(THOB) Chapter 108: A Strange Thing (Patreon)

Ezril had felt the club descend even though he didn’t see it. He felt the spray of blood without seeing it. And it weighed down on him. Weighed down so heavily that he dropped to one knee. The pain screamed through his shoulders in a rondo of insanity so desperate he felt it in his bones. So much so that it pried his eyelids open.

Before him stood the monster of a man, bearing down on him. His club caught between his Sunders which, for reasons Ezril couldn’t fathom, were crossed above him in defense. The man leaned in closer and looked Ezril in the eye.

Looking back, what Ezril saw were yellow eyes absent of pupils and blood shot from end to end. The man’s skin, leathery, reeked of age old blood. The man sniffed the air between them and Ezril smelled something foul. It reminded him of a bear in a forest.

Tindubu.

“Aegis…” the man drawled, as a child would when pronouncing a word for the first time, and his breath smelled of death and decay. “…Immortal…”

Ezril collected himself, awoken by the smell and pain. Black sparks flew from the point where Sunders met club, and the man regarded him. The weight of the club reduced. It was but for a fraction of a time, and Ezril took advantage.

He shoved his enemy back.

He watched the man stagger, and he closed the distance, dashing towards him, ignoring the fact that both his sleeves now moved, soaked in blood.

He arrived before the man. Before he could strike, his opponent’s club came swinging from an odd angle. He reacted in record time, stopping the blow with both Sunders. The impact jarred his hands and he spun away. It was all he could do to avoid its continued trajectory.

A realization dawning on him, he felt the weight of the situation he was in. The man’s blow was the heaviest he had ever had the displeasure of going up against. Heavier even than Father Talod. And yet, for some reason his Sunders didn’t weigh him down as much as they always did. Even his action, defending and evading had happened so fast he hadn’t the time to think of them.

His body had simply moved.

Discarding his thoughts, he went for the man again. There was an uneasiness in the countenance of the Merdendis as they watched. It was like fear, admiration and disgust mingled in the air. An abominable chimera of emotions.

Ezril fell to the side at the last moment, evading the club and cutting into the man’s thigh as he rolled away. The man turned immediately, unhindered by the blow, and attacked him.

A flurry of blows and parries followed so fast Ezril feared he might lose. Each blow parried, heavier than the one before it. And yet…

He struck the club to the side and swung his Sunder in an upward arc, adding another injury to that of the arrows that remained embedded in the man’s torso. Blood did not flow. The club came down almost immediately and Ezril stepped away, creating a distance between them.

The pain in his shoulders continued to persist. It served to spur him on, screaming and screeching. Still, he looked on in confusion as his opponent regarded him with a confusion of his own, Lenaria now ignored behind him.

Ezril wondered at what was happening as blood dripped from his sleeves, and trickled down his calf from a tear he was more than certain he had in his leg. During their exchange, his Sunders had felt lighter with each blow. As he stood now he could all but feel nothing of their weight. Now he understood what Talod had meant when he’d asked them to think of them as extensions of themselves.

When he moved again, it was quick and precise.

His enemy’s club came down with lightning speed. Ezril evaded just before it made contact, leaving it to strike the ground in a quake as he drew blood, slicing the skin on the man’s side.

The man was proving too fast for his size and strength.

Time passed and their watchers began growing wary. Yet, Ezril’s enemy would not fall.

Ezril stood, soaked in blood from injuries his enemy had not inflicted. The man was covered in injuries he had inflicted countless times. All the while, Lenaria watched with worry, unable to help. Ezril had long since given up on deducing the cause of his injuries, and now, he stood, light-headed and almost dizzy from blood loss.

His opponent took another step towards him, unfazed. Ezril moved to the side. He staggered, and unable to evade the blow that came he caught it between crossed Sunders. The man regarded him again with the same absent stare he had had since the beginning. He seemed like a man crazed on some drug, held in a silent hallucination of war against a single opponent, never showing pain, never saying a word except those spoken at the beginning.

Then it dawned on Ezril.

And with the realization, came fear.

Hunmar had told the stories a few times, but they had always been stories. Not everyone told of the same qualities, but they were all but similar, clearly told to them by the ones before them, and to the ones before them by the ones before them. Spanning centuries in its descent.

Now Ezril studied his enemy.

In the stories they never showed pain. Not because they hid it, but because they simply couldn’t feel it. The cuts he had inflicted stared back at him. Blood clung to the man’s skin, spilled mildly from deep cuts, never dripping. Highly viscid. Men who bled, but not as any man should. Men with lifeless eyes that stared but never looked, for the life had long since left them.

Men without a gaze.

Men without wills.

Men that weren’t men.

Ezril retreated multiple steps as the pain in his back dipped into a louder shriek. By the life of him, the man standing before him was no man. And for the first time he feared for the war the realm sought to fight. Because now every able priest would have to take up their Sunders and rise to protect it.

It was the realm’s fight no more. Now, it was the seminary’s. He looked at the beast before him, knowing that what he fought was no man, and only one word sprung to mind.

Broken.

A dizzy spell came over Ezril again and his knees buckled under the weight of his opponent’s club. Knowing he’d lost too much blood and had too little time, he sought to end the battle quickly. The beast rose its weapon for another strike and Ezril rose with it, Sunder moving deftly.

He took the enemy’s arm first, severing it at the elbow. The action was swift. Behind it was a power borne from swinging wooden swords and Sunders for near ten years. The force of the collision sent both arm and club cascading through the air over fifty feet. Now the pain in his back roared like something demanding release, spreading into the length of his spine.

Ezril jumped to the side, evading the Broken’s swinging arm. One armed, and the beast still fought. He would have been impressed had Lenaria not been lying a few feet from him. The Broken came at him and he indulged it.

They met each other half way and he dropped beneath its blow. Its movements seemed slowed by the absence of one arm. Ezril cut it behind the knee, and it came down.

Just as quickly, he circled it. He mounted its knee, rose himself high, and swung his Sunder. He took its head in one swing, and it dropped to the ground with a roll. What was left of the body fell with a thunderous thud.

First came the calm. Then the confusion.

The Merdendis roared a savage thing as one, and came thundering towards them. Ezril moved as the closest man approached Lenaria where she lay tired but still conscious.

He rose his hand but his Sunder fell free of his grip. He ignored it, covered the distance required, and took the man by the neck. Blood pooling from every pore of his skin and too weak to do anything, he pushed him away. The others came running. Lenaria fought to rise to her feet but only made it halfway before falling back to the ground.

Their enemies drew nearer. Panic flooded Ezril. He dropped to Lenaria, shielding her with his body. It was futile. But it was all he knew to do. His spine throbbed. His scars ached. In his frustration, and need for release, he gave it what it sought.

He pushed out of himself, willing the pain away. It was like breathing while having his nostrils pinched shut. He felt a prickle in his skin. Pain ebbed from his spine. It came with the pain and relief of countless raging itches scratched with barbed clubs.

What happened next shook him.

It took leverage in his skin, forcing its way out of him through every pore in his body. Blood flowed, skin tore. A white pain filled Ezril’s head. His skin buckled. Pain tore from his lips, a howling cry of a dying man, like someone had taken his mind from his head and played with it, carving the true nature of pain into every fiber of his very being. His mind buckled on itself. Pain streaked through him and he couldn’t recognize the sound that left him.

The sound of men burned at the pyre paled in comparison.

Spent, Ezril looked up. The man nearest to them looked back in horror. He took a step back before his eyes rolled up into his head. He dropped without ceremony. Each man around them dropped one by one, as the Broken had. A cascading rumble of thuds shook the ground. It was the announcer of the dead. It was the harbinger of victory. It was the symphony of the fallen.

It was the ovation of the dead.

Bleeding from every orifice and pore, Ezril turned his attention to Lenaria. He found her looking back. He reached for her face and Tainted it. She held his hand in place, leaning into it, a horror in her eyes, and none of the relief he had expected to see.

His gaze slid to his hand and he snorted. He had never seen so much blood on a person’s hand before. He knew he had lost more blood than any man should. His hand came away gently. It left a stain on her face with his blood. He afforded her a cocky grin.

“We won.”

He teetered to the side, and fell.

“Ezril!... Ezril?”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried its way through him. In just the name, he could hear every emotion he knew her capable of. Anger. Sorrow. Worry. Fear….

Perhaps not all the emotions she was capable of. Just the bad ones. In it there was also an accusation.

I’m truly sorry, Aria, he tried to say but the words never left his mind.

He smiled.

Even smiling was painful. But he didn’t care. He no longer cared. She was alive, and that was all the victory he needed. He doubted she would ever forgive him for it, but in this moment he could die happy.

He closed his eyes from her teary face and let the accusation in her voice carry him into the darkness. Don’t cry too long…

It was a strange thing….

…. But dying seemed….

…. Peaceful….