by C. W. Stevenson
in Issue 159, April 2025
Marrian stalked his prey from the shadows, crouching low amidst the shrubs and small trees of the arid land. He made himself shrink further into the dead grass.
A mage and his acolytes.
The bald mage tore a hunk of bread before passing it around the fire to the others. He stopped before putting the food to his lips, aware that something, or someone, was watching him.
Marrian grinned. I’m here.
The Order of Fire had sent their mercenaries, beasts, rogue sorcerers, mages, and demons from the darkest corners of the world to put him down. They would not rest until Marrian had answered for his crimes in Jarmanna, back at their temple built into the cliffs.
The priests, acolytes, mages, and guards inside, all dead… save for the ones who ran to tell the tale of the former-Patraean commander who’d killed those within, stolen the sword of their fiery goddess, Lau Vatra, and fled.
Old Son, wrapped in a sheath of furs strapped to his back, begged to be set free. To sing. To let it carry its crimson tune until it’d reached a glorious crescendo of death.
No. Only when I am ready.
The time to strike would come soon, he could feel it, like the sword—so many souls sacrificed to give it power and life. He had smashed the sword with rock, hammer, and steel; yet the blade reformed before his eyes after coating it with a layer of blood. It had to be fresh blood. Always fresh.
“Master Jarris, what do you hear?” the small acolyte asked, eyeing a short sword laying out of its sheath beside a boot.
Jarris held up a hand. “Silence, Askal.”
All four remained still, scanning the darkness, sometimes looking in his direction.
Satisfied it was nothing, the mage breathed a deep sigh of relief. “The wind perhaps.”
The only female of the group, a large woman, and the only member Marrian could tell did not belong to the Order, stood up.
“Gotta piss,” she announced, then stretched her arms high above her head with a long yawn.
Jarris nodded. “Stay close, Orra.”
Orra wandered off in the opposite direction of Marrian, to the east. A shame really, he could have made her end quiet, quick, peaceful. But she would now have to partake in the torment.
“Savage the Black, eh?” came Askal. “Do you honestly believe we will find him?”
“Our seeress does not lie, young one. She threw the bones. She saw him at the Grave of Kings.”
A true seeress then.
It now made sense how the Order of power-hungry fire magi had been able to track him down all this time.
Marrian scowled.
He would put down the seeress later—after he buried what was left of his friend. Marrian patted the flask in his waistcoat, the one filled with Edmond’s ashes. He hadn’t been able to strike down the mage in the tavern before she and her acolyte had set Edmond aflame. He took their heads after they’d surrendered, kicking them to the sandy shores outside the tavern for the crabs.
Marrian had been a shoulder to hold onto while Edmond stumbled drunk, his brother-in-arms, his commander. But most of all? His friend. He’d made Marrian swear to take him to the Grave of Kings in the Hipani Lowlands if he were ever to fall.
He gave the flask a final pat, then began to crawl.
The glow of the flames drew near.
The party’s fourth companion was busy patching a spare tunic. A bit old to be an acolyte, he wore no robe, just a red gambeson with the sleeves removed. Thick with muscle, the white scars lining his arms told a story of a soldier who’d sold his blade and soul to the Order in exchange for the finest food, slaves to beckon his every will, and walls to keep him safe, all for his steadfast service.
A Red Blade.
Marrian knew this for a fact. He’d interrogated Red Blades before, shortly before ending them. Tongueless eunuchs—Red Blades served one mage for life after their maiming ceremony.
He would kill this one first. After all, he was closest.
“We chase a phantom, lad,” Orra said as she found her place beside the fire once again. “Not one sign. Not a single word in the weeks since he set the tavern ablaze with your sorcerers inside.
That is… if it was him.”
Askal shook his head. “Our seeress does not lie.”
“Your seeress is a twat.”
Marrian smirked at that. He was beginning to like this mercenary. He almost felt sorry he would have to set Old Son upon her. Almost.
The Red Blade stood; the tunic forgotten. An axe filled each hand.
Orra stood too, her hand hovering over the hilt of the scimitar nestled in its scabbard.
Jarris held up his hands. “Peace, Brother.” Then shot a warning glance toward Orra. “I am sure the hired help did not mean to insult the seeress.”
Without taking her eyes away from the Red Blade, Orra said, “Yes I did.” Then she spat at his feet. “She’s a twat. Like your Lau Vatra, the all-powerful fire cuntress.”
The acolyte, Askal, remained frozen, waiting with bated breath as his eyes darted from the mercenary to the Red Blade.
“Mathta?” the Red Blade inquired.
“Sit,” he ordered. “The both of you.”
The Red Blade sat back on the ground before taking up the tunic once again.
Orra shrugged. “A little sensitive, aren’t we? A wee bit of a joke and everyone starts to—”
“Sit!” Jarris screamed as the flames from the cookfire shot upward several meters before shrinking back down.
Orra plopped back down; her eyes wide with fear at the display of power.
“Good,” Jarris said calmly. “Now we can enjoy one another’s company in silence.”
The Red Blade chuckled to himself as Orra continued to stare at the fire, only ceasing his ruckus when the mage cleared his throat in annoyance.
One by one, the party began unpacking their bedrolls onto the ground.
Marrian glared at them from his place in the shadows.
Soon, the sheep would be deep in slumber. The hour of the wolf was at hand. Anticipation for the kills to come seeped into his bones, boiling his blood—enticing a carnal rage within Marrian, hellbent on ridding the brethren of those responsible who’d taken his most loyal companion, of those who hunted him.
This wolf would get what it sought. This wolf hungered. Only blood would sate him. Sleep, soft lambs. Sleep.
“Askal,” Jarris called.
“Yes, Master?”
“You have first watch.”
“Yes, Master.”
Marrian gritted his teeth. The element of surprise would be lost before he even reached the campground. The crunching of dead grass would see to that. From this far off, his hulking form was hidden. But any closer? He would be found out. Anyhow, he needed to live. He had a promise to keep. And if they found him at the Grave of Kings? All the better. Better to fight there than in open ground.
Scrapping his plan of attack, Marrian crawled back the way he came. Concealed behind a series of craggy rocks, he rose to his feet. Even in the soft light of the waning moon, the Grave of Kings stood tall against the backdrop of flatland and the darkness beyond, its many natural towers of rock spiraling upward.
“To the Grave of Kings it is my friend,” Marrian whispered to the flask. Taking out a second flask, he took a long swig, welcoming the burning sensation down his throat as he poured a dribble onto the ground for Edmond.
The mountain-tomb had been good enough for royalty to rest after death. It had been good enough for Edmond to ask Marrian to bury him there. Why not good enough for this cabal of fire-goddess worshippers?
Breathing deep, he patted the flask that was now Edmond and began to walk in the direction of the mountain.
***
Marrian didn’t bother covering every trace of his footprints.
He wanted them to be seen, but not so much that it would be obvious. Part of a footprint here, a broken twig hanging loose there… the signs would be impossible to miss for any half-decent tracker. Besides, they knew where he was headed.
He just didn’t want them to know that.
Damn the seeress.
It wasn’t the Ring of Fire—the desert encompassing the known world in its entirety—but this region of Hipani was as arid as it was vast. Cracked earth spread out for miles, a seemingly never-ending expanse of web imprinted into the soil. Cover became less dense the further he walked.
But it was no matter. The isolated wall of rock that was the Grave of Kings stood vigil against the horizon—effulgent and squat. They’d made it.
“We’re here, my friend.”
Several hundred meters high, almost the same length across the southern face, the Grave of Kings was nothing but an isolated mountain, surrounded by nothingness. Why the Hipani kings of old and their kin had wished to be buried in such a lonely place? Marrian hadn’t an inkling.
Mother said so—a common answer to Edmond’s doings when questioned. He imagined he would give the same answer now. Hells, the old bastard probably never bothered to learn why himself. But the reason was irrelevant. The pact was simple: Edmond had asked, and Marrian had agreed.
“If you were in my shoes—carrying my ashes—you would be on a road of lush wilderness and taverns every few miles.”
Unfair as it was, rarely was justice to be found in death. Marrian just hoped he could provide his friend with something akin to it.
A dark crack in the wall revealed a single path into the mountain.
Feeling his energy wane from lack of sleep and little food, Marrian savored the last few pieces of dried meat. Draining what was left of his waterskin, Marrian took the flask of liquor and chugged most of its contents—the only receptacle still full on his person being the flask of ashes.
He walked until he touched the base of the mountain, then sat with his back against the wall. The shadow of the mountain was a welcome presence after spending the heat of the day on foot.
They had no horses for which to ride. Even if his pursuers were faster than he wagered, it would still take them hours to arrive.
Marrian moved strands of black hair away from his nose, long and aquiline, a slight crook where it’d been broken more than once. Pear-green eyes scanned the landscape.
Nothing.
Above him, a Sanded eagle screeched. Nothing but flat, hard land. An unforgiving hell for some—unless you were a Sanded eagle of course. Sand pits, scorpions as long as Old Son, floods, bandit hideouts… the Hipani Lowlands were no place to toil lest you had somewhere you could arrive to quickly, and with plenty of water.
For Marrian, he had arrived at his destination. Had drunk his water. What was left now?
Kill them. Take their water. Bury the flask.
A good plan if he lived to see it through.
With hours yet to spare, Marrian set Old Son up so that the sword was leaning against the wall beside him. Closing his eyes, his mind drifted to the past, to a time of peace. A time before accursed swords, blood, and fire had occupied his nightmares.
***
Voices interrupted his rest.
Marrian jolted up, unsheathing Old Son as six gray-cloaked figures coming through the narrow pass of the mountain gasped aloud. One almost fell backwards in their attempt to flee.
Hipani born, that much he could tell by their bronzed skin in this part of the world. God or goddess-serving men, like the Order of Fire. Small framed, and all bearing sunken eyes from lack of sleep, they did not appear an immediate threat. These men did not carry weapons. Not a single blade amongst them… that he could see.
He approached them, Old Son resting across one shoulder. “Name yourselves,” he said.
The eldest, hairless like the rest, held up a hand. “No harm to you.” He pointed to his chest, then gestured to the others huddled closely behind him. “Pthambe. All. Pthambe.”
Marrian nodded.
God-servants then, clergymen of some sort. Temples of the Hipani sun god could be found in Patraea, as far as Westfall even. Domes of gold covered the smallest of Pthambe temples, evidence to the vast wealth and number of followers the sun god had amassed.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
The Pthambe elder seemed to understand because he looked back toward the path from which they’d come. “Journey to center. Pay respect.”
“A pilgrimage,” Marrian deduced.
The elder smiled, nodding his head vigorously.
One of the other Pthambe clergymen whispered something to the elder.
The elder turned back to Marrian. “Why come?”
“Why come to the Grave of Kings?”
“Yus. Why come?”
“To bury a friend.”
“Where friend?”
Marrian moved slowly, doing his best not to frighten the pitiful cluster of trembling clergymen. He produced the flask of Edmond’s ashes from his waistcoat.
“In here. His ashes,” he told them.
Brows furrowed, the elder asked, “Friend in there?”
Twisting off the cap, Marrian let a thimble full of Edmond float into the breeze.
The elder looked back to the others and spoke. When he turned back to Marrian, his hand was held outward, his head bowed in reverence. “We bless friend.”
Extending the flask, Marrian gave him a wary look. He hadn’t survived this long by trusting every swinging dick that crossed his path, especially the godly sort.
Once in hand, the elder dumped a bit of ash into his palm, returned the flask to Marrian, and began smearing the ash across the foreheads, cheeks, and chins of his companions. When he was through, he joined the group in turning toward the cavernous path and raising their hands toward the heavens.
Marrian pocketed the flask as the men chanted in unison, their tone near to a whisper. He grinned to himself. Edmond hadn’t exactly been the godly type. If anything, he detested any and every organized religion they had come across together during their travels.
He’d lost count the number of times Edmond had drunkenly averted their simple conversations around the fire into complex philosophical, religious, or political debates, much to Marrian’s displeasure. He could hear Ed now, even with these men giving him a blessing. “Hypocrites. Louts, the bloody lot of’em. Cowards all, seeking to save their soul from the horrible thoughts and deeds they’ve committed—horrified at the prospect of spending eternity in some hellish place if they fail to follow the rules of their god.”
If he were drunk enough, Marrian would give in from time to time, but his usual response was no response at all—allowing the miserable pessimist to argue with the wind or the ale within his cup. Himself? He hadn’t a doubt there were forces in the world beyond his understanding. But they hadn’t saved his wife. They hadn’t saved their child. And they hadn’t saved Ed. All gone to the dust.
A cursed sword. Constantly on the run. His path had been paved with the blood of friends, enemies, and loved ones alike, each year, adding quarts-more to the cobbles beneath his feet as time wore on. The gods were here, they just didn’t give a damn.
More voices.
Leaving the clergymen to the blessings of his friend, Marrian went to investigate.
Staying to the shadow of the mountain provided, Marrian narrowed his eyes as he focused from a top a boulder. Four figures in the distance. A woman. A big man. A smaller fellow. And a bald one.
Marrian gritted his teeth.
Nestled back into its furs, he could feel the energy of Old Son all but singing in his ears, a song of death, of the kills to come. He would oblige the sword and appease his own appetite for revenge. What better place to further avenge his friend near the grounds of which he was to be buried?
A fitting end.
Marrian left the boulder and headed back to the Pthambe clergymen. Lost in their prayers, he wasn’t sure they’d even noticed he’d left. If the Order happened upon them, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind the bastards would slaughter the clergymen for Lau Vatra’s sake. A sacrifice by fire was their way. Old Son was a testament to that fact. He was unaware how many souls had bled or burned to give the sword its power. All he knew was that it was one too many.
“Time to go,” he said, pulling the elder up by an arm.
Bewildered, the others ceased their worship.
The elder must have seen the concern on his face because he then asked, “Trouble?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Enemies. Will kill you and your brothers.”
The elder pressed his hands together. “You come away with us. No blood.”
“Yes blood,” Marrian said. “All these people know is killing. Like me.”
The elder smiled. “Not like you,” he told him. “I see.” He pointed at Marrian. “A good man.”
To his surprise, the elder took one of Marrian’s hands in his own and patted it gingerly. It had been some time since another human had shown any sort of affection, much less referring to him as a good man. As much as his pride wanted to disagree, in his heart he knew he was better than the scum that hunted him.
Marrian squeezed the old man’s hand, then showed him and the others the safest route away from the mountain without being noticed.
“Stick to the shadows of the mountain,” he reminded them.
The elder waved farewell, the others following close behind him as they made their escape.
It was a rare occasion, Marrian saving lives. In war, he’d told himself that his prowess on the battlefield and his skill as a military tactician had saved the lives of more men than had he been elsewhere.
When it boiled down to it, he was a killer. Savage the Black was a killer. He would always be known as such. And in situations like these, he relished in that hard, bloody fact.
***
“Keep your eyes peeled, and your wits about you” the Jarris warned. “He is here.”
Marrian glowered from the shadows of the mountain pass, using an old goat trail concealed by an abundance of rock to keep him hidden. He followed them, until reaching the entrance to the caverns.
The Grave of Kings.
The entrance to the actual resting place.
Just inside the entrance, Jarris approached an unlit torch mounted on the wall, then beckoned his acolyte to come to him.
“For practice,” he told him. “Light it, and the others.”
Askal bowed his head. “Yes, Master.” He held out a hand toward the torch, stopping before his fingers were but a hair’s length away and focused with such intensity, Marrian thought the lad’s eyes may pop out of his skull. Mumbling through clenched teeth, Askal’s face began to shake. Then, there was a spark, and the torch ignited. Then another from the opposite side of the wall. And another further down. Another. And another. Torches and braziers came to life within the tunnel.
The others watched on, bored if anything. The lady mercenary, Orra, just stared down at her scimitar. After what she’d witnessed the mage perform, lighting some torches must’ve not seemed so impressive a trick.
Marrian did not dare resume following until his pursuers were scarcely within eyeshot. He made out their small figures by movement alone, cautious and slow as they were—mere specs to the untrained eye.
Satisfied they were far enough ahead, he entered.
Marrian wanted Old Son in his grasp. But he did away with the notion, lest the gleam of the torch catch the blade and give him away.
Down the tunnel he went, passing torches, braziers, rats scurrying from one small crack in the wall to another, and carved blessings from more of Pthambe’s followers to those buried within and those coming to offer their prayers to the noble dead. He kept going until the path opened up to a cavernous room.
An old mural nearly devoid of color on the cavern’s great ceiling showed Pthambe thrusting his glowing trident to the heavens. Ahead, dozens of sarcophagi carved from the cavern stone lay horizontally in rows, appearing like giant rows of stairs. Atop each sarcophagi bore the shape of a body, also carved from stone—the likeness of each soul who dwelt within.
Askal and the Red Blade stood in awe at such a burial ground. Jarris and Orra scanned the cavern, searching for him.
“You said he’d be here,” growled Orra.
“The seeress does not lie,” Askal said, finally turning away from the mass of stone graves. Taking a torch from a speleothem, Askal thrust it into the Red Blade’s hand. “We must look for him.”
“He is here,” the mage said warily.
Orra shook her head. “There are dozens of other tunnels leading deeper still. He could have taken any of them. If we split up, he’ll take us unawares, one by one. We should leave.”
“No,” snapped Jarris. “Savage the Black will know the fires of our Lady. Lau Vatra demands vengeance!”
Marrian unsheathed Old Son. Stepping into the cavern, he blocked the entrance.
“Aye, you should leave,” he said, causing his pursuers to face him. “But I’m afraid there is no escape. Not for you,” he pointed Old Son at the mage. “And not for you,” he pointed the sword at the Red Blade. “The lad and lady may pass. Lay down your arms and go. You will not be given another chance.”
Askal looked at his master, then at Orra. Unsheathing his short sword, he set fire to its length with a swoosh of his hand.
Marrian glared at the lad. “You defy me?”
Orra took the scimitar in hand and cut the air in front of her in two swift motions. “It’s four against one, numbskull.”
“You take the gold of murderers, to kill—”
“To kill a murderer,” Jarris cut him off. “How many of the Order have you slain? How many innocents in war?”
“I will atone for my sins… one day. But I will not atone to you. Your kind enslaves the innocent, murders the weak. Power-hungry savages, the lot of you. The Order killed my wife’s kin in Jarmanna, then my friend died as you hunted me. Take heed mage—you will not leave this place breathing. There is no mercy, no redemption for the wicked.”
“Wicked?” The mage scoffed. “The sword you wield is the most evil of weapons to exist… in the wrong hands. Do you know how many souls were sacrificed to see it forged?”
“It was you whoresons who saw its creation,” he replied.
“Not for you. The sword belongs to our Lady!” The mage’s voice grew in volume as he spoke.
“When made flesh once again, she will wield the sword you carry and bring peace to the realms!”
Marrian grinned. “Peace through blood, eh?”
“When is peace made otherwise?” Jarris asked, then cocked his head to one side. “Tell me, killer, do the voices within the sword scream for blood?”
“Aye,” he said, then took a few steps forward. “For yours.”
Jarris clicked his tongue. “At him.”
The Red Blade held out his arms, blocking Askal and Orra from rushing passed. “He’th mine.” Rushing forth, the Red Blade let fly an axe before taking the second from his belt.
Marrian roared as he swung Old Son, sending the flung axe clattering away into the shadows.
The Red Blade glared.
Marrian glared back, eyes of green turning black as he welcomed the sweet carnage to come. He understood—as all Kantic assassins were thus trained—one does not dabble in foreplay when it comes to violence, they give themselves over fully to the black… welcoming its ever-alluring presence.
But the Red Blade feared no man. He moved forward, bringing his axe toward the top of Marrian’s skull.
Marrian sidestepped, shouldering the Red Blade off balance. Both men brought their weapons swinging sideways at the other, but Old Son reached flesh first.
The Red Blade looked down at his severed arm as Orra and Askal came swinging their swords on either side of him.
“Kill him!” shouted Jarris, fire building his hands as the cavern lit brighter and brighter, causing every shadow in the Grave of Kings to disappear.
Marrian danced backward.
The Red Blade screamed as blood spurted from the place his arm had been moments before. Bending over, he used his remaining hand to pry open his dead fingers, taking the axe back. He charged.
“No!” Askal screamed. But it was too late, the sword’s reach was too long.
Marrian sliced the man from thigh to sternum.
The Red Blade fell in a heap of his own leaking fluids as Orra rushed past once again, Askal at her side. Behind them, Jarris cursed.
He dodged a thrust from the mercenary’s scimitar and caught the acolyte’s short sword with a quick parry. Metal rang. Hand and hilt caught the mercenary across her jaw, sending her to the ground with a vicious thud.
Seeing the better fighter limp at his feet, Askal took a few steps back.
Fire suddenly burst out in a deafening roar, nearly consuming Askal in its path.
Marrian raised Old Son, his shield against the flames. He walked forth, the blade absorbing the fire.
“Now, Askal! Now!” shouted Jarris.
“Yes, Master!” the acolyte replied. But his heroics were short-lived as Marrian whipped Old Son toward him, a volley of fire sent flying in his direction. Askal screamed as the flames consumed him, burning away his robes and flesh until he was but a disfigured mass of pink and black, twitching in his last agonizing moments.
But the swordsman cared not. Old Son was not yet sated. Savage the Black, not yet finished with the task at hand. In a resting place for the dead, what were a few more corpses?
With the mercenary unconscious, Marrian focused his attention on the mage. He stepped carefully, edging closer, waiting for another burst of flame.
“Killer,” the mage named him. “Murderer. Kantic assassin turned Patraean general. Hero of the North.” He scoffed.
That caught Marrian off guard, no longer blinded by the thin veil of blackness that had overtook him. “You know much of me.”
“Yes, Marrian of Leece, I know you. And I know of your kin. The Order knows. A buried son. A buried wife. Your brothers. Their families. Your aging father. A bastard daughter somewhere in the midst, no?” The mage smiled, knowing he’d struck a chord, his bald pate beginning to gleam as fire swirled in one palm. “I look forward to dressing my chamber walls in their skins. But you? You I think I will turn to ash!”
The fire came forth, not like the rushing flow of flames as before, but a ball of flame, flying hard, flying fast.
Marrian caught the impact on Old Son, but the force knocked him backward, sending him to the cavern floor. His stomach dropped as he heard Old Son skittering away.
In a daze, he put a hand to the back of his head. Warm blood met his palm. He attempted to stand but found himself back on the ground soon after.
“Savage the Black, invincible? I think not.”
Jarris kicked Marrian in the ribs, knocking the breath out of him. He sent another kick to the side of his head.
Marrian felt death’s beckoning call past the mocking cackles of Jarris. Through squinted eyes, Marrian saw the mage overhead, Old Son held tight in his grasp.
“An appropriate death, wouldn’t you say? With sword you stole?” He hefted Old Son high above his head. “Farewell Savage the B—”
But the mage didn’t have the chance to finish as several bodies came barreling into him.
Marrian heard Jarris grunt in pain as the sound of feet stomped repeatedly. Rolling onto his side, he watched the clergymen of Pthambe continue their assault through labored breath until they were satisfied.
Bare feet covered in blood, they moved away, the lifeless face of the fire mage staring back at him.
A hand reached from above.
Gazing upward, the old Pthambe priest smiled down on him. “We return to help… the good man.”
Marrian took his hand, struggling to regain his balance for a moment.
The Pthambe elder gestured to Marrian’s head. “Bad hurt?”
“I’m alright,” Marrian told him, then jabbed a finger at himself. “You saved my life. You all did.”
Nodding his head, the elder turned his attention to the mage’s corpse. “Blasphemer,” he said. “Fire Goddess no good.”
“Aye,” Marrian agreed. “No good.”
***
Bidding his saviors goodbye, the elder priest and his companions waved in unison before disappearing down the tunnel and into the night. They had humbly declined to accept what little coin Marrian had on hand but had no quarrel in relieving the dead of their food, water, and any coin they had.
Retrieving Old Son, Marrian wiped the blade clean on Jarris’s robes, then moved to where the mercenary, Orra lay. He nudged her with a foot. With the other, he kicked the scimitar away from reach.
“Get up,” he told her as she began to stir.
Rubbing her jaw, Orra looked around in as much confusion as pain at the corpses that surrounded her.
“Why am I not dead?” she asked eventually.
“There are enough dead in this place,” he put it simply. “Stand. Then go.”
“Thank you,” she told him.
By the look in her eyes, Marrian knew that she meant it.
Heading off in the direction of the scimitar, Marrian called out to her, “Leave it be.”
She stopped, then turned around to face him. “You would leave me defenseless? Out there, in the desert?”
“I may have given you your life, but I don’t trust you. Besides, you’ll find your coin missing. You without a sword is better this way. Best to choose your clientele more wisely next time around.”
Explaining what happened to the sorcerer as she searched her person for any remaining coin, she cursed Marrian, Pthambe, and his followers when she realized she’d be left penniless.
Before disappearing down the tunnel, Marrian called out to her a final time. “If I see you heading anywhere near their tracks, or you on my trail, I will finish you.”
Inclining her head forward in understanding, Orra turned back toward the tunnel entrance, then left.
Alone in the Grave of Kings at last, Marrian worked his way around the blood and the corpses of his pursuers until he was standing before the rows of stone sarcophagi. Pulling out the flask of Edmond’s remains, he placed it deep within a crevice from the nearest sarcophagus, then blocked its entrance with as much rubble as he could fit.
There was no saying farewell to Ed. He would be there in the confines of his mind where he kept the others he still held dear. After all, Ed wasn’t much one for soppy goodbyes. He just hoped something or someone in the afterlife would let Ed know that Marrian had fulfilled his side of the bargain.
Taking a deep swig from his liquor flask, he poured the remnants onto the old stone before making his way out onto the mountain path again. The cold, desert air chilled his bones.
Exhausted, slightly injured, and poorly provisioned, Marrian looked south—the way he came. He knew his destination. Somewhere out there, a seeress was tossing bones to find him.
Fitting Old Son back into its sheath of furs, he strapped the blade to his back, and looked at the stars that would light his path. Overhead, a Sanded eagle screeched, heading out into the night to begin the hunt.
The swordsman followed suit.
©April 2025, C. W. Stevenson
A native of San Antonio, Texas, C. W. “Clint” Stevenson resides there with his wife, son, and their retinue of furry companions. In his spare time, he reads vigorously, spends time with his family, and collects too many books to read in one lifetime. Clint’s work can be found in Summer of Sci-Fi & Fantasy Volume 4, Chthonic Matter Quarterly, and Monster Fight at the O.K. Corral Volume 1. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
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