by Alcuin Fromm
in Issue 121, February 2022
Emmick slapped the bar with a wrinkled, calloused hand and roared with laughter. It was a hearty, booming sound that filled the air and seemed to lift and drop the Cerulean Sky Tavern in time with the man’s broad, heaving shoulders. The tavern keeper smiled from behind the bar, pleased with his rendition of the anecdote.
“No matter how often you tell that story, my friend, it’s just as funny every time,” said Emmick, wiping tears from his eyes as his laughing gradually subsided.
“What’s this?” said the tavern keeper in feigned surprise, “I thought Imperial soldiers never cry.”
“I’m not crying,” said Emmick with a final chuckle, “I’m sweating from my eyes.”
From a shadowy corner of the dining area a third voice rang out.
“Imperial soldier?”
A Guildsman rose from his table and glided to the bar where Emmick sat hunched over an empty tankard of ale. Emmick glanced at the man as he approached then stared straight ahead, his smile frozen in place but suddenly devoid of humor.
“A former Imperial soldier, that is,” said Emmick. “I was discharged twelve years ago because I lost some of the Empire’s property.”
He reached down and rapped his knuckles against what should have been his right calf. The prosthetic strapped to the gnarled remains of his knee made a hollow, wooden sound.
“I see,” said the Guildsman, seating himself on the stool next to Emmick and swiveling around to lean his back and elbows against the bar. “So, that means you only used to commit horrors and atrocities…” He leaned toward Emmick who kept his eyes fixed in front of him. “…but now that you’re crippled and old, you can’t anymore.”
A cold, penetrating silence followed. The tavern keeper snatched an already dry tankard and hurriedly began drying it some more. Emmick stopped smiling. He clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times before beginning to speak slowly, each word a feat of self-restraint.
“Do you want to know how I lost my leg, Master Guildsman?” he said.
“Oh, please,” said the Guildsman clutching his hands to his chest and batting his eyelids, his voice saturated with derision. “Do share your tragic tale of woe, of lost love and lost manhood.”
“During the Wessli Uprising,” began Emmick, “one of your kind, fighting against the Empire, used some sort of blue energy to turn half my leg into a mass of pulp.”
The Guildsman smiled almost wistfully. “Yes,” he said, “the Azure Embers. Very difficult to target that.”
“Twelve years ago, I was returning home to Reemoore on a furlough during the months of the Uprising, when I saw a blue haze on the horizon, right there where my town was. When I arrived, the scene was a nightmare. The buildings were ablaze, residents lay murdered on the streets, in their very homes. Revolutionaries had pillaged and destroyed everything. It was all but over by the time I arrived, but I saw a group of them trying to flee, at the head was one of the traitorous Guildsmen. I gave chase, but he turned and attacked me with his magic. Never could see his face under that heavy black cowl. I escaped with my life, but not my leg.”
Emmick paused and turned to look at the Guildsman, his face twisted in barely controlled fury.
“Or my wife,” he said with an unsteady voice.
The two men locked eyes. Emmick’s arm moved slowly towards the hilt of his short sword.
“Would you blame all Guildsmen for the sins of an individual? Will you hold me responsible for the actions of others?”
Emmick’s hand froze and he looked away from the man. Mentioning his wife had brought back her face to his memory, a face full of love but also sadness. She had always accepted that Emmick was a fighting man, that he would fight and kill and perhaps die for causes like putting down the Uprising, but she had accepted his ways only insofar as the fighting and killing and dying was just in her eyes. Defense was just. Punishment of evil was just. Protection of the weak and innocent was just. Revenge was not. His anger crested and began to wane.
“No, Master Guildsman, I would not,” said Emmick, the last vestiges of his fury ebbing away. In his mind’s eye, his beloved wife smiled. “Though I would expect the same from you. You accused me of horrors and atrocities. I have committed neither, Master Guildsman.” His voice became calm. “I have no ill will towards loyal Guildsmen and am pleased about the current peace between the Guild and the Empire.”
He turned towards the Guildsman, a slight but genuine smile on his lips.
“My fighting days are behind me, in any event. Come, Master Guildsman, let me buy you an ale,” he said.
The Guildsman scoffed.
“Loyalty and peace?” he said with a snarl. “The Empire is afraid of the Guild and the powers that we have mastered, but would use us for its own profit all the same. This peace, as you call it, is a temporary armistice. As soon as you get the chance, you’ll be hunting us down like dogs again.”
The Guildsman raised his left hand and blue flames danced along the skin, up and down his fingers, twisting and writhing. Emmick could not suppress a grimace.
“But we won’t give you that chance,” said the Guildsman. His hand returned to normal, then he suddenly rose, marched across the tavern, and left. The heavy door slammed behind him.
“Who was that?” said Emmick as he stared dumbfounded at the closed door.
The tavern keeper shrugged and finally put down the tankard with a trembling hand and a sigh of relief.
“Guildsman traveling through to Minchon. At least, that’s what he said. Hasn’t paid a Mark since he arrived yesterday. Told me the Guild would settle all accounts.”
One hour and two ales later, Emmick was ready to put the whole incident behind him with a good night’s sleep. He paid his tab and bid his friend a good night. Then, after a few hesitant steps to test his leg, he maladroitly made his way to the door, every other step a loud thump. With a final wave, he left the tavern.
A cold, early-spring breeze swept down the narrow alley outside the stone and wood building. The evening sun hung low in the west, casting long shadows that only added to the chill. Tiny blossoms shivered on swaying tree and bush branches, but piles of snow still hid in the darkened corners between buildings. The air felt heavy and everything exuded a frigid dampness. And everything was deathly quiet.
Emmick turned east towards the avenue that would take him to home, but had not gone more than a few wobbly steps before noticing a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. He stopped and glanced up. There were only a few stray clouds in the sky, dyed fiery orange by the setting sun, and Illyia, the Evening Star. Nothing indicated a storm. Then he saw another flash, but this time, Emmick was sure it had not come from the sky. And it had not been white, but blue.
He heard a scream, high and piercing. Emmick hobbled down the alley as quickly as he could in the direction of the sound. Blue light flashed again and then he heard something heavy crashing. Both the flash and the sound came from a definite source, the attic of a three-story building down a side alley. As he approached the building, another flash and a horrible crunching sound confirmed the location of the uproar.
The ground floor of the building was taken up by a tailor’s shop. Emmick arrived at the shop entrance and found it locked. No sooner had he begun to wonder how he could get inside, than the lock clicked and the door flew open. A terrified, elderly man and woman burst out of the building, running straight into Emmick.
“It’s Mellah, that accursed witch, she’s gone mad!” said the man in wild panic, then he turned to the woman. “Go get a Town Guard. Hurry, dear!”
The woman nodded resolutely and dashed down the street without a word. Emmick grabbed the man’s shoulders to steady him and hold his attention.
“Tell me what’s happening,” Emmick said.
The man panted for a moment and glanced all around before composing himself enough to speak hastily.
“I own this shop and my wife and I live above it. We rented out the attic to a woman, Mellah. Fools we are! The woman is a witch and is destroying our house with her… her magic!”
Again, blue light flashed, and Emmick heard another scream. The attic window shattered into countless, tiny shards which rained down onto the alley. Emmick realized that the scream was not that of a woman, but of a child.
“Is there someone else up there?” said Emmick.
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head violently and beginning to sob.
Emmick pushed the man to one side and took a step past him, gazing up at the peak of the attic. As if in response, he felt the straps of his wooden leg loosen slightly. He took a deep breath and steeled his resolve. With clomping, awkward steps, Emmick entered the shop. In the far corner was a stairwell leading up, lit by an unseen, flickering source from above. He moved to the base of the stairs and peered up, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He unsheathed his short sword and crept slowly up to the second floor. At the top, a short hallway with closed doors on either side stretched out before Emmick. Two lamps flickered on the righthand wall. At the end of the hall rose another stairwell.
He went two paces and stopped. A bright, blue flash illuminated the air, shooting out from the stairwell in front of him. An instant later, a massive wardrobe appeared, tumbling end over end with a deep rumble down the stairs until it smashed against the opposite wall, wooden planks cracking and bursting apart. Emmick jumped back to avoid being hit by splinters and debris, lost his balance, and fell to the ground. He quickly picked himself back up and noticed that his prosthetic felt even looser than before, but another scream from above urged him down the hall. Carefully stepping over the smashed wardrobe, he peered around the corner and up the stairwell. At the top hung the upper half of a door, swinging lazily on a single hinge. The bottom half of the door was simply not there. Emmick saw a pulsing blue glow seem to breath in and out from the room beyond the doorframe, but he could not see into the room. The screams echoed in his head and fortified his wavering resolve. Somewhere amidst the pandemonium was a terrified child, he thought.
He mounted the steps slowly, his eyes scanning constantly to anticipate any movement. Then, pressing his back flat to the wall, Emmick crept up to the splintered door and crouched down beneath it. He peered around the edge of the doorjamb.
The air just beyond the door was bitterly cold and his face felt frozen, as if plunged in a barrel of icy water. He could hardly stifle a reflexive gasp from the dramatic change in temperature. Emmick quickly scanned the room and discovered a scene of chaos. In the empty space, where the wardrobe must have been, were piled the shattered remains of a bedframe topped by a gutted, smoldering straw mattress. Shards of glass and pieces of demolished furniture lay everywhere, and items of clothing, boots, cloaks, and all manner of arcane implements were strewn about.
Emmick saw two people in the room. To his left, under a cracked bookshelf propped up against the wall, huddled a young girl, pressing herself up against the wall with her legs pulled to her chest. She trembled and her face had a look of sheer terror, and, as she turned her head to look at Emmick, he saw helpless desperation in her wide eyes. To his right slumped a woman on the floor, hunched forward and breathing heavily. She seemed emaciated, with a pale, gaunt visage. A wig of black hair had partially slid off her bald head, covering the left side of her face. She suddenly lifted her head and trained her eyes on Emmick as the wig slipped off.
The girl saw a chance to escape and darted for the stairwell. With a heaving grunt, the woman lifted her arm and slowly clenched her right fist, while her left hand flew to her temple. The woman squeezed her eyes shut and clutched her head as if afflicted by tremendous head trauma. The girl was suddenly lifted off the ground, her forward progress halted. The girl screamed and something inside Emmick snapped. His fear vanished. He stood to his full height and stepped towards the woman who opened her eyes and looked up at him, her face grimacing from monstrous exertion.
“Release the girl,” he said with an icy calm.
The woman’s tightened lips twisted into a sneer, peeling back and revealing her teeth. A deep rattle emanated from her throat and her eyes bulged. Her contorted face was at once full of wild rage and profound effort. In an instant, the woman’s entire body burst into blue flames that rose off her in wild, flailing, whipping tails.
Emmick tensed himself and waited, his muscles taut in preparation. Time seemed to slow and Emmick watched the woman rise, take one step then a second towards him. He had nowhere to go. A ball of blue fire peeled off the frame of the woman as if an unseen hand tugged together a portion of the flames and focused them into a point between the woman’s outstretched, clawing hands. He tried to dart to his left towards the bookshelf where the girl had taken cover. As he pushed off to move, his prosthetic leg buckled under the weight and twisted off his knee. He crumpled to the ground just as a blast of energy leapt out from the woman and tore through the space that his torso had occupied only a split-second before. Behind him a pile of broken wood that had once been a desk ignited as it was hurled against the wall.
The woman towered over Emmick and the blue flames all about her flared again. She reached out her arms and another blue sphere materialized. Gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands, Emmick took aim and thrust upwards. As soon as the sword reached the perimeter of blue flame it instantly grew painfully hot, and Emmick bellowed, almost releasing the sword. But he maintained his grip, closed his eyes to the inferno in his hands, and expended the last morsel of his faltering strength, driving the blade into the woman’s torso. Then, releasing the blazing thing, he fell backwards in exhaustion.
She screamed, but to Emmick’s ears, it did not sound like a scream of pain. The blue flames turned to mist, wafted from her collapsing body, and disappeared. She struck the ground with a sickening thud and screamed again, her eyes fixed on some distant point and her head shaking back and forth as if refusing to accept what she saw. Across the room, the young girl suddenly dropped to the ground, and she wasted no time sprinting to the door and vanishing down the stairs. Slouched over onto her side, a puddle of liquid began to form under the woman, darker red than normal blood.
Emmick climbed to his knees and recited a silent prayer for the woman’s soul as she died. Her wide open eyes continued to stare, but there was no more life in them. He felt a profound pity for her and hoped she had found peace, but something about the terrified concentration on her face as she slipped into the world beyond did not fill him with any hope. He sighed with a heavy heart and began readjusting the buckles of his prosthetic.
Slow, shuffling footsteps sounded from the stairwell, and a helmeted head peaked around the corner to survey the situation. Emmick nodded towards the woman.
“She is dead,” he said.
The figure rose and entered the chamber, followed by two other similarly dressed Town Guards.
“What happened here?” said the first man in wonder.
“I do not fully know,” said Emmick, “but it is finished. Please inform the Constable that the woman named Mellah, under the influence of some evil magic, had become wildly dangerous and I was forced to kill her in self-defense and in the defense of a captive child.”
The Guard crouched down next to the woman and turned her head to one side, revealing a long, intricate tattoo running down the right side of her neck.
“She’s a Guildswoman,” he said in a whisper.
Emmick eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face.
“Are you certain?” he said quickly.
“Yes, sir, she’s got their mark. You killed a Guildswoman.”
Emmick was terribly troubled that night. He was only able to sleep in short spurts, and strange half-dreams and images of the woman, of the child, and of torturously hot, blue fire haunted his uneasy slumber. Shortly after sunrise, someone knocked on the door to his small suite. Already awake, he immediately got out of his bed and threw a cloak over his nightclothes. He opened the door a crack and peered outside to discover a Town Guard.
“Emmick of Reemoore?” the man asked in a small voice.
“Yes, I am he.”
“The High Council has summoned you to the Council Chamber. Could you please come with me?”
Emmick was neither surprised by the summons nor at all certain what the Council intended. He had secretly hoped that the situation would simply disappear, but he knew that was a naïve wish.
“I shall join you presently.”
He washed quickly in a basin and dressed in his best tunic, attaching his Imperial Insignia pin to his cloak which he only wore on special occasions. Finally, he belted on his ceremonial sword, no less deadly for its ornateness, which had been presented to him at his honorable retirement. He left with the Guard.
A crowd of townspeople already waited outside the Council Chamber and several Imperial soldiers stood at the columned entrance, preventing them access to the interior. A voice soared out of the crowd as Emmick approached.
“There he is… there’s the murderer!”
“Death to the Empire!” shouted another.
The Guard pushed his way through the unruly people, jostling and shoving to make a path. When they finally reached the entrance, a few of the soldiers nodded at Emmick with respectful and stoic expressions, but the old soldier, who had spent his whole life in the service of the Imperial Army, could see the fear in their eyes.
Emmick followed the Guard into the Council Chamber, a square auditorium with three, elevated rows of ornately carved, wooden benches surrounding a central, depressed stage. Above the auditorium was a tribune full of gawking onlookers jockeying for position. He scanned the faces of the nearly two dozen Council Members in the room. They were scattered around the Chamber, mostly in groups of two or three, talking nervously. One man paced alone, while two others gazed out the windows lining the Chamber’s rear wall, silently watching the crowd outside stir and grow. The atmosphere was tense. Emmick recognized everyone in the Chamber, but there was only one man whom he did not know by name, the traveling Guildsman.
The room fell silent as the Guard led Emmick to the stage before returning to stand watch at the door. Emmick stood alone in the center of the Chamber with all eyes turned towards him. The First Councilor slammed his staff three times against the floor.
“Everyone be seated, we must begin immediately,” he said.
The men sat where they had been standing, creating a disorderly, random arrangement. Only the First Councilor moved to his usual, assigned seat.
“Emmick of Reemoore,” said the First Councilor, “we have assembled an emergency meeting of the High Council to address the events that occurred last night. You will please tell us what happened.”
Emmick scanned his audience again, then turned back to the First Councilor.
“Lord Councilor, I see more than the members of the Council here,” he said.
The First Councilor pursed his lips in frustration.
“A member of the Guild has been invited to this hearing because the Guild is directly involved. I order you to tell this body, without further delay, what happened.”
Emmick sighed, accepting the futility of any objection. He recounted the events of the previous night in detail from the moment he left the tavern to the moment he returned to his room, neither exaggerating nor withholding anything. Once he had finished, the Chamber was again silent, and the only sound came from the mob outside the Council building, chanting anti-Imperial slogans and banging objects together to make noise.
The Guildsman rose and slowly descended the steps to the stage.
“That was a wonderful story of heroic bravery,” he said, “but there are still two points that I feel remain unaddressed. What proof do you have of Guildswoman Mellah’s intent? Physical damage to property is inconsequential and can be easily compensated by the Guild. What reason did you have to take lethal action against an innocent member of the Guild?”
“Innocent?” said Emmick in surprise. “She was destroying the room, throwing objects and blue flame in all directions, including at me, and was holding a child captive.”
“Yes, the child,” said the Guildsman dismissively. “This child seems to have conveniently disappeared, has it not?”
He turned to the audience and raised his arms.
“Can anyone here identify this child? Has anyone of the Council been able to corroborate this story?”
His question was met with silence. Emmick narrowed his eyes.
“Are you suggesting that I am lying, Master Guildsman?” he said.
“I am merely stating the incontrovertible fact that there is no proof of any endangered child. But let us return to my first point. It is not at all uncommon for an Adept of the Guild to have certain difficulties when developing a new skill. The vast depths of the Art are subtle and profound. We of the Guild have suffered for centuries from the ignorance and prejudices of those who hate and fear what they cannot understand. If Guildswoman Mellah had not been suddenly and mercilessly slaughtered by this man here, on the basis of some unverifiable conjecture, then the damage to the attic room would have been more than adequately remunerated. Would anyone here dare to claim that an innocent life could be worth less than the price of a broken window?”
“But the real danger was—”
The Guildsman raised his voice to interrupt Emmick. “There is a much more important, unanswered question. We know that Guildswoman Mellah’s intent was a harmless one. What was the intent of her murderer? What was in the heart of this military man? A member of the same Army that slaughtered hundreds of Guildsmen in the Massacre of Hesteneer. A member of the same Army that vows to serve the blood-stained Emperor for the benefit of a violent, brutal, hateful Empire. What was going through his mind when he saw another chance to snuff out a despised member of the Guild?”
“This is preposterous,” said Emmick in exasperation. “I was trying to defend my life and the life of an innocent child.”
“By running through a helpless woman? But not just any woman, no, no. This was a Guildswoman.”
“I had no idea until—”
“Do not poison the air with your base excuses. The Empire hates the Guild. The Imperial Army has wished for generations to kill the wielders of the Art because they loathe anything that can limit their own ravenous lust for power.”
A murmur began to rise from the tribune. Heads nodded in response to the Guildsman’s words. He turned to look at the people directly, lifting his arms in supplication.
“You, good people,” he shouted, “are subject to this same, oppressive Empire. The Empire has gone too far, and this murderer is the proof. When will they come for you? When will they butcher you in your own rooms because you do not fit the image of a good Imperial citizen?”
The murmur grew into shouts and loud voices talking together. The First Councilor slammed his staff to the ground.
“Order! Order!”
“No!” bellowed the Guildsman. “No, we will not have order if there is no justice! Let not the death of this innocent woman go unpunished. Citizens of the Empire, do not let yourselves be the next victims! Arise!”
The crowd in the tribune yelled and began hurling down objects into the Council Chamber. The news spread quickly to the mob outside which redoubled its chanting, yelling, and noise-making. Suddenly, a window shattered and a rock flew into the Council Chamber, followed by another, and then a third. One of the Imperial soldiers rushed into the Chamber, his head bleeding.
“Councilors, we have been overrun! You must flee!”
A Town Guard rushed to the far side of the Chamber and opened a side door.
“Quick, Councilors, this way.”
A rush of movement followed and Emmick found himself hurried down dimly lit corridors and stairwells. Suddenly, a skirmish broke out behind him and he heard shouts and a clash of steel. Emmick broke off from the main group and hobbled down a side corridor then ducked into an unmarked room. From the light of the torches along the hallway, he could see the room was used for storage, stocked with wine barrels and sacks of dried grain. He closed the door silently and was plunged into darkness. Outside the room, Emmick heard muffled shouts down the corridor which grew louder and then clamored past him. He held the handle of the door tightly, but no one tried to open it. After a few minutes, his impatience overcame his caution and he decided to take his chances sneaking out of the Council Building.
He opened the door and poked out his head, listening intently, but hearing nothing. He wandered through unknown corridors, but eventually traced a path back to the Council Chamber. It was in total disarray. All the windows had been broken, many of the benches had been overturned, and scattered all around were rocks and bricks. Realizing the need for anonymity, he flipped up the cowl of his cloak to hide his face and unpinned his Insignia, tucking it into a pocket. He made his way outside.
Emmick could hear distant shouting from elsewhere in the town, where the mob had relocated. A few servants wandered around the lawn in front of the Council building, picking up debris and refuse. Emmick noticed two tall columns of black smoke rising from two different locations. With his head down, he walked slowly to hide his limp and tried not to draw attention to himself. After a few twists and turns down alleys, he arrived at the first column of smoke. The tailor’s shop and the floors above it were engulfed in flames. A crowd of people milled around in front of the building, admiring their handiwork. Nowhere could be seen the Town Watch or any Imperial soldiers. Emmick quickly guessed the location of the second column of smoke. He walked to his boarding house and found it likewise burning, a similar, unhindered crowd standing at the base of the building enjoying the spectacle.
The mob had vented its rage, but Emmick knew it would not remain appeased for long. There was nothing more for him in the town of Myranath, he thought. He could hide for a few days, but the Council would eventually imprison or execute him out of fear of reprisals from the Guild and in the hopes — vain hopes, he decided — of appeasing the increasing anti-Imperial sentiment of the people. His worldly goods had been destroyed and his reputation ruined. All that was left to him was an Imperial Insignia and his ceremonial sword, symbols of the Empire that he loved and served, symbols that he now had to hide. Emmick tightened his cloak around him and roamed the alleys, lost in his sorrowful thoughts.
By midday, his sadness gave way to his soldier’s need for action and he felt a new resolve. He would leave the town and start a new life somewhere else. The Empire was large and there were many places to visit that he had never seen. If he set out that afternoon, he could get to Sinille not long after nightfall and make contact with the Imperial Garrison there. It would be lonely to start over, he thought, especially for a man as old as he, but Providence would see him through as it always had.
Emmick absently turned a corner and found himself across from the Cerulean Sky Tavern. He decided to hazard one farewell before he departed. Normally at the noon hour, the tavern would be bustling with people for lunch or just a tankard of ale to get through the rest of the day. As Emmick approached, he saw no one. He tried the door and found it bolted. The whole town must be in a frightened panic, he thought. He knocked on the door and heard a rustling of movement inside, but no response. He knocked again, then a third and fourth time. Finally, the door cracked open and the tavern keeper, his friend, poked out his nose.
“Emmick?” he said nervously.
“Yes, Sym. I need to leave today. Things have become very dangerous for me here.”
“I… I can’t talk to you,” he said stammering.
Emmick frowned, saddened.
“I understand. I just wanted to say—”
The bar keeper looked at something over Emmick’s shoulder and his eyes went wide. He slammed the door shut in the soldier’s face. Emmick’s heart sank. He turned and saw a pedestrian walking briskly down the alley, keeping his head down as he, too, had done, trying not to be noticed. A passing stranger had been enough to terrify the tavern keeper, thought Emmick. He sighed and began trudging towards the West Gate and an uncertain future.
After a few minutes’ walk, he came to the end of a narrow street that opened onto a public square. The square was bordered on three sides by buildings and streets, and on the fourth side by the town wall and the West Gate. The portcullis was raised, but two Imperial soldiers stood in front of the Gate that was usually unguarded during the day. Emmick walked along the south side of the square, keeping close to the buildings as he cautiously approached.
The soldiers were speaking with a merchant attempting to leave the town at the head of a small entourage of a dozen people and two hitched carts, laden with merchandise. Emmick waited. After a short exchange of words, the merchant returned to his companions in obvious agitation. He spoke with them briefly, then the entire group began moving across the square, back into town. When he was a good thirty paces away, the merchant turned back to the soldiers and made an obscene gesture, yelling an equally obscene curse. That was no good sign, thought Emmick, but the scene made him feel all the more impelled to leave at once. Emmick made a decision. He took a deep breath, pinned on his Insignia, and walked up to the Gate, keeping his head down and hidden by the cowl.
“Halt,” said one of the soldiers. “All gates of Myranath are closed and the entire city is under lockdown until the Council has been reconvened.”
“My name is Emmick of Reemoore,” he said quietly, twisting slightly to display the Insignia. “I swear to serve my Emperor and my Empire. And I swear on the graves of my fathers not to abandon my fellow soldier…”
He was quoting the final lines of the Military Oath that every Imperial soldier takes upon his formal entry into service. Emmick’s heart pounded as he waited, fearing his trust might be misplaced. He kept his eyes down and could not see the soldiers’ faces. Time seemed to stop.
“…for fear of pain or death,” said one of the soldiers.
“May my soul be blessed with strength and honor,” said all three men together, finishing the Oath.
Emmick nodded and began walking, feeling a profound sense of pride and gratitude. It did not last long. The soldier nearer to him whispered as Emmick passed by.
“Hurry, friend, someone approaches.”
Emmick doubled his pace, abandoning any attempt to hide his limp. After a few moments, he heard raised voices behind him, but he was too far away to make out any distinct words. Emmick continued in a rush until the Western Road began curving gently northward. He dared a glace back and, seeing that no one had emerged from the Gate, continued on as fast as he could. Years of military service had molded Emmick into a strong, healthy man, but he was no longer young and his prosthetic leg encumbered him. After only a few minutes, he had to slacken his pace as he panted and gasped for air. He ignored the pain and fatigue and kept moving mechanically forward.
Eventually, the paved portion of the Western Road ended, being replaced by bare ground, wet and muddy from the melting snows of early spring. The grey sky pressed down upon the land, almost hugging the ground, and threatened rain at any moment. Emmick had not continued an eighth of a league before cold puddle water and mud had splattered all the way up to his knees. It was going to be a long journey, he thought, but he marched ahead with the determined will of an Imperial military man.
Suddenly, he heard a sound behind him. Stopping and turning around quickly, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. The Road was lined with tall, thin pine trees that swayed and creaked in the cold breeze. As he turned back, on the verge of continuing, he noticed a rustling bush out of the corner of his eye. Emmick stalked quickly over to it and drew his sword. There was nothing. He continued for a short distance before hearing the sound again. He spun around but there was no one.
“Who’s there?” he said.
There was no response.
He slowly turned around and was shocked to see a figure standing ahead of him in the middle of the road, a stone’s throw away. It was the Guildsman, hovering eerily above the sloppy ground.
“It is perhaps better this way,” said the Guildsman, “I had hoped the rabble would make an example out of you before they killed you. But, as always, if I want to accomplish anything I must do it myself.”
In a single sweeping movement, Emmick drew his sword and let his cloak drop into the mud. “I shall not be such an easy task.”
The Guildsman hunched over, laughing. Emmick swelled with fury. He strode forward.
“Oh, please, stop these ridiculous antics,” said the Guildsman, straightening as he continued to laugh.
Emmick charged his adversary. He was able to take four, wobbling strides before he felt as if had run into a stone wall. He dropped to his knees in pain only to feel himself lifted off the ground. The air warped and bent around him and a terrible pressure bore down on his body from all sides. He could not move and could only barely force out his chest far enough to take shallow gasps for breath. The Guildsman flicked his wrist and Emmick floated through the air towards him, jerking to a stop within an arm’s length of the Guildsman. Something like an invisible, iron fist clamped around Emmick’s right hand and pulled his fingers open. His sword splashed to the ground in a cold puddle.
The Guildsman shook his head and frowned.
“So pitiful. What was the name of your little town again?”
The last of the air in Emmick’s lungs was pressed out in a painful gasp.
“Reemoore,” he wheezed, and felt as if he were collapsing into himself. The Guildsman’s mocking grin widened as blackness began to invade Emmick’s vision.
“Yes, of course. My memory is getting so bad. But, in my defense, it has been twelve years since I have been there.”
He paused and leaned in towards Emmick, his grin becoming a sneer.
“Twelve years since I left my work unfinished. Until now.”
The enormous crushing suddenly increased and the blurry outline of the Guildsman’s mocking face disappeared completely, replaced by blackness. Emmick’s pounding head, ready to explode, throbbed with his labored heartbeat. He could hear nothing but a horrible ringing in his ears and his lungs burned in his chest from lack of air. In a final burst of mental strength, he turned his heart towards the world beyond and begged the Creator forgiveness for his failings.
Then, in an instant, the pressure was gone and Emmick dropped to the wet ground. The Guildsman’s hands flew to his temples as if he had been struck in the head. He doubled forward, shook his head and blinked his eyes rapidly, then slowly straightened. His eyes rolled back into his head and he flung his arms out, then pulled them in around himself. He ceased levitating, and as soon as his feet touched the ground, he began to stumble like a drunkard, barking out half-uttered words and disconnected syllables. Emmick gasped violently and struggled to clear his swimming head.
With a grunt, the Guildsman swept his right arm upwards and instantly, more than a dozen nearby pine trees, each the height of twenty men, were ripped out of the ground. They flew straight up at an incredible speed and disappeared for a moment into the low clouds before careening back down to the earth and rumbling the ground with their impact. The Guildsman swung his left arm in a horizontal arc and blue fire tore across the air like a sword blade, slicing across the trees on the other side of the road. The top halves collapsed to the ground and the remaining trunks burst into flames like rows of lit candles.
Emmick had regained some of his composure and strength, but was terrified and baffled by the scene. He examined the Guildsman’s face and recognized the same twisted expression of rage and exertion he had seen on the Guildswoman in the attic. Emmick searched around quickly, found his sword and pulled it dripping from the cold water. The Guildsman did not seem to be aware of him anymore but distracted by some unseen madness. Emmick wasted no more time. On all fours, he crept closer to the man. Then, just as in the attic the day before, with a sudden upward thrust, drove his sword toward his enemy’s abdomen.
But the Guildsman, even in the throes of an invisible attack, was supremely more experienced and powerful than Mellah. With an almost casual movement, he grasped the middle of the moving blade with his bare hand. Instantly the metal turned white hot and melted where the hand touched it, the blade’s tip falling harmlessly to the ground. Emmick’s unstopped momentum sent him face-first into the mud while the Guildsman began stumbling, then trotting, then running down the road. The Guildsman wailed in an unknown tongue then tripped and fell to the ground. Emmick climbed onto his hands and knees and looked back just in time to see a bright blue conflagration. Then the Guildsman disappeared.
Emmick remained where he was, panting and shivering as the cold air passed over his body soaked in sweat and rainwater. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement. Too exhausted and too shocked to react, he merely turned his head to see what new horror was approaching.
It was the young girl from the attic. She looked down the road where the Guildsman had vanished. Her expression was grave. She turned to look at Emmick, her eyes serious and sad.
“Did you… use the Art?” said Emmick.
She shrugged. “I didn’t try to. I just thought, ‘Stop it!’ and then all that just happened. Like with the lady. I think that’s why she took me from the orphanage. I’ve never been quite…normal.”
Emmick nodded without understanding.
“Thank you,” she said, “for yesterday.”
Emmick nodded again, standing slowly on shaky legs.
“Thank you,” he said, “for today.”
She watched him curiously as he sheathed the still warm hilt of his sword and retrieved his waterlogged cloak.
“So, where are we going?” she asked finally.
She walked over to him, grasping his wrinkled, calloused hand. He looked down at her dirty face. It was still serious, but he also saw something innocent and hopeful.
“Sinille,” he said with a cracking voice.
She smiled slightly and nodded, then furrowed her brow as she examined his face.
“Are you crying?” she said.
He laughed. It was a hearty, booming sound.
“I’m not crying. I’m sweating from my eyes.”
The girl giggled. Emmick gently squeezed her hand and they began walking down the Western Road together.
©February 2022, Alcuin Fromm
Alcuin Fromm has been previously published in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.