Blood and Lies (pt. 9)

Part nine in the Blood and Lies series
Part One: Blood and Lies (pt. 1)
Part Two: Blood and Lies (pt. 2)
Part Three: Blood and Lies (pt. 3)
Part Four: Blood and Lies (pt. 4)
Part Five: Blood and Lies (pt. 5)
Part Six: Blood and Lies (pt. 6)
Part Seven: Blood and Lies (pt. 7)
Part Eight: Blood and Lies (pt. 8)


Unbearable mind obliterating pain. Total blinding white agony the only thing that exists for Telfor and Vahkragg as they drift back into consciousness. Under the crushing weight of this torment they are helpless to even cry out or raise a finger. Trapped inside their own minds. Locked out from their bodies, all they can do is suffer in their own private hells.

In the world outside a devastated man cradles the broken body of Verumalleus in his arms, having reverently carried her from the monster’s claws. No magic can overcome death and for all his arcane skill Rubin is truly powerless. Able only to watch as Pan’s mournful sobs fill the silence and his tears crash around the once beautiful body of the woman he had loved.

The silence that proceeds the battle and the mournful cry that banishes it draw the villagers from their hiding place to witness the carnage beyond. Of the five who had stood against the beast only two yet remained. The giant nomad and the grey soldier lay unmoving. The scholar, frozen in place unable to act in the face of the horror, stands over the revenant and the corpse of the crusader.
Oliver feels his stomach turn at the the sight of blood and death. The elderly villagers hurry to stop the children from seeing. Jacob finally breaks the silence with a thin voiced command directed at the oldest of the children, “Luke, get Zsófia! Now! Hurry!”

The boy nods with a fierce but terrified determination. Pivoting on his heel and charging towards the forest as fast as he can. Jacob grabs Rubin roughly dragging him with him to Telfor and Vahkragg directing the shocked scholar in first aid. Aria had rushed back to their home comes running over to them with bandages and pure alcohol.
More of the older villagers emerge to help them. As well as staying with Pan and Verumalleus, they assist with the fallen and disposing of the dead monster.

“They’re not dead. They need you here with us, boy!” Jacob shouts at Rubin snapping him from his daze. Together they bandage the fallen soldiers’ wounds and carry them inside, laying them on beds while the wait. The old villager offers the tin of cigarettes to the scholar, a subtle tremor the only outward sign of the stress of the situation in the old man’s demeanour. Still responding slowly, Rubin accepts. Lighting the smoke with a match drawn from the satchel that hangs by his waist.
The old man collapses wearily in a chair, Rubin quickly follows while Aria busies herself boiling water for tea. A long weary sigh escapes Jacob and Rubin notices the grip of age return to the villager, having been banished temporarily by the crisis. The smoke soothes the scholars nerves with the help of some mental concentration tricks he’s better able to analyse the situation.
Through the calming lens of logic, Rubin takes mental stock of the outcome of the battle. Verumalleus was dead and Pan was distraught with grief. Telfor and Vahkragg were alive but unresponsive with seemingly only superficial wounds. Oliver was still with the other villagers. From the mental shelter he had built himself in his mind, Rubin could see that he was suffering from shock but as the only one able, he had to be responsible. The villagers knew the monster and Jacob had seemed to know what to do to help the others.

“Jacob, who is Zsófia?” Rubin asks, his voice carried a strange hollow timbre to it due to the emotional distance he had put between himself and the situation. It bears a quality that could be threatening. Jacob casts a sidelong look to his wife. A heavy silence follows the question closely, the kind of silence that is holds the weight of secrets on it. He searches for cracks in the scholar’s resolve, finding none, he exhales smoke steadily.

“Zsófia is a sorceress,” He replies slowly with the caution of a man unfamiliar with lying, “She can help those two, I think. I’m going against our traditions by bringing her here, I hope you won’t hold the deception against us. You will understand why we couldn’t tell you when she arrives”

The pair and Aria wait in tense silence. Smoking and tea helping somewhat with the severity of the mood. Minutes pass over what seems like a lifetime when suddenly the door creaks open.

A young woman, no older than Rubin enters the house. Her skin is pale with a subtle pallor that could easily be overlooked, but resembles a far weaker equivalent to Pan’s dead flesh. If not for the stench of graven sorcery that radiates from her, Rubin may not have recognised her for the necromancer she was.
The chair crashes to the floor as the scholar shoots to his feet, arms raising as his lips move to form a deadly incantation and instead freeze. Luke, the boy Jacob had shouted to earlier stands protectively between them. The heavily reinforced revulsion of necromancy held firm from his education at the university, but it was obvious that she wasn’t an enemy here and if she could save Telfor and Vahkragg…

“They’re over here,” Jacob says, with a firm but gentle guiding hand on Rubin’s shoulder he moves them out of the necromancer’s path. The woman crosses the room, watching Rubin cautiously as she passes him before kneeling by the bodies of the soldiers. Clasping her hands together, in a dark voice she croaks out ancient words from beyond the veil of death. The shadows thicken and darken in the house, gaining haunting qualities like the spirits of the underworld were clawing their way back to the world of the living through their darkness.
Unable to bear witness to the foul sorcery, but unwilling to interfere, Rubin flees the building. In the village centre in front of the house, Pan sits quietly sobbing by the covered body of their companion. The only thing left he can think of he can do, Rubin sits beside him, placing a comforting arm around the scouts shaking shoulders as he waits for the world to make sense again.

Author: Zairron

I'm writing to build a habit, practice, and be creative.

11 thoughts on “Blood and Lies (pt. 9)”

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