The Birth of Vengeance

by Slawomir Rapala

Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4, part 1; part 2
appear in this issue.

Chapter 5: The Birth of Vengeance

conclusion

The morning rose blood-red over the steppes. The crimson sun threw hesitant glances at the scorched remains of a homestead. Nothing moved on this bleak landscape. Only a solitary fig tree grew some distance away from the blackened earth and its outstretched branches swayed in the faint breeze. Thin threads of smoke rose from some of the piles of ash.

A small group of warriors slowly approached the site of carnage. Their armors and weaponry glimmered in the rising sun. At the head of the group rode a tall black man. His blood-shot eyes betrayed a sleepless night, but they scoured the nearby surroundings relentlessly in search of any movement.

“He’s not here, N’Cton,” a man who rode beside him said.

“The bodies are gone,” someone else added as the group halted the horses beside the lonely fig tree.

“He must have buried them.”

“His family’s, yes,” N’Cton responded. “What of the murderers?”

“He burned them.” The group’s leader, a tall mercenary who called himself Taurus to emphasize his physical strength, pointed at the piles of ash around them.

“He marked no graves,” N’Cton remarked. “He must be planning to...”

Something stirred before him and the black man stopped and looked. He gasped. A figure rose wobbly from the ground and reached out to him with an inarticulate mumble.

“Dear gods!” someone shouted and the entire group backed away in fear, drawing swords at the same time. Only N’Cton remained still although his heart skipped a beat, and he studied the ghastly image before him.

Long strips of skin hung loose from the man’s body, exposing great fields of red flesh. Black holes gaped back at him from where the wretch’s eyes used to be. His maimed face was featureless and unrecognizable, no more than one large, open wound. Dried blood covered the man’s whole body except for those places where fire had been applied, leaving behind scorched flesh.

The shadow stood uncertainly on his shaky legs and again it reached forth with his arms. N’Cton noted some of the fingers missing, others lacking finger-nails. The wretch gasped for air and stumbled forward.

“He’s trying to say something,” Taurus said after having tamed his fear. He was unable to rid himself off disgust, however.

“His tongue is ripped out,” N’Cton replied matter-of-factly, despite being shaken by the horrible image. “He will tell us nothing.”

The black mercenary slid off his mount and quickly approached the poor wretch with a knife in hand. A powerful blow ended the man’s misery. He collapsed lifeless to the ground and everyone breathed with relief.

N’Cton looked over the surroundings one more time, though he knew his friend was long gone.

“How can a man be the author of such torment?” Taurus shook his head.

“We cannot judge him,” the black man looked back at the tall mercenary. “We will never know the rage and the pain that surge through Aezubah’s heart.”

“I imagine his taste for vengeance is satisfied, though?”

“I doubt it,” N’Cton replied and looked at the tree where just the previous day he saw the small bodies of three young boys swaying in the powerful gusts of the hot wind that reached them from the burning homestead. He recalled their purple, swollen faces and then remembered how he used to teach them archery out on the steppes. He clenched his fists and then wiped the tears from his eyes.

“His hatred is stronger than any man’s,” the black man said, as if to himself. “And his wrath will cripple whole nations.”

N’Cton knelt and gathered a bit of ash. Then he straightened his back and opened the palm of his hand, scattering the ashes in honor of the dead.

“May the gods forgive him,” he said, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon.

“The gods have forsaken that man,” Taurus replied.

“And he has forsaken them.”

“He’s gone mad,” someone else added.

“No,” N’Cton shook his head. “He’s gone after vengeance. Aezubah as we knew him is dead to the world. And the world will never be the same again.”

The black man’s prophetic words rang in their ears as they turned their horses around and headed for Oyan, the most civilized of all cities of the Southern Realms. N’Cton rode last, now and again throwing grim glances over his shoulder, hoping against all odds that he would see his friend riding towards him. But nothing moved between the earth and sky.