Part 2 : Penitence

“Two shining, fearsome Eyes of God,
Two great Hells, two dømme-rings broad.
One of ice, its pale death-mask gleams,
One of fire, day’s light, sin’s screams.
Windows of Gock’s Hell, fools have thought,
Though reflections in God’s sky caught.
Shining down that what is below:
Pits of fire, ice of woe.
Walkers of the witch-song take flight!
Hear God’s coming sword-storm, fight!
Death and Hatred, pursue as hounds,
The Eyes they catch, come Dømme-Horn sounds.
With rage, they devour one another,
And the world in blood shall die and smother.”

Saint Eosa Uspakson the Heretic,
“Riddarasögur of the God’s Stead”

 

Among the Damned

In the surrender of the flesh, there is great freedom.  Sin, guilt, punishment, all melt away into the warm embrace of oblivion.  But much to Guiromélans’s dismay, the expected judgment of God is not to be found.  Just as the feared scourges of the Hells are not here either.  Only the voices of angels…

“How long before we can cuts him down, uh?”

“Not yet.  There is much healing required first, both inside and out.”

“This is all his fault!  Sä far as I’m concerned, yä can leaves the fuckin’ vitchoor up there till he rots!”

The voices are familiar but inappropriate for such a celestial place.  Cool water, almost like rain, dampens his face.

Guiromélans’s eyes flicker open.  A moan of sorrow escapes his lips.  There is no Heaven, no angels.  He still hangs from the tree.  Three figures stand below at his feet.

“Ah!” Caidryn snarls, “The sweet pektus wakes!  Just lets me kneel sä yä can piss on me too!”

“Be calm, Caidryn,” Baldruus murmurs quietly, “This is not what he needs.”

“Yäh?” she shrieks in almost hysteric outrage.  Turning, she picks up Gofannon’s discarded spear and menaces the Raven with it.  Its tip is still stained with his blood.  “What he needs is another stab tä finish the job, uh?”

“CAIDRYN!” Baldruus urges.

“…kill me,” Guiromélans whispers.

“Just one more,” she pleads angrily, “Just one more!  I’ll do the job right!”

“Caidryn!  Put that down!”

“Kill me!” Guiromélans moans with all his strength.  “Kill me, please!”

Caidryn makes a move towards him, but Baldruus intercepts her, wrenching the weapon out of her grasp and throwing it aside.  “Leave him be, Caidryn!  We need him!  You know we need him!”

She points angrily at the crucified knight, “Listen tä him!  He’s askin’ fer it!”

“No!  Leave him!  Leave him now!”

“If you have ever loved me,” Guiromélans howls to the storm above, “kill me!  Release me from this shame!”

Caidryn turns as if to leave, but then she hesitates.  Before Baldruus can react, she’s already up the tree and face-to-face with the bound knight.  “Yä liein’ dubi-gnatos son-of-a-bitch!  Yä came with yer words of honor and duty and justice, didn’t yä?  Yä claimed tä follow the laws that yä swore tä!  What kinda Captain were yä, uh?  How could yä speak fer the best interests of yer crew when yä was plannin’ suicide all along, uh?  How could yä?  We trusted yä!  We trusted yä!”

Her enraged face suddenly vanishes as Baldruus pulls her down, leaving Guiromélans to face only the sea and storm.

“Go, Caidryn!” Baldruus shouts, pushing her down the beach.  “Just go!  GO!”

Slowly, the cursing girl disappears from Guiromélans’s sight, followed reluctantly by the boy.

Carefully, Baldruus climbs the tree and looks at the knight.  The sorcerer’s long hair is ragged and has escaped from its winding braid.  He shakes his head as he looks into the Raven’s desperate eyes.  “We have a long road to travel…”

“Kill me,” Guiromélans whispers hopelessly.

Smiling without humor, Baldruus raises his hand, “Sleep…”

Guiromélans maunders alone on the rocky beach.  Thanks to the summonings of Baldruus, the wounds on his wrists and ankles are nearly gone—the spear wound in his chest will take a little longer—but the wound in his soul… who can say if that will ever heal?

He walks slowly, letting the sounds of the tumbling surf envelope him, letting the cold misty rain chill his skin.  Should he stay here on this island?  Where else should he go?  He is a man rejected by God.  He is a man without his God.  Why should he want to go anyplace ever again?

This island appears habitable, remote.  He has seen little more than the beaches, though his companions have explored it more thoroughly than he.  Food is plentiful, though unpalatable.  Baldruus’s ember brings them more than enough.  Fat gulls and their eggs, countless shore rats, and those irritable sea demons that are little more than  morsels of sweet flesh beneath shells and pincers.

Guiromélans shivers.  There is a chill in the wind that wasn’t there before.  The season of Last Summer is nearly over.  Soon it will be Harvest Season.  Soon, the Harvest Festival will be celebrated across the Seven Kingdoms.

A year ago… where was he?  In the courts of Aquilaleon, newly promoted to rank of Raven, fresh from the alf wars in Ehre, a hero and a champion.  On one occasion, he actually sat at the right hand of the Superbus Tyrannus.  He recalls being surprised by the Duke’s sense of humor and the quality of his conversation.  Much to his pleasure, he found Valven to be a soldier’s soldier, a man of great understanding, a man without airs, who knew what it is to lead men into battle.  He was clever in conversation, active and brave, and above all, true and sincere.  So excited Guiromélans was about the meeting, that very night he dismissed his sellâria and instead related the entire evening into a letter to his other lady, Esmeree.

Esmeree.  The witch.  Guiromélans hesitates in his wanderings.  Only, he didn’t know her true nature then, did he?  No, not yet.

That, he discovered 3 months later.  He learned the truth when she used her power to save his life from the terrible Fée avatar.

And 3 months after that, he was at the head of an army and going to war against her.  In the name of his God, he went to war against his love.  And was crushed…  She defeated him, but not before she saved his life… and then spared his life.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  You can never seem to trust those demonic witches, can you?

Things are so confusing now!  Back in the courts of the EroBernd Empire, the world, its nature, and his place in it were all clear to him.  And now here he stands on this beach 12 months later, and it seems nothing will be clear to him ever again.

Looking around, Guiromélans finds himself at the foot of the dead tree, the place of his execution.  Its sun-bleached wood is still blackened with his blood.  Almost instinctively, his eyes begin casting about the rocks, and immediately, they settle upon something shining in the rubble.  He approaches and finds the remains of his Raven’s saber.  Gofannon did a fair job of it, breaking it into three pieces.  Kneeling, he takes up the largest piece and examines it.  The pommel and hilt are undamaged, as are the first two-thirds of the blade.  The last 6 inches of the tip have been broken off, as well as a piece about the size of his thumb.

His eye notices a tiny sphere of black in the wet soil.  Picking it up, he discovers it to be one of his sorcerer’s stones, the one he cut from the Söderkarl häxa in Praggan.  He begins to search around, meticulously finding and collecting each small stone scattered around the tree, uttering the name of the slain witch that bore it before dropping it into his palm.  He doesn’t stop until every one is recovered.

In the end, he holds the remains of his shattered sword in one hand, the remains of the slain sorcerers in the other.  He weighs each and seems to find them equal.  Men of iron, men of stone.

Taking it all, he walks back to camp.

Just outside the rough lean-to, Balen fusses by their fire, dutifully turning the saddle so the leather may dry evenly.  The boy found it washed ashore, much to Guiromélans’s surprise.  The Bracks must have cast it overboard, seeing no value in keeping it.  Now it needs special care if it is to be salvaged, and Balen is following his instructions to the letter.

Caidryn also crouches by the fire, tending to the water boiling in the iron bowl.  At her side lay yet another clutch of the horrid, shelled creatures that Baldruus summons from the Sea.  Long and clawed, they bare many similarities to the shore crabs that are ubiquitous on the Ehrech coast.  Despite their demonic countenances, however, their white flesh is appetizing but not very filling.

Guiromélans regards this Brackish girl.  In her time with Baldruus, Caidryn seems to have blossomed.  Her hair and skin are lustrous and glowing.  Even her scar seems to have faded.  Of course, she could simply be benefiting from the hygiene and healing magic that surrounds all sorcerers—there are reasons why every ship at sea and every village wants a sorcerer—but Guiromélans suspects there is something else.  Can she be happy with him?

Without a word, Guiromélans steps past them and finds a relatively dry place in their leaky shelter.  Balen spares him a fleeting smile, but Caidryn does not acknowledge his arrival.  She has not spoken to him—hardly looked at him—since they finally cut him from that tree.  Guiromélans doesn’t blame her.  He did after all conspire to kill her along with the rest of his crew.

Which begs the question of why she stayed in the first place?  Why did they all stay?

Carefully, Guiromélans lays the three pieces of his sword down in front of him and stares at their remains.

“Is that yer sword?” Balen gasps quietly, peering into the lean-to.

“Yes,” Guiromélans nods without looking up.

“That’s too bad,” the boy sighs, “It was such a mirain thing!”

Caidryn angrily drops the sea-demons in the boiling water, and their whistling screams temporarily fill their camp.

“In many ways,” Guiromélans says, once the howls have ended, “It still is.  It still is.”

“Yäh!  But now it’s worthless!  What’re yä goin’ tä do now, uh?”

Guiromélans looks up at the boy, surprised by his tone, “You mean in the long term?  You mean short of killing myself?”

Balen nods silently.  Caidryn is stirring the contents of the bowl, but Guiromélans can tell she is listening too.  “I don’t know.  I really don’t know…  I don’t know about much anymore.”

“Yä can’t even teach me tä be yer squire na more?” Balen asks quietly.

“If that’s—”

He cannot finish his thought because Caidryn is suddenly standing before him.  “YÄH!” she shouts, pulling the boy away.  “Never!  Never will yä teach any more of yer boduus lores tä him, yä hears?  I’ll kill him first!”

Spinning the boy around, she shakes him, “Yer tä have nothin’ tä do with him, understand?  NOTHIN’!  Don’t listens tä him!  Don’t talks tä him!  NOTHIN’!”

“Caidryn,” Guiromélans says, surprised by the onslaught, “If you feel this why about me, why did you stay behind on this island?  Why did any of you stay?”

Caidryn’s face screws up into a mask of rage, and Balen gasps beneath her white-knuckled grip.  “Yä thinks we wanted tä?” she screams.  “We had na choice, yä dumb asshole!”

Kicking the boiling bowl over and scattering their half-cooked meal across the camp, Caidryn storms away in fury, dragging the boy with her.  Guiromélans is surprised to note a slim smile on Balen’s face.

Mutely, he rises and cleans up the mess, washing off the crustaceans as best he can and putting them back in the bowl.  Then he sits by his broken sword and thinks, sifting the black witch embers through his fingers.  Would she really kill the boy?  Bracks are known to kill their children rather than allow them to be captured.  Do her feelings run so deep?

His sword is ruined.  Without his sword, how can he be a Raven?  If he can’t be a Raven, what good is he to God?  What good is he to anyone?

What good is God to him?

He doesn’t hear Baldruus approach until the sorcerer drops his load of firewood.  Food on this island appears to be plentiful—thanks to the sorcerer’s summonings—but apparently, it is the firewood that is in short supply.  Guiromélans has yet to be allowed to leave on his own to find out.

“Caidryn has run off with Balen,” Guiromélans says flatly, “I have offended her again.”

“Yes,” Baldruus sighs, picking bits of bark and leaf mold from his ludicrously long ponytail.  “I heard her screaming.  I chose to stay away.”

Guiromélans nods at the wisdom.  “She says you didn’t stay here by choice.”  He frowns up at the Mynyddi, “Why did you stay then?”

Baldruus hesitates and then sits down.  “When you were taken ashore for the sacrifice… Balen ran off.  Who knows what he wanted, what he was thinking?  I do know he is quite attached to you.  I’m sure he only wanted to help.  I’m sure he didn’t want to see you die.”

“He is a noble, honorable boy.  I think there is hope for him yet.”

Baldruus smiles slyly, “Hope?  Hope for him to yet become a knight?  Maybe even a Raven?  Surely, you don’t envision that future for him now, do you?”

Guiromélans looks back down at his sword.  “I’m not sure…  Certainly not now.  Not with Caidryn so opposed to it.  But maybe later?”

“Regardless,” Baldruus continues, strangely irritated, “She wasn’t about to let Balen become lost or hurt or abandoned.  So when he ran off, she took off looking for him and was caught unawares when the crew departed so… rapidly.”

“Ah,” Guiromélans sighs, “The lightning.  Your doing, I take it?”

Baldruus blinks in surprise.  “Actually, no.  I was among the first to flee for the boats, but when I discovered that Caidryn was not with us, well…”  He shrugs.  “It took but a simple summoning to make the other sailors believe they saw me among their ranks.  I think they were well at sea before they realized I was gone… too late to turn back.  And here we are.”

“Here we are,” Guiromélans agrees.  “So it was Balen alone among you that stayed for my sake.”

Baldruus shrugs, “You can choose to look at it that way.”

“I think I do.”

“So where were you?” Baldruus asks, suddenly changing the subject, his attitude strangely conversational.

Guiromélans blinks and looks up at him, “Excuse me?”

“Where were you?” Baldruus repeats.  “You were out walking?  Where did you go?  Did you see anything?”

Guiromélans gestures down the beach, “Down by the hanging tree, where I found my sword.”

Baldruus’s eyes look down then beach and then inexplicably flicker inland.  “Well, you might think about refraining from such trips alone,” he warns, “You’re still injured and weak.  No point in tempting fate, huh?”

Guiromélans grunts, “Fate.  Yes.”  He frowns, “Tempting fate about what?”

“I see you found your old sword, yes?” Baldruus asks, ignoring the question.  When Guiromélans doesn’t answer, he adds, “The symbol of the Order of the Raven, yes?  …Or at least one of them…”

“Yes,” Guiromélans agrees, “We have many.”

“Since you’ve retrieved your sword, does this mean you are ready to take up your cause again?”

Guiromélans is silent.  Baldruus gestures into the shelter behind him, to the object wrapped tightly in Guiromélans’s old oilskin cucullus and pinned shut with his Raven’s head brooch.  “Are you ready to take that up again?”

“No!” Guiromélans barks, “I’ll not look at it!  I can’t bear to see what it shows!”

Baldruus glances at the wrapped Median and nods, “Perhaps that is wise…”

Guiromélans is silent.  He stares down at his broken sword for a long time, so long that Baldruus is about to rise and leave when he asks, “So why save me then?”

Baldruus hesitates, “You mean from the tree and the wound?  From dieing?”

Guiromélans nods.

Baldruus sits back down and looks at the broken sword.  “You wanted to die?”

“Oh, yes,” Guiromélans sighs, “I believed it was God’s will.”

“You don’t any longer?”

“I’m not sure.  If He doesn’t want me to die… then I’m lost as to what He wants.”

“Do you still want to die?”

Guiromélans frowns at the broken metal on the ground, seeing three separate reflections of himself staring back.  “I don’t know.  I have tried to end my life honorably—short of falling on my sword or putting a bullet in my head—but God certainly seems to want me to live… only to suffer.”  He shakes his head, “As a Raven, I am devoted to serving God’s will, not matter what it is…  I simply don’t know what His will is any longer!  I am very, very confused.”

Baldruus gestures down at the broken blade, “So your faith is like this sword.  It is now broken, worthless, useless.”

“Useless?” Guiromélans wonders, “Is my faith useless?  Is this sword now truly useless?  It has value in what it represents.”

Baldruus shakes his head, “As a whole, yes.  As a concept or an ideal.  But such flimsy things as ideals are difficult to apply to real situations.  You must ask yourself, why is this happening to you?  I say there are three possibilities.  The first is, God is sending you a message, but you are misinterpreting its meaning.  The second is, there is no meaning, and you are merely jumping at shadows like our superstitious Radla was oft to do.”

“And the third?” Guiromélans asks darkly.

Baldruus smiles, “That you must create your own meaning!  Look at the signs around you, and make up your own mind!”

“Don’t try to fill my head with your useless heresies!” Guiromélans warns.

“Guiromélans,” Baldruus sighs, “Regardless of what you believe, it is obvious that your God does not want you to succeed in this crusade of yours.  All this pain, all your unhappiness is simply a result of you misunderstanding what’s going on around you.  Whatever you have been doing, you must rethink it!  You must come to terms with your misunderstanding before you hurt yourself further… and risk killing others in the process.  Trust me.  I have absolutely no desire to die in another one of your grand suicide plots, understand?  And I’m sure I can say the same for Caidryn and Balen.”

“Are you saying I should stop trying?  That I should give up?”

Baldruus hesitates before answering, “I am saying, whatever it is you were trying to do, it was the wrong thing.  This, God was trying to tell you.  Before you take another step—make another mistake—you must discover what it is that God wants!”

Guiromélans is silent.  The sorcerer gestures down at the broken sword again, “I said this sword was useless.  Well, is it?  Of course it is!  The blade can never be repaired.  Broken as it is, it is useless.”

Guiromélans stares down at the sword.  His eyes take in their silvery figures, their edges, both new and old.  He studies the three pieces and realizes the sorcerer is wrong!  The smaller pieces are lost, yes, but the larger piece could still be wielded.  It is still lethal, although significantly shorter.

He frowns.  What is this sorcerer trying to tell him?  Is he denying the evidence before his own eyes?

“Now consider your faith,” Baldruus advises, “Though it can never be repaired, is your faith still salvageable?  It may have been broken, it may have been betrayed or proven wrong, but can it still serve your needs?  I say no.”

“What?” Guiromélans stammers in surprise.

“Just as your sword must be discarded, and a new one obtained, you must discard the vestiges of your old faith and build a new one.”

“How do I do such a thing?” Guiromélans wonders, feeling the heat rising in his neck.  This sorcerer would never think of saying such things to the old Guiromélans.  He takes the hilt of his saber and examines the remains of its blade.

Just as his sword was broken, so was his faith.  Just as one piece of his sword is salvageable, so he must find a salvageable piece of his faith.  Somewhere, amongst its ruin, he must find the core, the source of all that he believes, and save that piece!  Whatever else is left, he must consider to have been useless anyway and discard it without remorse.

“Your faith was broken because you no longer knew what it is God expects of you,” Baldruus urges.  “You must uncover the true meaning of His messages.  When you were injured and delirious, you spoke often of your shame.  You spoke often of the Empyrean Median and paying for your crimes…”

“Yes,” Guiromélans sighs, his sword dropping to the ground once again, “My shame.”

“What is your shame?” Baldruus presses.

“I don’t know!  All I know is I failed God in some way!”

“This, you must discover!” the sorcerer insists.  “Above all else, this you must discover!  What is it you are trying to atone for?”  He gestures towards the wrapped Median behind them, “You say your soul is corrupted.  Why is it corrupt?  Before you can truly heal, you must face this shame and resolve it.”

Slowly, Guiromélans turns his head and looks at the wrapped artifact.  “Why do you care so much?”

Baldruus falls silent.  Guiromélans looks up to see the sorcerer’s eyes examining him, calculating, desperate.  Hungry?

“Why do you care whether I restore or discard my faith?  If I recover my health?  If I even live?”

“You’ve caused us much trouble, Raven,” Baldruus agrees, his eyes darting around the shelter, “and I admit you are not well-liked right now, but I know my lady would never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”

“You’re lady?”

“Caidryn cares for you.  You must know that.”

“No, no,” Guiromélans shakes his head, “She cares for you.  And that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Do not be concerned, Guiromélans,” Baldruus assures, “I am not jealous, and yes, it does answer your question.  You have stood by her and the boy, you have protected them and served their interests, and while Caidryn’s pride may prevent her from actually saying so, I know she is grateful.  How could we—how could she—abandon you at the time of your greatest need?”

“Such sentimental crap is not worthy of you, Mynyddi,” Guiromélans warns.  “Answer my question.”

Baldruus purses his lips, “When the crew accepted you as Captain, they vowed to fight and die at your side.  It remains the same, despite your desire for martyrdom.  Just in the future, please let us know when we are going on a suicide mission.”

Guiromélans smiles and shakes his head.  Before the other man can react, Guiromélans’s hand darts out, and the jagged edge of his saber presses against the sorcerer’s throat.  Baldruus cries out in a most unexpected fashion.

“Do not toy with me, sorcerer,” Guiromélans growls.  “I am grateful for your aid and advice, but I would know why I am receiving it and what price I will be expected to pay.”  He shakes his head warningly as Baldruus’s eyes dart around for escape.  He presses the blade harder against the soft skin.  A sudden move by either of them would cause all sorts of unpleasant bleeding.  “I am prepared to defy my own God,” he hisses, “Do not think I would not slay my own savior.”

Baldruus sags, “Very well.”

“The truth!” Guiromélans demands.

“Very well!”  Baldruus swallows and winces as the edges cut into his flesh.  “You are a Raven, Guiromélans, and a good one.  You are a general and a knight.  Despite your… flaws… you are a handy man to have around…”

“What does that mean?” Guiromélans asks, retreating the blade only slightly, his eyes narrowing.  “You mean for fighting?”

“Yes.”

“Fighting what?”

Baldruus glances around, his eyes finally settling in the direction opposite the coast.  “Inland?” Guiromélans asks, “What’s inland?”

“No, Guiromélans,” Baldruus warns, “Not yet.  Please!  You’re still too weak.  It can wait!”

“What can wait?”  Guiromélans leans forward, “Show me.”

The castle is glorious, tall, strong, and powerful.  It is in almost perfect condition and still bears the crests of its ruling bloodlines on each parapet.

Guiromélans stares at it in slack-jawed wonder.  Such a prize to find, even among the Weaning Shores!  The fragmentation of Háimóþli has created many ruins.  When the Sea surrounds a town or settlement, its occupants frequently retreat to the new mainland, leaving everything intact behind, all of it waiting for just about anyone—or anything—to move in.

Baldruus is less impressed.  He glares down at the ground and mumbles.

“It’s Muttese!” Guiromélans exclaims happily as he rushes forward, temporarily lost in the moment, “It must have once belonged to a mighty fráuja, perhaps even a herzog or kjennink!”

Baldruus quickly grabs his arm to stop him.  Guiromélans frowns, “And it looks to be in fine condition… maybe even occupied…”  He glares at Baldruus, “Why do you insist we stand at such a distance?”

The sorcerer smiles grimly, “Yes, it is occupied.  And protected.  Perhaps by folk you would like to make the acquaintance of?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Circle magic, Raven, and lots of it.  There are circles all around its walls and enceintes.  There are circles around every window and door that I can see.”

Guiromélans squints his eyes as he examines the castle.  “You can see these enchantments?”

“Clearly,” the sorcerer nods, “Their magic glows brightly.  Should you be carrying your Median, I’m sure you could sense the evil yourself.  This is why we chose to help you… among the other reasons of course.  We will almost certainly need your protection against this castle’s occupants… should we ever encounter them.  I say it is best if we don’t.  I say we wait until you are healthy, and then we slip away unseen and unknown.”

Guiromélans shakes his head grimly, “And this is why you wished to prevent me from wandering inland?  Lest I see this place and choose to approach?”

“Or attack,” Baldruus agrees.

“I am a man of deep feelings, Baldruus, but I am no fool,” Guiromélans says, turning and heading back to their shelter.  “At the risk of Caidryn calling me a coward, I shall wait a while longer before… introducing myself to them.”

vvv

Balen tests the weight of the stone.  It is round, solid, and just barely larger than his fist.  He eyes Guiromélans as the Raven stares thoughtfully at the nearby castle.

Without warning, he flings the rock at his head.

Guiromélans’s movements are almost too fast to see.  With his old shoulder wound finally healed, he moves with renewed speed and agility and knocks the missile aside with a stick.

With only the briefest of smiles at the boy, he returns to his thoughtful scrutiny.  Baldruus has been careful to educate him on the boundaries of the circles.  Guiromélans knows precisely how close he can approach without crossing them.  Despite the sorcerer’s almost frantic arguments against it, Guiromélans insists on coming here just to watch.

It is a glorious castle.  What could be inside that would require so much unholy protection?

Balen takes up another rock and slowly walks behind the knight.  “And what does this prove, uh?” he shouts.  “I thought yä wasn’t supposed tä teach me nothin’!  Caidryn’ll go rraakk if she learns of this!”

Guiromélans shakes his head without turning around, “This lesson is not for you, but for me, Balen.  I must remain placid, calm.  I must regain what I lost before.  Without it, I am no more than a ve’co berserk, a simple killer.  I have sworn to always remember that I am a Raven and I am called a Raven and let that manifest in my very appearance and being.”

“And how does this help?”

Guiromélans turns and smiles at the boy, just in time to catch the next missile in midair.  Balen’s mouth drops open in surprise.

How does he do that?

“Do you strive to become a cing, Balen?”

“Yäh!” he shouts back in irritation, scanning around for another rock.  “Cings are strong and feared, even by yer bod… Medianist armies, uh?  Likes in the Battle of Laughter?”

Guiromélans tosses the rock aside and tries to shake feeling back into his fingers.  The boy throws hard, much harder than he expected.  “Yes, but for every Battle of Laughter, there is a Battle of Anerin’s Fort.”

“Och fi!” Balen grunts, kicking at the dirt and uncovering an excellent specimen.  “That don’t matter! Nothin’ can match a Brackish cing, uh?  He sees what he wants, and he takes it!”

“The Raven must not indulge in his own will,” Guiromélans murmurs, “nor take pleasure in satisfying his desires.  On the other hand, above all things the cing must be decisive in battle, yes.”

Balen picks up the stone and wipes the sand and dirt from it.  The Raven nods and looks back to the castle.  “Decisiveness is excellent, my friend, but first, a successful course of action must be conceived…”

Guiromélans’s eyes play across the now-familiar lines of the castle.  It has two gates for approach.  The main is protected by an old ditch—at one time, perhaps, the occupants would have been able to flood it—the second is at the back, by the rocks and the shore.  No army could approach there, no ships could land there, though Guiromélans is certain there is a small dock hidden at the tide-line for last-minute escapes and intrigue.

“…This is the reason for the Bracks’ poor reputation as tacticians,” he murmurs.  “Where a Raven would use terrain and strategy and coordinated offensives—where he would wait the best time of day or the appropriate weather—the cing uses ferocity and weight of numbers…”

The outer enceintes walls are 20 meters tall, but they are not reinforced against cannon.  That means this castle is at least… 300 years old?  Countless arrow slits, however, and the main castle complex has dozens of windows.  Light drapes, worthless against the upcoming winter cold, still hang in some, tousled by the wind and rain.  How could they have survived so long?

Guiromélans freezes.  There is a figure standing in a window.  “Sometimes the strategy works,” he nearly whispers as he steps closer, squinting at the castle.  “As in the Battle of Laughter… but most-oftentimes, it doesn’t.  As at Anerin’s Fort.”

There is a woman standing a window, watching him as he watches her.  Guiromélans stands transfixed.

Balen scowls and examines with rock in his hand.  He waits, until a fresh breeze blows in from the Sea, and then taking careful aim, he throws.

“Balen, look—”

Guiromélans endures Caidryn’s hilarity and stares at the wrapped artifact in his lap, pressing a damp rag against the back of his head.  “Some great Raven, uh?” she mocks, tears beginning to run down her cheeks.  “Never mind me spatha!  Next time I wants tä kill yä, I’ll just throw rocks!”

Balen sits nearby, listening angrily.  No punishments or reprimands have come down on him, and he almost seems disappointed.

Guiromélans sighs, hardly listening to Caidryn’s taunts anymore.  The blow to his head has left him with new confusion—either that or new clarity—either way, it is hard for him to make sense of things.  His thoughts are only on the Empyrean Median, on the bewitched castle, and on the lady within.  He hardly notices when Baldruus removes his rag and presses something wet and slimy against the wound.  The sorcerer chants briefly, there is some pressure, and gradually the pain in Guiromélans’s head begins to recede.

“You’ve already soaked yourself through on the front with your own blood,” Baldruus mumbles, “We can thank Gofannon’s spear for that.  It seems now we can thank our boy for soaking you through on the back.”

“It was a scalp wound,” Guiromélans answers quietly, dreamily, as if in a trance, “They bleed a lot but amount to little.  You shouldn’t waste your efforts.”

“Bratos!” Caidryn cries with mock joy, embracing Balen, “Thank you, me sweet mosac fer this wondrous gift!”

“Must I remind you,” Baldruus warns Guiromélans, “that these are your only clothes, blood-soaked as they are?  Try to spare us further embarrassment… or entertainment… and avoid any more bloodletting while wearing them?  Should we ever rejoin civilization, it would be nice if you didn’t look like the victim of an udyronde attack.”

When Guiromélans merely sighs, Baldruus pats the Raven on the shoulder and sits down next to him.  “He caught you mooning over that castle, yes?”

“Hmmn?  Yes.  Something like that.”

“See, I told you!  That place is nothing but ill luck and trouble!  What was he doing throwing rocks at you?”  Baldruus glances quickly at the boy and then back at Guiromélans.  “Did you have a fight?”

“No,” Guiromélans smiles wearily, his eyes never leaving the wrapped Median, “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?  Were you training?”

Caidryn’s laughter coughs into silence.  Guiromélans looks up to see her glaring at him.  “Yä wasn’t teachin’ him now was yä?  Not after I tells yä not tä!”

“More like he was teaching me, Caidryn.”

“I told yä tä stay away from him!  I told yä!” she screams, leaping to her feet.

Guiromélans blinks in surprise.  It is almost as if her rage is a mile away, instead of right in his face.  “I am always amazed,” he says monotonously up at her, “by how quickly anger comes to you.  It certainly spares you from having to deal with a situation rationally, doesn’t it?”

“Caidryn,” Baldruus interjects, before she can react, “I’m sure Guiromélans meant no offense or harm.”

“I’ll not be havin’ him turnin’ me mosac intä a boduus corpse-eater!”

“But what if it is what Balen wants?  It’s not as if Guiromélans is forcing him to learn these things.”

“No, no,” Guiromélans mumbles, shaking his head, “We don’t eat corpses.”

Caidryn freezes, looking from the sorcerer to the Raven to the boy.

“If he had a stone,” Baldruus adds, “I’d be happy to teach him sorcery, but he doesn’t.  What Guiromélans offers may be all Balen has… short of thievery or farming or some such.”

“But he wanted tä kill me mosac!” she pleads.

“I didn’t want to,” Guiromélans says, “but sadly, it was unavoidable.”

“Unavoidable because yä wanted tä die!  How can yä do such a thing?”

Guiromélans smiles grimly at the artifact in his lap, bobbing his head.  “I used the Median and saw that he was pure,” his voice suddenly singsong.  “God would have been merciful.  There were many onboard—most, in all likelihood—who were corrupt and evil and deserved to die.  Balen was not among them.  He had remained untouched by the actions of the crew, and God recognized that.”

“Are yä sure of that?” Caidryn sneers, “Yä haven’t been too sure of much about yer God of late.  Are yä sure of this?”

“With all my heart.  Don’t you see?” he pleads, “Despite all that happened around the child, God left him untouched.  No harm came to him.  No harm ever came to him, despite my efforts to do battle with the Ravens.”

“And what about us?” Caidryn asks.

Guiromélans hesitates.  “What do you mean?”

“What would God have done with us?  How would God receive our souls?  Have yä ever used that trougo thing on me?  Or Baldruus?”

“No.”

“Then what’s tä happen tä us when yer God kills us all, uh?”

“You are a whore, Caidryn, by your own admission, and until you admit otherwise, that is what you will remain to be in your heart… and in God’s eyes.  Baldruus is a stone-summoner infidel.  What would God do with the two of you?  You figure it out.  These are choices you have made, not Him.”

Caidryn stands stunned, unsure of how to react to such a blunt statement.  Baldruus merely shakes his head.  “Hmmn,” he sighs, “I think that rock hit you harder than we thought.  If only you would open your eyes to the truth—”

“I see much, sorcerer,” Guiromélans corrects, “I see more than you might expect…  But I am a knight.  I am a Medianist.  And everything I see, I see through a Raven’s eyes.”

He stands suddenly, uncertainly, and Caidryn leaps backwards, unprepared and fearing an attack.  Guiromélans wonders why?

“Careful, now!” Baldruus warns, trying to steady the Raven.  His grip on his arm is to support him, but Guiromélans also wonders if it is to restrain him as well.

“What do I want for the boy?” Guiromélans slurs casting around him for the boy.  He presses the heel of his palm against his temple.  Despite Baldruus’s magic, the pain is returning.  Apparently, his spells do not last long.  He suspects he has begun to bleed again too.  “I think much of what you want, Caidryn.  I wanted to take him from that ship, protect him from that crew.  I also want protect him from the waste and ruin and despair of the life you were offering him.  I see potential in him.”  Guiromélans glances meaningfully at the sorcerer, “Potential for him to serve something greater than himself.”

“And what is that?” Caidryn spits, “What are these things yä would teach him?  Tell me, and maybe I’ll allow it!”

Guiromélans staggers around the fire, his feet dragging in the sandy mud.  His eyes primarily regard the boy, who watches him coolly.  “Perhaps to become my squire?  I want to help him strive to become a knight who is bold and brave and strong and proud…”

Boldness to dare venture into the castle…

Bravery and strength to face the horrors that must ultimately reside within…

Pride in the knowledge that the struggles are for an errand of God.

“He would need to learn…” Guiromélans frowns with the effort of thought, “the four disciplines of quadrivium:  geometry, arithmetic, music, and… astronomy…”

Geometry, the careful application of how to best use artillery to stop a cavalry charge—to dig and flood tunnels to topple crucial walls—to carve up a larger army with quick, lethal assaults.

Arithmetic, the management of men and supplies and ammunition and numbers.

Music, the beat and rhythm of fife and drum—rank upon rank upon rank of soldiers, marching in unison—the rapid thunder of blows falling upon yielding flesh—the pulse of a dieing man’s heart.

Astronomy, the selection of time and place most favorable to God.

“He must learn the art of cortegiania and become a master of all situations within and without EroBernac courtly circles.”

Courtly manners, to know how to smile at a man before you go to war with him—how to inspire trust and love and avoid suspicion—how to sense, by the courtiers’ whispers in the halls, that tonight is your last night of life.

Guiromélans glances down at the wrapped Median, left on the ground where he was sitting, “And he must renounce all gods but the Medianist God.”

For God is the greatest, God is the mightiest, God is the merciful, and no campaign will be successful without God’s blessing.

…No campaign will be successful without God’s blessing…

“His studies must be intensive.  Three hours of martial training each morning before the breakfast.  Two hours of study of the Certu.  One hour of prayer and meditation upon the Dulia after supper.  Three hours of manual labor to condition the body and the soul.  And two hours after dinner of further study and meditation upon the Latria.”

“This he would do every day?” Caidryn exclaims.

“Every day,” Guiromélans nods vaguely, “Just as I did in the monastery of Gaph.  It is necessary for him to become a Raven.  It is necessary for him to become a Medianist.”

“Nage!” Caidryn snaps.  “He can worship whatever god he wants, but he can’t become a boduus Medianist!”

Guiromélans reels back from the venom in her words.  He shakes his head to clear it, but it only makes the pain worse.  Without God, there can be no victory!

“Worship God without being a Medianist?” he wonders out loud.

“What?  Nage!  That’s not what I meant!  I—”

“It is… possible,” he supposes, “but I don’t see what benefit he would gain…”  He frowns up at her, “Why?”

“Yer Medianists have their dark side,” she hisses warily.  “There are some… hardships associated with bein’ a Medianist.  Na point in makin’ Balen endure them.”

“All faiths have their challenges,” Guiromélans says reasonably, “I don’t see—”

“Have yä been married yet?”

“No,” Guiromélans says carefully, slowly comprehending her point.

“So yer is still uncircumcised, uh?”

Guiromélans purses his lips.  Rather than answer, he circles around the fire and picks up the bundled Median.

“Guiromélans?” Baldruus asks, “Is this a question you don’t want to answer?  Is there some kind of shame you are hiding?”

Guiromélans sighs deeply as he turns the cloth in his hands, “No.  No, I am circumcised.  I was at birth.”

Baldruus coughs out a brief laugh, but Caidryn looks confused.  “You were intended for the priesthood?” the sorcerer asks in astonishment.  “What happened?”

Guiromélans’s glassy, watery eyes look into the other man’s, “I suppose you could say I loved women too strongly, too deeply.”

“Yä mean yä fucked too many of them?” Caidryn jeers.

Guiromélans shakes his head.  “No, perhaps too few would be the correct interpretation.”

“Are yä a virgin?” Caidryn asks quietly, barely able to contain her excitement.

Guiromélans shakes his head wearily, “Please.”

“Then, what—”

Guiromélans cuts off the stone-summoner’s next question, “That is all I have to say on the matter.”

“But—”

“As for Balen, he must be a Medianist.”

“Now wait a minute!” Baldruus protests, “I thought he had to be circumcised at marriage!  Caidryn would never allow it.”

Guiromélans considers this carefully and then shrugs.  “There is no law that says he must pursue the sacraments of Wedding Day and circumcision.  He could also choose to become a disciple of a patron saint.  As I understand it, there are a few whose feelings on this subject are mixed—if not actually mirroring Caidryn’s—the Prophets Pennenc and Hoël are also a bit less stringent on the tradition.”

Guiromélans is silent for a long time, listening to the hiss as the rain spends itself against the fire.  Despite the wrappings around the Median, it feels comfortable in his hands, familiar.  It’s only been a couple days since he carried it against his heart, but it feels like centuries.

For some reason, his hands have begun to tremble.  As the pain in his head has been increasing, so have the tremors.

“And that’s it?” Caidryn sputters at last, breaking the silence, “That’s all there is tä bein’ a Cathubodua?”

Guiromélans shakes his head slowly, “No.  There is one more thing, and perhaps it is the most important.  He must learn and practice the knight’s code of chivalry.  The Oath of Chivalry is the most important thing to a Raven.  You do not need to be a knight to worship God properly—you can be just about anyone to do that—but you cannot be a knight without chivalry.”

At these words, Balen’s head snaps up.

“Chivalry comes in many flavors,” Baldruus observes, “which—”

“Ehrech,” Guiromélans answers immediately, “That of my homeland.  It has served me well.”

“And this code states, what?”

The pain is much worse, so much worse!  This is no simple head injury.  Something else is terribly wrong here.  Guiromélans mouth twists in agony, and tears begin to run from his eyes.  Before the others’ surprised stares, he collapses to the ground, shuddering and weeping.

“What is it?” Caidryn asks, a bit more tension betraying her voice than she probably would like.  “What’s the matter with him?”

Baldruus crouches by the knight, “I don’t know.  It can’t be the blow to his head!  It just can’t be!”

Guiromélans moans, his heart near bursting.  “I have betrayed her!  I have betrayed her!  My pain!  My shame!”

“Guiromélans!” Baldruus shouts, shaking him by the shoulders, “Raven!  Hear me!  Your shame!  What is your shame?”

Guiromélans’s eyes focus on the sorcerer, “Drink.  I need drink.”  They are the first clear words he’s spoken in a long time.

Baldruus shakes his head.  “There is none here.”

“I need drink.  It comes only when I do not drink…  It goes away when I have drink…”

“Guiromélans, we have no drink!  We’re not on the ship anymore!”

Guiromélans pushes the sorcerer away in disgust.  “I know that!” he moans through chattering teeth.  His hands and arms have begun to tremble violently.  “I need only drink.  I don’t care where from!”

“We have none!” Baldruus shouts helplessly.

“Yieahh!” Guiromélans screams, suddenly shying away from Caidryn.  It is all Baldruus can do to restrain him.  “It’s her!  It’s her!  She knows I betrayed her!”

“I’ve never seen anything like this before!” Baldruus shouts.

Caidryn snarls at him, “I told yä this was a bad idea!”

Baldruus looks at her in surprise, “What?  Give it time!  Give it time!”

“Help meeee!” Guiromélans pleads, his eyes rolling into his skull.

“What is happening to you?” Baldruus asks.

“By the Ice,” Guiromélans gasps, “It’s happened before!”

The sorcerer struggles to restrain the bigger knight, “What?”

“I need my drink!  I need my drink, and now that I can’t have it, my spirit’s rebelling!”

“What do we do about it?”

“Nothing,” the Raven sighs, “If there is truly no drink, then I must ride it out… just as I let Caidryn ride it out with her bay.”

“But—”

Without warning, Guiromélans howls in fear and agony and is temporarily lost to them.

With Caidryn holding his legs, Baldruus manages to turn Guiromélans over and restrain his head.  “Guiromélans!” he shouts, “Listen to me!  You have betrayed us!  Despite your betrayal, we are here to help!  We have drink for you!  But before we can give it, we must know of your shame!”

Guiromélans babbles incoherently lashing about with his fists and feet.

“This ain’t workin’!” Caidryn hisses under her breath.

“Give it time!” Baldruus snaps before turning back to the suffering knight, “There is no one here attacking you!  Do you understand?”

He stares into Guiromélans’s wild eyes, trying to make some kind of connection to something, anything inside.  Suddenly, Guiromélans’s eyes blink.  The foam at the corners of his mouth have turned red from where he’s bitten his tongue.  “Dr— drink?” he stammers.  The trembling of his body threatens to throw Baldruus and Caidryn off of him.

“Yes,” Baldruus assures, glancing at Caidryn for confirmation.  She merely shrugs.  “This will pass.  We have drink.  We only need your shame first.  Do you understand?”

Guiromélans’s head shudders, though Baldruus doesn’t know if it is a nod or more tremors.  “But… my shame!  She knows…”

“Focus on what’s real, Raven,” Baldruus urges, “Focus on the task at hand, and this will pass.  Tell us your shame.”

“What is real?” Guiromélans asks.  The faces and voices around him are blurred and muffled.  A thousand knives seem to pierce him from all sides.  The pain in his joints is nearly more than he can bear.

“This attack came when yä mentioned chivalry,” Caidryn offers eagerly, “Was chivalry yer shame?  Tell us.”

“The laws of chivalry?” Guiromélans wonders.

“What are the oaths?” Baldruus asks.

Guiromélans’s mouth works silently.

“A knight must love God,” Guiromélans gasps as his body rocks violently, spitting bloody foam and phlegm from his lips, “and be willing to spill his own blood for Him…”

Guiromélans loved God once.  Despite his agony now, he remembers the peace of that love.  Many, many times has he risked and spilled his own blood for God.  But now God is ashamed of him, and he doesn’t know what His feelings are anymore.

“He must possess loyalty and justice,” he says in a stronger voice, clinging to these laws like a lifeline, “and protect the poor and the weak…”

Loyalty and justice.  These are words that at one time were synonymous with his name.  The need to protect the weak—to protect Caidryn and Balen—this was why he stayed on board the Knight’s Torment in the first place.  But now he has betrayed his crew, broken their laws, and endangered those he once protected.

“He must remain pure in flesh and spirit, be abstemious, and avoid the sin of lechery.”

He was once known for loving too deeply, too sparingly.  Where others of his rank and order would frolic with different sellâria every night, Guiromélans was content to play at Courts of Love and hold all the ladies at a distance.  Rarely would one ever get close enough to affect him.  And the one lady he loved most of all, he never enjoyed physically.  And then he went to war against her.

And since then, he’s been little more than a drunk and a thug.

“He must strive for candor, and he must flee from pride.”

Candor?  Freedom from pride?  He lied to those who trusted him, insisted on leading when others were more fit, and he still carries the broken symbols of his rank and faith—badges of his office—his sword, saddle, and Raven’s head.

As he speaks each oath, his voice grows stronger, his eyes sharper.  The features of his companions slowly spread and distort, almost like candies melting in the summer heat.  Baldruus smiles grotesquely at Caidryn.

“He must never witness false judgment or treason,” Guiromélans continues, now speaking more for himself than for the others.  “He must be a champion of justice.”

Treason?  He has betrayed God.  Justice?  How many innocents have suffered or died in his crusade in the Weaning Shores?

Guiromélans stops, and his companions stare down at him.  Flesh dangles from Baldruus’s face like dough.  “Is that it?  That’s all of them?”

“No,” he states, shaking his head.  Are these things really happening?  Or is he hallucinating?  The visions before him are terrifying, but he takes solace in the cold source deep within his soul.  There, he finds what remains of his faith, and he clings to it.  His eyes are clear, though haunted.  “There is one more,” he gasps through chattering teeth.

“What is it?” Balen asks from afar.

The last oath?  Guiromélans blinks through the pain.  At last, it is made clear to him!  He has corrupted his soul.  He has shamed himself.  He knows now his shame, the root of his pain.  God’s will must be done—the followers of demons and devils must be cleansed by fire—but this is the task for a Raven.  A pure Raven.  And before he can take it up again, he must prove to himself and to God that he is worthy to bear that title again.

“What is the last rule?” Baldruus demands.

Guiromélans smiles coldly up at him, his mouth distorting as his muscles wage war with him.  His legs jerk and shudder and then seem to calm.  Without warning, his foot lashes out, catching Caidryn behind the ear and knocking her off him.  As the sorcerer turns, Guiromélans shoves to one side, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Guiromélans struggles to his feet, collapses, and then struggles up once more.  Before the others can get their bearings, he snatches up his broken saber.  His three companions stare at him in disbelief.  The jagged blade dances in the air as Guiromélans tries in vain to master his limbs against the tremors.

“Stop!” Baldruus roars as he gestures.

Guiromélans’s Raven’s instincts serve him perfectly, though his body threatens to betray him.  He sidesteps and spins, gracelessly collapsing rather than pivoting, but the sorcerer’s spell harmlessly passes by nevertheless.  Guiromélans staggers forward, his saber’s scabbard lashing out, and he strikes the surprised sorcerer at the temple.  Baldruus falls to the ground, moaning senselessly.

Despite the ticks and spasms, Guiromélans smiles at the frightened Caidryn.  Her face and skin ripple and boil as if maggots seethe just beneath, struggling to burst free.  Even as he watches, her eyes blacken and her long hair turns thick and fleshy.  Clutching his saber with both fists, he bows to her as if in prayer.  “Your lover has done his best to dissuade me from my path,” he says, “though I don’t understand why…”  He examines his companion closely, “…but I am beginning to get an idea…”

“What’re yä doin’?” she shouts, casting about frantically for her spatha.  Her eyes dart from Guiromélans to Baldruus to the suddenly angry Balen.

Guiromélans pauses and bends to pick up the small leather bag that contains his sorcerer’s stones.  It takes him several tries.  As his fist shakes, he hears them rattle against each other inside.  “Consider me a blind man who attempted the painting of a masterpiece,” he coughs apologetically.  “Just as he endeavored to paint what he cannot see, I have attempted to champion that which I have already destroyed.”

“What the FUCK are yä talkin’ about?”  True rage, murderous fury is slowly shadowing Caidryn’s distorted face.  Her features begin to run like melting wax, and soon she is unrecognizable.

Guiromélans takes note of this but is strangely unconcerned.  Instead, he smiles with new wisdom, “Before I can champion God’s cause, Caidryn, I must be a Champion of God.”  He nods at her, “Thank you for reminding me of this!  I will once again be a Raven, or I will die trying.”

“Nage!” she bubbles.  “Yer tä stay here!  Like we agreed!”

“No.  I go to the castle now.  Someone there needs me.”

“Nage!” she screams again, brandishing her sword.  “Yer tä stay here!  Yer disgraced!  Only a Raven who is pure can conquer what’s inside!”

Even as she raises the blade, her arm swells, and tumorous growths begin to cover and consume the pommel.

“Really?  As your Baldruus has told me, my faith’s been shattered, broken, just as my sword was.”  He examines the saber’s edge.  The blade flashes as he shakes, lending him only the occasional reflection in its surface.  “Are they useless?  Ruined?  I think not.  Rougher perhaps.  Meaner.  But the cold heart remains.”

“Yer shame!” she screams, her voice taking a strange pitch, “Remember yer shame!”

Guiromélans doubles over as his stomach clenches.  “My shame…” he gasps.  “I shall never forget my shame!”

Staring down at the ground, he sees something unexpected.  At his feet lays the Median, bundled in his old seaman’s cloak, sealed with his Raven’s head brooch.  Bent over as he is, he reaches out with the tip of his blade and, almost as an afterthought, carefully begins cutting through the fabric.  With his hand shaking, it is a haphazard job, but he slowly makes progress.

The creature that was Caidryn watches him warily.

“What’re yä doin’?” it demands.

“Let us see…” he mumbles, “with my shame… the condition of my soul?”

As the oiled cloth falls away, the Empyrean Median shines briefly in the rainy light.  Guiromélans is about to reach for it when something small and compact smashes into him.  He tucks and rolls to absorb the impact, coming back up to his knee, but without the Median.

He turns to see Balen crouched nearby, the Median clutched close to his breast.

“Balen!” he shouts, “What are you do—”

The words catch in his throat.  Before his eyes, he watches as the Median corrodes and twists, nearly disintegrating with corruption.  The boy’s eyes are black, solid, and his leering mouth is filled with slimy fangs.  He sneers as he lets the tortured metal fall to the ground.

Guiromélans shakes off the shock just in time.  He lurches backwards just as Caidryn swings her spatha down at his head, burying it into the sodden dirt.  His boot kicks the blade out of her hand as his sword lances out, piercing her side.  Thick, black ichor sprays from the wound and bubbles across the saber.  With a snarl, she wrenches away from it, backhanding Guiromélans and sending him sprawling to the ground.  He rolls to his feet, falls, and then ducks just in time to dodge a stone thrown by the boy.

What is happening to him?  What is happening to his friends?

Before he can think or react, Caidryn is upon him.  Her filthy nails—longer and sharper than he ever remembered them to be—claw at his face and eyes and throat.  He fends them off as best he can—his lurching body holding her at bay nearly as well as his fists could—and when her talons get caught around his collarbone, he sees his opportunity.  His open palm thrusts upwards in a jaw-breaking blow that stuns the hissing fury.  Throwing her to the side, he rolls up with his saber ready.

The demonic form that was once Caidryn lashes out at him again, but he parries the grab.  She shrieks as several of her fingers are cut away.  Guiromélans lunges forward, pinning her wounded hand beneath his boot, and ends her defiant roar with a swift cut to the neck.

Guiromélans staggers to his feet, struggling for breath.  His head is pounding, his shirt soaked in his blood, front and back.  Every joint in his body screams as his muscles knot and twitch.  His vision swirls and pulses with every breath and every heartbeat.

With the best control he can muster, he makes the sign of the Median over Caidryn’s body and utters a brief prayer for her soul.  Despite what she became, she was a fair companion.

“Let the steel of my blade be the arc of Thy Median,” he intones.  “Let the strength of my bone and body be the arc of Thy Median.  Let Thy spirit and power join them in Thy Median.  Êtqra.”

As he finishes, her body instantly bubbles and boils into a mass of unidentifiable blackened flesh.  Gasses hiss up from the putrid mass.  Guiromélans reels back from the stench.

“What were you?” he gasps.

“The offspring of Gock?” Baldruus offers.

Guiromélans whirls to see the twisted sorcerer slowly approaching, Caidryn’s lost spatha held easily in his hand.  A trail of black slime runs down from his temple and stains his clothes.  Flaps of long flesh hang from his face and arms, heavy at the ends with ripe pustules.  The boy, Balen, gibbers and fawns at his feet like a pet animal.

“Handmaid to the Devil?  Hatchling of the Dragon, perhaps?”  His voice is deep and bubbling, as through forced through a vat of syrupy mucus.

“Demons?” Guiromélans challenges.

“Oh, nothing so non-corporeal,” the sorcerer-creature laughs.  “Lemur?  Larvæ?  No.  Beesa?  Perhaps.  We serve the themoch.  We do their bidding.  We walk the face of Zå, Raven—we are among you, Raven—not in Æther or in your dreams or in the night sky!  We don’t wait patiently in the Hells.  When we’re hungry, we come looking for you!”

“Masks,” Guiromélans sneers with understanding, “Tyggskins.  I know of you.”

Baldruus grins.  Tiny black worms spill from his gums and writhe into the wet soil at his feet.  “You are a difficult man, Raven.  You simply.  Will.  Not.  Listen.  To reason!”

Battling his tremors, Guiromélans stands as tall as he can manage.  “I understand your words now.  My sword?  My faith?  They are not useless!  You failed, beast.  My faith is strong.  You cannot touch me.”

The creature twists its face into a mask of feral rage.  “My magics may not be able to touch you,” he growls as he raises the spatha, “but I suspect this will.”

Baldruus roars, showering Guiromélans with flecks of slime, flesh, and worms.  Guiromélans cries out as the corruption burns him, the tiny worms burrowing into his flesh.

As he struggles for sight, the tyggskin attacks, cleaving the spatha in great arcs.  Guiromélans fights a defensive battle as he labors to wipe his face clean.  For once, the rain helps, and a sudden downpour eases his discomfort and clears his eyes.  The black creature surges towards him through the mud, pursuing Guiromélans as he tries to buy time.

The tyggskin is strong and swift and clever, but it is not used to combat with human weapons.  Guiromélans quickly detects flaws in its defense and matches them.  Soon, the ruined camp echoes with bellows of pain and outrage as Guiromélans’s blade rips into its exposed flank.

Sneering with fury, Baldruus backs away and grabs the Balen-creature before it can scramble away.  His talons cracking ribs and tearing blackened flesh, he clutches the child by the spine and lifts him up.

Guiromélans reels away from the terrible display.  The boy pleads to him silently.  With such a face, such a form presented against him, the Raven hesitates in his attack.  His eyes flicker from the boy’s frightened face, to the tyggskin’s leer.

“Please, Cathubodua,” Balen begs, “Help me!”

With a hiss, Baldruus attacks, swinging madly at Guiromélans.  The Raven blocks and dodges and feints, trying to work around the child.  He sees the opening and stabs.

Balen screams as the tyggskin uses him to block the blow.  Guiromélans reels away in horror.  His jagged saber has left a deep gash in the boy’s shoulder.  Baldruus smiles, licking the twitching child’s cheek.  “Easy, yes?” it hisses, “Come and get me, Raven!”

Guiromélans staggers backwards, his whole body turning cold.  Is what he sees really happening?  Can he trust his sight?  His vision flashes and briefly he sees their camp in turmoil, Caidryn and Balen dead and butchered by his hand, Baldruus screaming at him in horror over and over.  When his sight returns, he sees black blood welling from Balen’s wound.  Long, worm-like tentacles writhe in that blood, followed by bits of bone and teeth.

What can be trusted?  Guiromélans seeks and finds the cold, hard remains of his faith.  This, he clings to.  This, he trusts, and he lets his eyes see what they will see.  God will guide his blade.

Baldruus hesitates and even seems to grow a little smaller.  His body pulses and boils, rapidly losing any semblance of human shape.  It seems as if only his tattered clothes are keeping him from losing his form all together.  “You were not meant to leave this beach, Raven.  It was but a simple charge, and I will follow it!  This I will ensure!”

Though his body still shudders, his legs ever-threatening to fail him, Guiromélans smiles at the tyggskin’s cautious approach.  “Feel my faith, demon,” he snarls, “Feel the burn!”

Baldruus howls as if truly in pain and shambles towards him, the spatha held not so much by a hand as it is buried in a gigantic tumor of flesh and bone.  The two combatants trip and stagger around each other, each hardly cutting dashing figures in the duel.  The stakes are no less high, however, and the participants no less desperate.  Guiromélans blocks and dodges as well as his ravaged body allows, the jagged blade of his sword leaving angry gouges in the flesh of Baldruus and his child-shield.

Guiromélans prays—he utters the testimonials of the saints—he recites homilies of the Prophets.  He does so because they strengthen him and weaken his foe.

He smiles at the demon, “You are but finite, tyggskin, but the power of God is endless!”

The tyggskin stops in its attack.  Its one remaining eye glares at the Raven—there is resignation and fear there—and suddenly it lowers its sword.  “Wait, Raven,” it gurgles, “Hear me—”

It is the opening Guiromélans was looking for.  His saber slices in a wide arc, cutting into the demon’s skull just above the eye.  Baldruus shudders, corpulent blood suddenly spurting from mouth and eyes and other nameless orifices.  Slowly, the top of his skull rises and tips back like the lid of a box, and a seething mass of worms and tendrils swarm out, grasping, reaching, consuming what little skin is left on the sorcerer’s body.

It just stands there, shuddering, being eaten by its own corruption.  Bowls evacuate explosively, covering its legs and the ground beneath with more filth.  The scent of rotting death fills the camp.  Slowly, Balen’s hacked body slides from Baldruus’s limp fingers and falls to the ground, more fodder for the tyggskin’s death worms.

Guiromélans stands back and watches, ready to fight, though his arms barely have the strength to lift his sword.  Ironically, the tremors finally appear to be abating.

“How long?” he screams at the dieing demon, “How long have you tyggskins been with me?”

The creature’s lips move silently, meaninglessly, and then fresh gouts of maggots spill out.  As if melting, it falls slowly, sinking down, before finally collapsing backwards.  The body breaks open, and black effluvia spreads everywhere, hissing in the air.

Carefully, painfully, Guiromélans limps around the body.  He finds the Median where Balen dropped it.  Taking it up, he gasps with relief when it begins to reform, the shine of the silver and iron rapidly returning.  He tucks it away before he sees where it stops.  He’s not yet ready to know where he stands with God right now.

Carefully, he cleans the ichor from his saber.

“Wh— whaaaat?”

Guiromélans turns around.  The tyggskin’s body shudders.  Like a wave of flatulence, it belches, “Whaaaat?”

Guiromélans carefully approaches, “What?  Speak before going to Hell, demon!”

“L— last oath?” it vomits, “Chivalry?  Your shame?”  Pierced as it is by its own maggots, the tyggskin’s one eye rolls in its swollen socket.

Guiromélans turns and takes some steps from the camp before pausing.  He turns and smiles at it.  “I know my shame now.  For that, I have you to thank.”

With that, he performs the prayer over the tyggskins and watches as its power disintegrates them.