Soulweaver 54: Blasphemy at Basecrest (Patreon)

I didn’t know what I’d been expecting from the Champion of Dominion. Someone strong. Tall. Fierce.

I got all of those. The Champion—Eskil, as he was called, might’ve been a bit skinny, but he was absolutely huge, and not just vertically like the giants were.

His frame was wide, and it felt like with some exercise, he’d bulk up, resembling the sort of giant I’d always pictured.

He wore furs that showed much of his chest, and his blonde hair was shaved at the sides like a Viking. I mean, he had a Viking name, too, so I supposed that made sense.

Just that, of all the people who could’ve stood beside him, I hadn’t expected it to be Odin.

“Uh, Aerion?” I asked as the procession rounded the bend. As expected, the crowd went absolutely wild at the sight, and I had to dodge waving arms that came at me from all angles.

“Isn’t he marvelous?” Aerion shouted over the crowd, starstruck.

“Sure. I guess? But is that Dominion beside him?” I asked, pointing at the giant norse figure.

Aerion frowned. “I do not know who that is.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was Odin…” I trailed off.

The horned helmet, that enormous spear. The furs… The larger than life feel I got just by looking at him? Yeah, that had to be Odin. Right?

“Did someone decide on a Norse theme for this parade, or something?” I second-guessed myself before the words had even left my mouth. 

Then again, with a name like Eskil, Son of Magnus, Favored Blade of Dagsomething, I doubted this was just cosplay. The heck was going on here?

Eskil stood atop a massive wheeled parade float that was absolutely covered in gold decorations, and was pushed by a dozen people. It took up the whole street, and was so tall that Eskil’s head easily came up to the second story windows.

The procession trundled down the road, inching closer to our position, and I found myself wishing I was anywhere else. Nevermind that I hated crowds in general, but the claustrophobia of being squashed against other people, the ear-ringing cheers, and the blaring parade music got old fast.

I was just considering the pros and cons of plugging my ears when Eskil kneeled to Odin, causing gasps of breath among the crowd.

“Why is he kneeling? Is someone there?” someone said.

“I saw his lips move! He was talking to someone.”

“But who? Unless… Dominion? Could it be?”

“Nonsense. Our god is far too busy to visit a city as small as ours…”

“Say,” Greg said to the man next to him. “Is there anyone next to the Champion?”

“Nope. Just him, that I can see. Really wonder who he’s talking to.”

Yep. That settled it. Dominion was Odin. Or, Odin was Dominion. Or more likely, Dominion was only showing himself to his Champion. 

Which made me wonder why I could see him. Were the gods unable to conceal themselves from the Champions of other gods? If so, that was curious. Very curious. It meant—

“Greg, look! They’re nearly here!”

Honestly, watching Aerion get this excited was a spectacle in itself. I couldn’t think of a single instance where she’d shown this much emotion. She truly believed in Dominion. In his benevolence and might.

And who knew? Maybe she was justified in that belief. I looked back at Odin-Dominion… Except he was gone.

For a horrifying moment, I thought we’d been discovered. That the god had seen us.

Then I realized just how stupid that was. The Champions were supposed to work together to defeat the Cataclysm, not fight each other. For some reason, I’d been thinking of Eskil as an adversary, but instead, I really ought to think of him as a future ally.

One look at the way the big man waved at the crowd with undisguised arrogance, and I had a feeling we wouldn’t get along. First impressions and all that.

The procession passed us by, entering into the empty plaza.

The moment Eskil’s float reached the center of the large space, a bright golden light flashed, and from high in the sky, a figure slowly descended.

“Dominion!” Aerion breathed. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in prayer, and she wasn’t the only one.

The crowd that had just been bursting with adoration just moments before fell into a hushed silence, and all around me, clasped hands greeted their god.

Not wanting to stick out, I did the same, but I kept my eyes open. This felt like too special an event to miss. I needed to see what the other gods were like, if only to get a sense of their relative power. I had to know where my patron deity stood in relation to the other gods. Especially with how detested he was.

The God of Dominion slowly descended, wreathed in clothing that glowed gold. The aura lessened when he touched the float beside Eskil, showing a man that was distinctly not Odin. He’d shrunk down and was exactly as tall as the giant Eskil. He wore a black garb with patterns that were also black, but somehow glowed. I didn’t know how my eyes were able to perceive neon black on a black cape, but they somehow did.

The god was fair-skinned, clean shaven, and entirely bald. But not old-bald. Bald-because-you-have-a-perfect-head-and-want-the-world-to-know bald. His muscles were anatomically perfect, his skin was an unnaturally beautiful bronze, and if anyone told me he was a god, I’d believe it. The deity looked like an army drill sergeant that had lived through every major war humanity had ever seen. 

Eskil looked wild. Dominion looked terrifying. His mere presence projected an aura of power.

I thought to my own patron deity, who took such awe-inspiring forms as The Bartender and Cosmotops the Resplendent, and sighed. I tried to console myself that gods could take whatever shape they desired, as Cosmo had proven. I tried to tell myself that Cosmo might secretly be quite powerful.

I sighed.

Dominion adopted a military parade rest as he cast his gaze about the crowd. When he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate, but I heard every syllable, like he was standing right next to me.

“Citizens of Basecrest!” Dominion began. “I come to you in these dark times, on the Eve of calamity, seeking not admiration or glory. But as the bearer of good news. After decades of searching, after toiling endlessly, I have found the Champion who will deliver you—my people—from the great evil that is to befall us. And not just any Champion. Behold, Eskil, Son of Magnus—Favored Blade of Dagfinnr! The finest Champion to ever tread upon Axius!”

Anticipating the end of his little speech, my fingers had found their way into my ears well before the crowd erupted in cheers. To say this was on another level than before would be an understatement.

Aerion, of course, was right there cheering at the top of her lungs. Unable to help myself, I clasped her ears with my palms, hoping her sensitive ears wouldn’t be permanently damaged from the noise that now assaulted me.

The elf didn’t even notice. She was too busy throwing petals of her dandelion into the air.

The God of Dominion allowed this to go on for a while—a very long while—before finally calling for quiet, which the audience obeyed immediately.

“And yet, what good is the strongest Champion without an equally impressive weapon to accompany him?” Dominion continued. “I hereby allow the City of Basecrest to present my Champion with tribute—that he might wield this weapon in his gallant and noble bouts with the enemy.” 

A procession of a dozen people had arrived at the base of the float, and Eskil jumped gracefully from the float to greet them. At their head was a man in an impeccably tailored velvet tailcoat. His blonde hair had been gelled back, and of the whole group, he seemed to be the only one who acted gracefully.

“Look! It’s Baron Sinclair!” Aerion whispered, tugging my sleeve.

Sinclair took a deep bow. “Your Divine Eminence. Esteemed Champion. As steward of Basecrest, allow me to welcome you. You honor us with your presence, and we shall sing of this day for generations to come. To commemorate this auspicious moment, please, accept a small token of our gratitude.”

He gestured to a tall, muscular man beside him.

The big man, who looked like a child next to Eskil and Dominion, took a halting step forward. His hesitant demeanor made him look even smaller in front of the duo, and I had to feel a little bad for him. Whoever he was—the Blacksmith guildmaster, I guessed—I didn’t envy him. Lots to lose. Little to gain.

“I-It is the honor of Basecrest’s Blacksmith’s Guild, to present this weapon to our blessed Champion. Forged by our very best smiths with immense care and love, let it serve you well in your defense of our beloved country. May it protect you in your darkest hour, and may it carry you to a swift and safe victory.”

His voice was amplified for our benefit, and with a gesture, Dominion had somehow created an enormous floating projection of Eskil and the Blacksmith rep for the benefit of the crowd. That in itself had caused quite a stir, until the god motioned for silence again.

It was why I was able to see the enormous black wooden case in great detail, as was everyone else.

From the size of the container alone, it was obvious the weapon was designed to Eskil’s size. The thing took three men to carry it to Eskil’s feet.

They unlatched the locks… and opened it, revealing the beautiful ax for the world… to see?

The crowd drew in a collective hush and a few gasps, but there was something off about them.

And then I saw it myself, and knew why.

The weapon inside wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t a work of art.

The blade was… covered in dung. Horse dung, by the look of it.

Eskil knelt and picked up the weapon, inspecting it closely. “The sigil. Dominion’s sigil. It’s been deformed! What is the meaning of this?” he seethed.

The Basecrest Blacksmith Guildmaster and the Baron both froze in horror, staring at the blade of the ax.

“I-I don’t understand,” the guildmaster said.

“What is the meaning of this?”

This time, it was Dominion who asked, and his ice-cold tone sent chills down my spine, despite the distance between us. The sudden wind that had whipped up around him didn’t help, either.

“Oh, I think we’re about to see a whole lot more than we bargained for,” I muttered to no one in particular.

The head of the Blacksmith’s Guild was sweating bullets now, at a complete loss for how to react. It was the Baron who spoke first.

“Our sincerest apologies, your divine Eminence. There seems to have been a mistake—this is clearly not the weapon we wished to bestow the—”

“It is,” the Blacksmith Guildmaster seethed. “I forged it myself. It’s been tampered with. Somebody has—!?”

Eskil slammed the ax into the stone at the men’s feet, embedding it there and sending dung flying onto his shoes. 

“I assume the guilty will answer for this?” he asked Dominion, turning his back on the party.

“They will,” the deity replied, slowly approaching . “They most certainly will. Will they not?”

The guildmaster seemed to have finally understood his delicate predicament.

“This ax is tainted. Not suitable for a Champion. I shall personally reforge the blade. I will make it better than ever before. Of this, you have my word.”

“Good,” Dominion replied, and for a moment, I thought the situation had resolved.

Then the deity spoke again, and the blood of everyone in the plaza ran cold.

“You will reforge the blade. And then you will find and execute everyone responsible for this act of blasphemy.” 

Then Dominion’s demeanor changed. His posture slackened a bit, and he turned and raised a fist to the crowd.

He opened his mouth, and said only one word. Just one word that turned the crowd from a fearful, panicky audience, to one that roared deafening cheers for their beloved god.

“Justice.”