He was fat and jolly, dressed in whites and golds, a wreathe around his head of steel and silver. When you opened the door for him he seemed to block out the sun like an eclipse. He grinned wide and white, with hungry teeth, and gave you a silver coin.

He sat with your fathers and drank with them. He thanked them for their service.

Your fathers sent you and your friend away, and you went outside to play as soldiers--as your fathers. You, the winged boar and he, the swimming lion. He won, or you did, or you both ended up lying in the grass, laughing while your fingers, red and swollen, throbbed with the beating of your heart.



When the Lord emerged from your home, your fathers behind him, he grinned as hungry as before.

He walked to your friend and knelt down, placed a hand on his shoulder. He whispered something in the boy's ear, and then the two of them rose. He put his hand on your friend's back and lead him away, towards the castle.



[[Your friend looked back at you, once, as he dropped his tree-branch sword to the ground.|Not with words.]]

You let go your stay, and he plunges the poisoned knife into your neck. You feel the warm blood pour out of you.

It runs down the blade and mixes with his.

You take your mouth away, and bury your face in the soft grass and moss beneath him, wet with dew--[[or is that his blood, too?]]



He was training too, with his father. Mastering bow and short blade, the knife and the toxin. He had grown fascinated with killing from afar, with that skill known only to man--plotting death, taking life beyond arms' reach.



The two of you learned the ways of your caste on your own, without peer, only master, and you did not speak again.



[[Save once.|The last time you spoke.]]

He told you a story.

Of the thirst of the devil.

Of the hunger of the gods.



Of a fiefdom where children are brought into dark stone hallways. Where an infallible Lord is given freedom to pursue dark desires.



[[He told you a story and did not look at you.]]





You grab his wrist, stop the knifepoint an inch from your throat. He pushes--weak, but stronger than you expected--and the blood boils from his mouth. His gritted teeth seem fit to snap.



You hold tight, notice the sheen of the blade.



Poison?



[[You smile.]]





<big>Heirs to Bloody Glory</big>



by Z.W. Garth







<blockquote>[[Start|The Forest is Cold]]</blockquote>









<small><small><blockquote><blockquote><blockquote>[[Credits]]</blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></small></small>

You've known him since you were young. The both of you were small, with smooth skin and wide, clear eyes. Back then you did not know what a soldier was, what your father and his father were. What you would be.

But you came to learn.

You grew up together on your Lord's estate, behind brown stone walls that yearned to be climbed, black iron gates that sang with joy to be opened, songs of bloodshed.

Together you played, games that would teach you how to fight, the only games you were allowed to play. Sticks and swords and bows and maces, bruised cheeks and broken fingers. Hot blood and cold tears and spit soaked in swears, yours and his, mixed and fed the green grass of the grounds. The tree leaves soaked in your laughter as much as the sun.

Neither of you would admit it, but you were evenly matched.



[[And though they were games, you played to kill.]]

He was your boyhood friend, your man-at-arms, taken one day without warning by the Lord of your fathers. And when he came back from that distant castle, he was different. His eyes seemed smaller. He seemed smaller.

You had waited outside, your eyes on those rising towers, until long after the sun fell. Your father told you to nevermind it, to come inside, but you would not.

You asked your father what the Lord wanted with your friend, and he did not answer. He went to bed, but you watched those towers in the distance, with their flickering gold lights in the window, their billowing curtains. The shadows that moved behind them.

[[You watched, until the last light went out.]]

He lies beneath you now, and the hammer holds high like the eye of God.

He is suffering.



You don't understand how you've found your way here. You don't understand why.

You are the fear-slayer.

You struck down the devil--for him.



You drop the hammer.

It falls to the dirt, the boar buries its eyes in the soft moss.

[[And you sit down beside him.]]

[[You press your lips against his, scarlet-red and cold with blood.|Death]]

When you let go of him, he stared at you from above. His wide eyes emotionless, observant. Each breath deep, and conscious.



He turned from you, entered the water and walked to the other side of the stream. Silently he gathered his things, and he left.



You waited there in the water until you grew too cold to bear it any longer, until your boots sunk into the soft gravel floor and the minnows swam between the cracks in your armor.



You thought about the boy you knew. About how his back looked as he walked to a castle in the distance. About [[how the boy was murdered|and a stranger sent back]] there, [[and a stranger sent back|You raise the hammer.]].

The forest is cold, and calm. But you are warm, and full of fire.

The wet ground sinks beneath the weight of you, the mud squeezing tight on leather boots wrapped to your leg with twine and tendon.

Clad in steel and fur, you are more than human. You are a beast, armed in claw and scale dredged from the earth.

You are the fear-slayer.

And what is he?



[[The arrow comes from the west.]]

He turned to you slowly from his perch, without surprise or fear. Had he heard you coming? His eyes were wide and round. They took everything in. They missed nothing.

Your fingers tightened around the leather-bound staff of your hammer, struck by the fear of him.

He stood, his skin tight over muscle gone hard, pristine and pale--save for the scars.

They dotted his flesh like pairs of dark stars, knotted holes bored into his flesh in twos. On his stomach, his back, his groin, his thighs. Each star the same distance from its mate. Too perfect, too small to be the remnants of training mishaps.



He saw you staring, and he turned northwards.



[[Towards the castle.]]

The dark eyes of an animal.



The fear-slayer.



[[You kiss him.]]



[[You kill him.]]



He is somewhere behind the trees. A ghost, a wasp darting through the cold winter air.

You know him. The lion and the fish, quick and sharp. He will not face you directly, not now. Not anymore.

But you have advantages.

The cold numbs fingers, makes it harder for them to work. It is harder to pull a bowstring quick, or to throw a knife true, when the cold eats at your bones.

But it is not so hard to swing a hammer, and swing you do. It's in fury and in anguish, it is not meant to strike him. But your hammer digs into the nearest tree, sends a crack reverberating through the woods and the birds fleeing as the tree's white flesh bursts forth.



You demand he face you, and he does not respond.

[[Not with words.]]

He turns and flees.







[[You hesitate.|A figment of something passed.]]



[[You follow.]]



Written and designed by Z.W. Garth





Read more at [[WoodardWeird|http://www.woodardweird.com]]



[email protected] ?subject=Heirs to Bloody Glory">

Contact





version 1.0 4-18-2015





[[back|Start]]

[[A year passed.]]

The Lord went hunting.

A great stag had been seen in the forest.

A call went out for a body-guard.

[[And you volunteered.]]

[[And for what you did there,, he could not forgive.|You raise the hammer.]]

The forest was cold, and calm. But you were warm, and full of fire.

The wet ground sank beneath the weight of you, the mud squeezing tight on leather boots, wrapped to your leg with twine and tendon.

Clad in steel and fur, you were more than human. You were a beast, armed in fist and scale dredged from the earth.

You were the fear-slayer.

And what was he?



A man with gold coffers.

With the thirst of the devil.



[[You swung the hammer.]]

Arrows clash off your helm, dig into soft fur.

One finds its mark below your collar, in between pauldron and chestplate. It bites deep into the flesh and you feel the warm wet growing beneath the plates.

No matter, though. He cannot flee and fire at once, not with any success anyway, and you close the gap on him.

You let the blood pouring over your chest power you, ignore the fang of steel and oak jutting out of you even as your muscles scream, and swing the hammer.



His chest warps and cracks.



[[He falls to the soft, moss-laden dirt. ]]



It strikes you in the arm, digs into fur and stops at the steel.

You turn to its hidden source and roar, spittle flying from your cold-cracked lips, steam like dragon's smoke pouring from your mouth.

You grab the shaft and snap it, toss the fletchings to the ground.

In your hand you hold a warhammer, its iron head a flat-faced boar, its pick styled like a heron's beak--the beasts of your house and name.

You call your challenger coward, you call him betrayer, loud enough that the gray clouds above the treetop will hear your charge.

Another arrow flies past your ear, sings to you in whispers of wind and steel.



[[Who is he, this man who has called you to the woods to die?]]



[[You will charge him, your hammer held high.]]



You push the blade away but hold tight to his arm. He pushes still as you swing one leg over his waist and sit atop him, staring down.



You wipe the blood away from his mouth with your free hand, and he watches you still--eyes unblinking, neither fury or fear or curiosity.



From what well does he find this strength?



[[You draw a knife from your side.]]

The End.

He's fast. He was always faster, always just ahead, a back in between the trees for you to follow, those long legs taking him ever forward, beyond your grasp, so out of reach.



But this is not childhood play. This is not a game of small blood and dark bruises.



This is brighter--as bright as a forge's fire, washing out every detail with its sharp, pure light. A singular goal, only one result.



[[A losing die, the Death card drawn.|And you became a warrior.]]

[[You press your lips against his, scarlet-red and cold with blood.|You kill him 2.]]

Your fathers went to war--not the play war of the villa, but the kind with clashing steel and screaming horses, the ground made muddy with blood. When they came back they returned with new Red, Red that healed and became scars on their arms, their backs, their faces.

They gave you swords they took off the fallen, and while you admired them your fathers stared into red goblets.



[[Soon, the Lord came to visit.]]

The other members of the guard panicked, as the heron's beak of your pick plunged into the eye of your Lord. They screamed and drew weapons as the fat man shrieked shrill, rolled on the ground as a pool of blood mixed with the rotten leaves and cold dirt. You pulled back the hammer and drew bits of his eye and skull with it.



They charged. Clashed blades against your armor. Bit your flesh with daggers.

But you were the fear-slayer. The winged boar.



[[And you were undettered.]]





[[You plunge the blade deep into his throat.|Death]]

Two days later he came back, with a servant from the castle and a single armored guard. He carried a small, brown bag that jingled.

He did not wish his escort goodbye, they simply stopped in the field and he continued, and you ran to him.

You called his name, but he did not respond. He walked past you, the ringing of the coinpurse in time with his step. He did not look at you, didn't even notice you were there. He was a ghost, or you were.



[[A figment of something passed.]]

[[The forest is cold, and calm, but you are warm.]]

What had happened?

His father's eyes sunk in, your friend's grew dark.

Your father would not speak to you about it.

Childish sparring ended.

With no one else, you took up sword and hammer and trained with your father.



[[It was no longer play. He taught you to kill.|It stopped being games.]]





You saw your friend, once, sitting on a treestump firing arrows into the soft wet wood of a maple, the sweet scent of the tree's flesh wafting towards you as it splintered and cracked with each steel tooth.

When you took a step towards him he fled into the woods, nimble as a cat.



[[You began to train with your father.]]



[[And you became a warrior.]]

You killed them all, until the last man fled from you, a monster soaked in blood and bone and gore. But the Lord was still alive.



You stood over him and stared.



A fat man, and old. No longer so jolly with his face covered in lifeblood, his teeth soaked in Red, mewling in agony.



For a moment you wondered, horified, what you had done. Your stomach twisted in knots, tried to claw up your throat. This man owned your soul. This man was the reason for your existence, for your father and his father for as long as anyone could say. And you'd struck him down. Could you take it all back? Would you, if you could?



You thought of a young boy walking away from you, never to return. [[And you brought the hammer down.]]



He sees the blade, and he knows what is to come.



The two of you, mere children, playing at swords in the woods beneath a cloud-caped sun.



Watching him walk away, one last glance back.



A stranger returning home.



Crimson blood filling the hoofprint of a deer.



Unforgivable.



He pushes against your stay, and you give him leeway. His blade draws close, until you can feel the knife's hunger by your throat.



[[You lean forward.]]







With each breath blood rolls over his lips, as if a quiet stream over a ledge.



A creek in the forest where you grew up.



[[The last time you spoke.]]



[[You raise the hammer.]]

You wanted to tell him what you'd done, but he already knew.

You wanted to flee with him, but he would not be moved.



He gave you three days.



[[And then, he said, he would kill you.|You raise the hammer.]]

You thought you'd have more questions. But it all seems plain to you here. The weight of him beneath you. The slow, labored breaths. The smell of blood and sweat and dirt.



This is the end. Like your fathers', and like theirs, and now yours.



[[Like the games you used to play.]]

When he'd finished your hammer fell to the mud, and you walked into the stream.

He did not move at your approach, did not shudder or take his eyes away from the trees that hid his Lord's keep.

You stripped off helm and gloves as the water swept against your legs, pushed your knees, begged, weakly, to overtake you. And your armor went heavy, and your face contorted, and you went to him.

He stood on that shining stone and you wrapped your arms around him, felt his back against your fingers, pressed your face into that hard stomach. You felt his breath ripple through him.



You wanted to cry, but did not.

You wanted to cry for the boy you knew.

You wanted to cry for the man you did not.



[[But you didn't.]]

A flurry of arrows rain upon you from the trees. One rings against your gauntlet, another digs into the furs over your chest.

But he's given himself away--you see him.

His eyes are wide and bright, dark and lined in black like when he was young. He is not dressed in heavy furs and steel plate. He's in leather and cloth. He wants to be able to run. To run from you. He is afraid.

Your mouth is open. You can taste the air.



[[You can taste him.]]

[[You can taste his fear.]]



[[And full of fire.]]

You are charging in pursuit, a demon forged from iron dug and animal slain. Tree branches clash against your helm or are shattered on your hammer, and you are barely slowed.



[[He turns to you, and fires.]]

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The last time you spoke you stumbled upon him there, sitting on an iridescent stone in the center of the stream, perched like a gargoyle.



His bow and clothes were on the riverbed, and he did not look up at your approach. Why you were in the forest you can no longer remember. Your father was away, slaying barbarians in the Southlands. His had died in the last harsh winter, skin pale, his chest full and soft like a wineskin. You didn't know it then but your father had already died, his mouth full of bits of shattered teeth and bubbling blood, a sunset away from his home.



You were the oldest now, the warriors of your names. The mer-lion. The winged boar.



[[Warrior slaves bound to your Lord.|Heirs to bloody glory.]]

[[Heirs to bloody glory.|You raise the hammer.]]

The guardsman who got away told the people in the villa of your treachery. He told them what you'd done to your fellow soldiers, and to your Lord. A bounty went out on your name. You were stripped of titles, of honor. You were less than a dog.

A prize was placed on your skin.

You had no home to go to.

[[So you went to his.]]

[[You plunge the blade deep into his throat.|You kiss him 2.]]

He watches you. Stares with those wide-dark eyes. His ribs are broken, maybe his back.



He takes everything in.

He is observant.

He is absorbant.



You take off your helm.

You take off your gloves.



He watches as you reach out, touch his face. His blood, already growing cold in the air, streaks in your fingers.



[[The blade cuts through the air like a shooting star.]]

Shield and spear.

Morningstar.

Longsword.



The hammer was your favorite.



You learned from your father, and in your tearing muscles and hot blood you stopped asking about your friend. It was not your place to question the Lord, your father said, though you had no idea what questions to ask. So instead you focused on the hammer.



The hammer slew fear. Crushed it. Took your will and summoned it up your arm, broke through the enemy's iron ego.



[[Somewhere in the woods, bows rang.]]