. The smaller man was listening intently to the conversation between his superior and the Bishop occasionally he would smile although he seemed to lack a full set of teeth which made the operation somewhat unpleasant to witness, nodding frantically he clasped his hands together as though in prayer before throwing them up in ecstatic exultation wailing his approval in a language the Bishop couldn’t understand.

 

The larger man is laughing, smiling; making witty with his chatter in heavily broken Eurodarkian to the Bishop, this, in the opinion of the Bishop is a ground-breaking conversation between two cultures.

 

The translation however is completely false; every word that leaves the mouths of the two Arrasian men is wrapped in an ornate sheet of hate and tied up with an extensive and elaborate ribbon of contempt. The Bishop is being taken for a fool.

 

The taller man is Hezart Dhosa and his small rat like companion is his brother Rjosta Dhosa, they are both merchant slavers and money traders, they are wealthy men, important men and neither knows that the tall man approaching has already killed one of their close blood family.

 

Some twenty years ago their brother-cousin Jurgen Dhosa (Their father sired them from two sisters) died a wretched death at the hands of Kingfisher, then little more than a boy armed with nothing more ominous than a sharpened spoon, The Spider of Life enjoyed bringing these threads together, she likes to play her little games with the intricately woven lives of men and here she looks to have crafted an elaborate tapestry that tidies up a few loose ends.

 

It is a work of art and its construction has brought her a great deal of pleasure. Life admires the creation of her prelude; Death stands on the periphery and awaits his call to action as everything balances upon a knife edge.

 

Kingfisher can smell the two Arrasians, they stink of salt, rotten meat and the pungent smack of accumulated sweat, The Bishop has his back to him, he is completely oblivious to everything.

 

The main body of the refugees ignores what they consider to be just another monk. They have seen plenty of them bringing in food and drink. They consider that the monks serve a purpose, for now.

 

The bishop smiles on in ignorant bliss unawares that he is being mocked and taunted by his two companions, too wrapped up in his do-gooding to understand the gravity of the situation.

 

Kingfisher understands all too well the vulgar, guttural sounding language of the Arrasians and it fuels his rage even further, the simple matter of hearing it spoken once again after all these years is enough to bring him to the point of murder, seeing the speakers takes him well beyond that point and into the realms of madness.

 

“Hezart…What is the fool saying to you?” said the smaller of the two Arrasian men, laughing and openly mocking the bishop.

 

“The idiot is saying that he would very much like to have his mother paired with your bull sire, Rjosta” replied Hezart

 

“My bull sire would split her in two!”

 

“That I would pay golden bars to see…One day my friend, one day!”

 

The Bishop smiles blankly like a cretin, nodding his approval to words he has no knowledge of.

 

Walking with brisk, measured steps Kingfisher made up the distance between himself and the three men, his eyes fixed, his heart set like stone. His hand tight to the handle of the shanking sword he holds beneath his robes.

 

Kingfisher stops, his face hidden.

 

The Arrasian men see him “Hezart…Look at this one….A bloody giant if ever I saw one…he will fare well in the ring” Rjosta laughs “ I will have him as a champion fighter and make a kings ransom off his carcass!”

 

Hezart laughs.

 

The Bishop laughs.

 

But the Bishop is a fool he doesn’t even know at know he is laughing.

 

Kingfisher laughs.

 

Kingfishers laughter however is cold, empty and without mirth, then with head still bowed he speaks, he speaks in Arrasian “You should not be here…You are not welcome” raising his head his face no longer covered by the hang of his cowl he pulls back the heavy sackcloth hood, his face is painted.

 

Painted?

 

No…This cannot be…The two Arrasians look on in horror. Unable to move. Unable to think.

 

Kingfishers blackened braids fall loose around his shoulders and down his back, the rope belt that secured his heavy shawl is pulled loose.

 

The robe begins to fall towards the floor.

 

The eyes of every Arrasian within the Cathedral of the State Church are now fixed upon Kingfisher, the realization of what is occurring is slow to grip them and so they simply stand and stare.

 

Time is slowing down and somewhere just out of sight, always, just out of sight but never that far away Death begins to dance and it as to be said that he has some seriously killer moves.

 

The robe is falling but not yet on the floor when the terrible realisation of what has occurred dawns on the Hezart and Rjosta Dhosa, they have been sent as here not as a vanguard to conquer but as a sacrifice. They reach for their own weapons hidden beneath their robes.

 

They fumble; fear has them in its grip.

 

They are slow in comparison…So very slow, a combination of White Magic and something altogether darker is now coursing through every vein in Kingfishers body, his mind is on fire, his speed of thought is moving at a thousand miles per hour.

 

The Dragon Clan amour Kingfisher had been wearing beneath the cloak seemed to burn with malice, each shard of light that reflected off of its highly polished dragon scales and Mithral rings held malevolence and evil intention.

 

The Bishop looks on blankly, unknowing as to what has provoked this reaction in his King, Kingfisher for all his audacity and bluster is not this creature he see’s before him, the Bishops mind is a soup of confusion, he cannot understand what he is seeing but why should he understand? This is not his fight and neither is it part of who he is, it is however going to be part of what he becomes, for he is going to be witness to something truly diabolical.

 

This wasn’t Kingfisher as he was this morning.

 

This is the black version the dark half…Vengeance incarnate.

 

Not a second of indecision or wavering slowed the blade as it made a sweeping strike. The large Arrasian didn’t even feel the blow; he simply fell to the floor in two pieces. The shank split the body from the point of the right collar bone to the left arm pit. The head and left arm hit the floor with a deep reverberating thud, the fingers of the separated arm twitched, trying to grip something that wasn’t there.

 

The expression upon the face of Hezart Dhosa was one of shock; his mouth opened and closed, his eyes blinked once or twice before they glazed over.

 

The Bishop stood stock still…This was Gods house…This was not the way that things were done…He moved as though  to step between kingfisher and the other Arrasians but before he could he was pushed to the floor. Kingfisher stopped only for the briefest moment.

 

The outstretched arm and the point of the blade in the Bishops face left nothing to the imagination.

 

He was to stay where he was or he would also be killed.

 

The Bishop thought that the king had lost his mind…Truly lost his mind, this was wrong, there were women and children here…This was wrong.

 

Kingfisher screamed “You should not have come here…You are not welcome” He raised his weapon again, his black eyes ablaze with hate, his lips curled back to reveal long white teeth… Horrifyingly sharp teeth that were far from human, whatever Necrototh had included in the black vial, it certainly wasn’t legal.

 

Kingfishers face contorted…Inhuman…Animal…Hateful.

 

Possessed.

 

Kingfisher brought his shank down hard; the smaller Arrasian fell dead at his feet. His skull spit from forehead to chin. Grey tissue bubbled out of the opening…Blood sprayed in a high arc, teeth protruded from his jaw in strange angles. The face of death was rarely a handsome one.

 

Now time began to move faster. Accelerating onwards.

 

The other Arrasians that had stood watching seemingly in a thrall suddenly regained their senses and tried to scatter, moving away in panic. Away from this thing, this monster.

 

One old man too old to run stood his ground, he pointed his long arthritic finger at Kingfisher and laughed “There are 140 more boats at sea and yet more to set to sail, with the help of your own Emperor and those that live within the Vermillion Mountains we have landed four million men upon this continent, for generations have we admired these lands from afar, now they are ours, you cannot stop us all! Your lands will be ours!” He laughed dryly and without mirth the sound like coarse sandpaper being dragged over stone

 

“NO!” Screamed Kingfisher

 

“Yes!! You! You and all the male wood of your blood forest will be felled but your women and girl children, they will not be taken, they will be raped and their children will carry our blood seed and their children will be of our  seed and your blood seed will be felled like a great forest and our bastard children and their bastard children after that will be as cattle that graze upon the grass lands that were once covered by your blood forest…And we….We will be the farmers”

 

Kingfisher was now running weapon already sweeping his blade downwards. Rage consumed him, pure rage!

 

“Not again” Kingfisher screamed, the blade made brief contact as it split the old man’s chest open. His lungs pushed the rib cage apart, Kingfisher thrust the blade inwards before bringing the shank out with a twist, as the old man fell Kingfisher dealt the killing blow by taking the top of the man’s head off with one slice, the result resembled a boiled egg with a grey yolk.

 

The Arrasians now came at him with their own weapons, Kingfisher bowed and welcomed them before he ran at full pace towards their blades, one man against them all…None would survive unless they killed him.

 

Kingfisher’s fury exploded into a livid supernova of destructive power, the elixir that Necrototh had supplied Kingfisher with was removing mental blocks and allowing the energy of long suppressed anger to flow freely through his veins, the result was havoc.

 

Hell, mayhem and death within the Cathedral of the State Church. No mercy was given to the family V’Shoor and so none will be returned. The sins of the fathers will now be returned upon the children.

 

Arrasians are little match in combat to a painted Atrussian, especially to one that is under the influence of something not readily available over, under or around the side of  the counter.

 

Violent frenzied panic soon gripped the Arrasians for even though they outnumbered the beast many dozens to one they simply fell at his feet as split kindling.

 

To the doors!

 

Escape to the doors they thought!

Run for your lives, there would be no mercy here. But all the doors are bolted there is no escape.

Then, oh God…NO!!!…others dressed in black stepped out from the knaves, red hair, white hair, black hair, all painted…more Atrussian’s came forwards from the shadows.

 

Screaming. Wailing. Mournful. Begging….No mercy was given to the Family V’Shoor.

 

None will be given it return.

 

No mercy.

 

The Bishop sprawled in the gore transfixed. Terrified; appalled. This is not how it was supposed to be…No!

 

This is the house of God!

 

Kingfisher is in the thick of the killing now and truly berserk, his initial long sweeping attacks with the shank sword have given way to short furious butchering strokes as he pulls the combat into close quarters, his followers simply herd the Arrasians forwards and watch with incredulity at his unbound ferocity, he needs no help from them…They almost feel pity for his quarry but not quite, they have no pity for Arrasians of any description, men, women nor children, they are all spoiled creatures.

 

Arterial spray…Animal ferocity…Frenzied blows, killing blows, maiming blows…No control.

 

No control.

 

Pure blind rage.

 

Terror. Mutilation. Blood. Whimpering. The sound of steel on bone.  Steel on flesh. Flesh on stone. Frantic. Hacking. Fury. Fear. Retribution.

 

Damnation?

 

Kingfisher straddled a struggling man, he offered Kingfisher gold and precious stones the shank sword had become wedged in the groin of a nearby corpse and was therefore of no further use, steam rose out of the body cavity, blood slowly oozed into a wide pool around a severed arm. A body too mutilated to tell if it was male or female at a glance, its thigh bone gripping the sharp edged shank tight, the heavy blade now bent and broken.

 

No time to work it loose…

 

Kingfisher looks at the pathetic face of the man, his pleading, begging eyes are filled with tears, fear, panic and realization of imminent death. Kingfisher has looked down into those same black eyes before, eyes that had once been full of laughter and joy! Eyes that had watched with enjoyment as his mother and sister had first been raped and then thrown onto an open fire.

 

He pressed his thumbs into the sockets pushing as hard as he could, the man made a high keening sound like an animal. Kingfisher destroyed the eyes, empty sockets that oozed blood were all he left.

 

Still the man lived, Kingfisher now brought his fist down hard into the soft, yielding flesh…again, again, again…The crepitus noise of bones shattering filled the Cathedral of the State Church and still the hammer blows rained down…The man’s face now a ruined pulp of flesh and bone…The head now completely destroyed…The body in spasm…It’s death fit…

 

Death danced from one to the other separating in turn each one from this life and letting their souls move onwards so that the Spider of Life could make her harvest.

 

Kingfishers anger was still not sated,  he had not killed enough, not nearly enough but for now it must do, there were no more that he could vent his anger upon and so he stood amidst the carnage like a hungry beast…Terrible…Fury embodied…Glorious.

 

Only the strained breathing of the barely living and the noise of blood dripping loosely from the dead could be heard.

 

Kingfisher made his way back towards the doorway; he stopped for a moment as he saw a dreadfully injured girl trying to crawl to safety, her body wrecked.

 

Utterly broken, she crawled through the remains of her family, Kingfisher swung his boot in a perfect arc smashing in the side of her head like an over ripe melon before bringing the heel of his boot down upon what was left of  her head.

 

His only act of mercy…

 

The noise of the butchery seemed burned into the stone…The whole church seemed to echo with pain.

 

Talia pushed open the doors of the Cathedral…Light spilled in behind her…She saw Hell on earth.

 

The Bishop ran out into courtyard, vomiting, wretchedly heaving till he fell upon the warm wet stones. Howling his piteous rage at what he had just been a witness to…Kingfisher wasn’t a man…He was an animal.

 

A Demon.

 

A Devil.