A Gentleman's Guide: Interlude (Patreon)

A Gentleman's Guide: 

Interlude: A Woodland Slave

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Commissioned by Sivantic

Wordcount: 2500

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The elders told tales of those who dwelled within Sea of Sand. Those who traversed the scar which split apart the continent were a people as absolute as the land they inhabited. Merciless to all threats, accepting of all blessings, and cautious against anything beyond their knowledge. From childhood, each of the tribe is expected to contribute to the whole, and each one practices the art of communion with the spirits of nature. The least of them has bodies which can turn aside the glancing blows of swords, while the epitome can turn aside steel thrust with enough strength to punch through steel plate. 

As the ship that carried me and my boon companies fell, I expected to die. 

Even as I saw the one of the traveling, tent cities of one of the desert tribes below us, as I recalled the culture of the desert people. They lived prosperously upon the desert by taking no risks, by keeping to themselves, and by responding to any threat with absolute force. A ship carrying slaves from the Empire of the Sky would broker no aid from them. Though they respected guests, or those who required help in their path, none of the desert tribes would move to merely investigate a foreign affair… let alone mount a rescue against the monsters that filled the dessert. 

However, as the ship fell through the misbegotten machinations of a man who sought to kill a single Noble of the Sky, I felt a semblance of peace as I looked upon the dessert tribe trudging through the sands. 

The foundations of their cities were moving hills with tan shells and forked, great horns from which silk standards of the tribe hung. The largest had a nigh a hundred tents upon its back, each one as large as a peasant’s home, while the lesser titans that followed were like ducklings chasing after their mother. Each tent was a different color, every standard that hung upon the lesser titans differed too, and so an ocean of color moved through the dessert. Then, between the tents and the titanic beetles there were the people. ‘

I saw not the dark skin long painted by the harsh sun, nor the flesh that would turn aside weapons, but instead a people that lived without the yoke or its threat. Children, mothers, and fathers rode the children of those that carried their homes. Warriors rode flying, gigantic hornets that bristled with deadliness. Many of the more able-bodied floated lazily through the air between the least, lesser, and greatest of their tribe’s steeds. Each one was garbed in swathes of silk, dyed deep with their chosen color, and none were the same the other. 

As the elders told me, the tribes of the dessert traveled upon a living rainbow through golden sands, as the singular light of civilization that never been bent by the Empire of the Sky. 

It was a sight that I’d wished to see, one of the many that I had dreamt to look upon from the moment I crossed the threshold and left my people forever, and I would die happier knowing that my journey was not all for naught. 

I had abandoned my siblings, Raphaela, Ferdin, and Ljot. Though they no longer needed the parents which abandoned us in turn, I thought of them every day and wept at the thought of them knowing that I left them only to be enslaved. To each one, I had promised to be happy, to perhaps find our parents who left the threshold themselves, and to one day meet them on the precipice of our village’s territory upon winter’s solstice… just so that we can see one another is well. 

Searching for my parents merely led me to the same fate they suffered before their inevitable demise, and I would never see the smile upon my siblings faces ever again, but at least I would be witness one of the few things I dreamt of seeing the whole of my years before my passing. 

I would achieve a single fraction of the promise I made to my beloved siblings.

And so, I believed that I would die happily after years of despair.  

Instead after fighting for my life with the only ones I could call friend, I found myself being cared for by a demon.

…

Marek’s gaze was steady as he spoke with a smile. Josephine, Klaude, and Vin all shared my apprehension. The one he spoke to, the being with the guise of a child, approached each of us in turn. The mountain-dweller attempted to have focus be entirely upon him. Being the son of a merchant, the bearded, stout fellow as a man of many tongues… and he was gilded in them all. Even after we were all captured by demons and sent to the mines, his tongue and mind had saved us trouble and pain, whereas our fellows suffered and died long before us. 

We lived as long as we had due to his tongue and his mind, but now we all sat at the precipice of rebellion against him. I did not want to feel the touch of the being which felt no fear, which slew monsters with a single twitch of his fingers, and reeked of the blood of countless slain beasts. His very presence had nature quiver and meekly submit to him, depriving those around him of power while filling him with vigor, and only the truly strong could hope to stand firm in his simple presence. 

If not for the desert chieftain’s presence and constant deluge of power, I doubted we would be able to even breath in the masked demon’s presence. 

Simply staying awake as he stood over us, as we sat and ate a meal of thin, but spiced broth of the beasts that he had slain, was an incredibly tiring affair. My fingers trembled while holding the food I had been given, though swallowing it was mercifully easy and gave my withered frame some semblance of respite. I felt strength returning to the depths of my bones. Not nearly enough to withstand the demon’s presence without the Chieftain or my fellows, but enough to run away and seek solace and peace in the unforgiving desert. 

Marek noticed my gaze at the tent’s base, as the demon approached Josephine and she froze in fear.

“Do nothing. That child is beloved by the ruler of this tribe. Shaming him would have us dead in moments by that titan’s bare hands.” He spoke to me in my people’s language, with a smile that did not betray the true nature of his words. The entirety of his frame exuded warmth and cordiality, but the message he gave was one of chastisement and reproach. I listened. I understood. Yet, I remained unconvinced that they would be slain for my singular action. “Do not be a fool. We came to this tent together. We fought together. We are believed to be one and shall be treated as one.”

The logic was sound, but I could not give an answer.

Turning my gaze away from Marek merely strengthened my conviction. 

The entirety of the tent was filled with remains of violence. The skulls of terrible monsters were everywhere, while gruesome sketches of cadavers were neatly hung and presented. The innards of fearsome beasts were meticulously studied and sketched, their bones and muscle’s connections presented, and the entirety of their bodies were presented without secret nor shame. How many did he have to kill and torture to create a single scroll that detailed his prey? Dozens? Hundreds? Or, perhaps, a single one that he continuously harmed and tortured for years? 

I knew not how Marek could feel not an ounce of fear. 

Or, perhaps, he was simply hiding his fear.

A hand settled upon my shoulder it was calloused, but not in a manner I recognized. It was not by sword, spear, nor even an axe. The palms were soft, yet the finger tips were harsh. That is all my body felt from the contact, but my soul screeched and recoiled at the touch. It was as though deep, dark, and cold blood flooded into my form. The heat and warmth of the broth was forgotten by my senses, as did the tent and its other inhabitants. My people are attuned to nature’s will; therefore, we experience more of another at simple touch. Thoughts and motives were behind us, but the surface of the soul could be felt by our touch alone.

Each death rendered elicits rage and hate from the one killed. Those who kill incur hate from those they kill forever. Soldiers bear scars from which they might break if not attended. Those who fight to protect themselves, or perhaps hunt for their families, hold lacerations over their form that fade into the lightest of cuts. Those who are called avatars of war, saints of battle, or champions of blood drip in so much hate that a lake of blood follows in their wake to the point where even the untrained can feel the weight of their accomplishments. They are either dutiful to the point of madness, utterly uncomprehending of the hate of others, or relish the slaughter.

The demon with the child’s shape was empty. A vessel for hatred. He understood, he accepted, and he repeated his actions without a hint of regret. Instead of a river that flowed turbulently and washed upon others, he was a vast, placid lake. A body of blood that was deep, vast, and swallowed me whole. It sought to enter me; the thick, brackish blood sought entrance into the very depths of my being.

Thus, I understood true terror for the first time. 

“He used them. All of them. They were tools to him. All the lives he took, inflicted violence upon, and harmed forever.” The horrific pictures all around us were not for terror. It was for instruction. He carved apart monsters and other things for the sole sake of studying them, implementing what he learned, and then creating something of use. Not as a craftsman would to hide, flesh, and bone, but as a means to understand the bodies and forms of others. Through violence and suffering, he derived understanding of other… thus I was being swallowed by the weight of his ambition. “We must go. He will tear us apart! There’s no reason for him not to! I know… I know he has done what we now see onto other humans!”

In the deepest, darkest depths of the demon’s soul, into which I could normally not look upon, I sank until I was shown the truth. Countless bodies having inexplicable things done to them with metal and steel, within pools of blood, and language never spoken in the world—

I prepared to rise, to fight, and to die by the chieftain who cherished the demon, but suddenly found myself beholding a light instead of a darkness. The demon in the guise of a boy spoke, no longer a placid lake of endless blood, but instead a simple, grass-filled plain utterly bereft of malign intent. 

“He says that you have fared the best of us and you will not suffer from what has been done to you. The same goes for us all.” Marek and the others all felt the same. The shift from the demon who jumped into the fray of battle and was victorious in moments, then the flood of sanguine terror that stood as a child before us, to finally a simple child filled with cheer all overtook us. Marek had the gall to laugh at me, as well as the others, while we could all only stare at the shift in soul that ought to be utterly impossible. “It seems that a cruel trick was played upon us, friends! There’s nothing to fear—

“No. There were no tricks.” The chieftain of the tribe spoke to us. His few words of our own tongue drew our attention immediately. The soul he hid briefly became unveiled as he stood in all his glory and fury. Sitting felt inappropriate. Standing could not be done. The urge to supplicate and prostrate dominated my mind as the will of another imposed itself upon me without contention of my own self. I only felt such strength of self once before, as I gazed upon a kingly procession, but that paled in comparison to what I felt now. More frighteningly, the kingly disposition was nearly nothing against the hidden demon’s true nature. “His soul overcomes mine. It overcomes all. He uses it to mend wound, even the tainted.”

All within our grouping reacted differently to the words of the king-in-all-but-title. I protected the kernel of doubt within the depths of my soul against the man’s grand disposition and claim. Josephine’s features were flushed, as she all but heeded the grand man’s words, attempted to restrain her baser instincts, and harness her body with her mind. Claude nearly looked recalcitrant at the words, completely ready to comply and state that he was in the wrong, but held himself back by biting his tongue and drawing blood from his palms from a vice-grip. Vin closed his eyes, rallied himself with mantras unspoken, but when he opened his eyes again his expressionless mask remained altered by curiosity and the need to know the truth.

However, while we struggled, Marek utterly failed.

None of the Mountain could have hoped to hear such kingly words without falling completely and utterly.

And the speaker and leader of our group did indeed fall to his knees, as tears fell from him sharp, deep-set gaze, and snot fell from his large, bulbous nose.

“Then… then he might do the impossible!” Marek wept, yet a smile filled with hope and joy filled his gaze.

Those who dwelled within the hearts of mountains were sturdy creatures. They fought continuously against the dreaded beasts that crept, crawled, and skittered in the cracks that light never reached. Their bodies were one and all redoubts, capable of turning poorly-made edges with ease, and their constitution against illness was envied by all. 

However, a singular weakness to their race threatened them. Their own bodies were crafted so that should they incur too grievous of a wound, their bodies would run rampant due to their own grand health, and begin to grow into something horrific. Amputation, surgery, and excision of flesh was a necessity of their people, but only the fortunate could claim that their healing wounds no longer painfully grew outward until all they wished for was death. Most could not endure their flesh growing obscenely, so they wished for death, and it was given. 

However, there was one amongst Marek’s people that was so venerated and respected that when his wounds began to show the earliest signs of the illness, he was interred into a chamber where time lay nearly still and he would sleep until he could be made well by his people. 

The Death of the Darkness, Gor the Conqueror of the Mountain’s Shadow, may once again walk amongst the living. 

And in this age of slavery, where the sky is feared, he is needed more than ever by his people.

So, though we all had our worries and frets, we did not speak out and warn Marek as the words we feared left his lips.

“Please… please allow me to ask this treasure of your people, if he could heal my people’s first and only king!”