A Father's Soul
The world slowed in an instant as Matthew caught his father, decrepit and dying, from a collapse. Matthew’s father, Jeremiah, grasped his son’s shoulder and struggled for words. “M-my son… I will now a-answer your question.” Jeremiah paused to cough to the side, and spray a fan of blood onto the dirt road. “I s-sold my soul t-to a d-d-death merchant n-named V-v-valarius. Save my body a-and seek out t-this demon… U-until then, know that I love you with the r-remains of my heart. I s-sacrificed my very being for that v-victory… It w-wasn’t worth it.” Matthew blinked back tears as Jeremiah turned again and coughed. His head never turned back. Matthew sat, staring down at the trickle of blood, bright against the father’s paled skin. Matthew gave up trying to stop the tears and wailed at the sky.
After a while the tears subsided and he stood. He stooped, shouldered the corpse and then straightened, heading back to the church, a mile behind them. Jeremiah had once been a great warrior, but his foolish trade had tormented him. He lived in a sort of half sanity as he watched his body decaying more and more each day. Matthew had watched silently, afraid to ask the question until the day before the fall. His father had coughed into one hand and waved the question off with the other. His hair had been falling out in large chunks held together by his peeling and bandaged scalp. Matthew had bandaged it when the bone of the man’s skull had become visible. This was a very painful process, made even worse by the acute sensitivity felt by every fiber of his body and mind caused by the insomnia of the past month. Sleep deprivation had contributed largely to the loss of sanity. Matthew had watched, silently and helpless, as his father was taken from him on the walk back from the long and barely victorious campaign. Jeremiah had preferred walking over horse riding. The rest of the army had gone ahead to ready the capital city for the triumphant return of the Prince Reagent and his son.
Matthew came to the church and laid his father down lightly in the grass, removed his gauntlet, and rapped his knuckles on the large doors. A robed monk pulled open the door and bowed his head in greeting. “Good monk, I charge you with an act of preservation and patriotism.” Matthew said, returning the bow. “I require that my father’s corpse is preserved until I can avenge him and return his soul to him from a demon named… I dare not speak his name in such a holy place, good sir.” The monk nodded without asking questions. He merely picked up the corpse and carried it into the sanctuary. Matthew dropped a pouch of gold coins into the offering tray and quietly closed the door and began his walk north.
The highroad along which he traveled was old, hardened with age and use. Horses hooves had mashed the dirt together, clotting it into an unbreakable surface. Nothing would be able to grow; nothing could push up through the tightly packed dirt. Matthew walked along, resting one hand on his sword hilt and letting the other sway by his side. The air was humid, and as heavy as the loss on his heart. His chain mail armor clinked against itself with each step, and Matthew was dimly sure that the repetitive noise would drive him insane… yet it didn’t matter. His legs were moving north, towards the city of Naamath, where a demon named Vegna was rumored to live. Vegna would give him the information he needed, or die hiding it. Valarius would bleed for his deal, and Matthew couldn’t wait.
A dim rumbling began, yet Matthew was ignorant to his surroundings. The rumbling grew and the ground began to tremble, slightly. Matthew still didn’t notice. The trembling in the earth grew to a shake, and finally broke Matthew out of his reverie when the ground heaved up to the west of the highroad. Matthew beheld the swelling earth in astonishment, reaching his right hand over and grasping his sword hilt, crouching slightly. The swelling earth finally broke, spewing dirt through the air. Matthew blocked the flying dirt with his left arm and drew his sword. The air cleared and he lowered his arm. Out of the newly formed hole in the ground crawled forth a large insect-like creature on six legs. The creature looked at Matthew and opened its mouth, revealing an alien region of blood stained teeth. Matthew gaped at the monstrosity as it took huge steps towards him. The creature drew closer and Matthew composed himself, quickly lowering his left arm to join his right on the sword’s hilt, ready to strike. The creature raised its arm and struck out at Matthew. He jumped back and the heavy limb passed by harmlessly. Matthew stepped forward and slashed at the arm that the creature had swatted him with. His sword bounced off of the tough exoskeleton and Matthew cursed. The creature swung again and struck Matthew in the side, throwing him to the ground. He stood and yelled a phrase he had memorized during his training in the arts of combat: “Souls of mine ancestors, strengthen mine blade!”
Matthew’s sword glowed a pale white, which quickly strengthened into a piercing red. The actual blade lengthened, and so did the hilt. The blade’s glow faded, leaving a heavy claymore. Then, the blade erupted into flames. Matthew smiled maniacally and his eyes turned a lively red. He ran at the monstrosity and slashed once, then twice, and then entered into a furiously charged attack, hacking the creature extremely quickly, despite the weight and size of the blade. Matthew ended by jumping backwards and doing a pencil dive thrust into the creature’s left eye.
Matthew pulled the sword out slowly, feeling drained. His eyes returned to their normal green, and the sword shrunk back to a normal sized broadsword. Dark tendrils of smoke began to rise from the insectoid carcass, and then flames enveloped the beast, polluting the air with the sickening smell of charred meat. Matthew sheathed his sword and sighed. The beast was slain, yet this held no meaning to him. Suddenly, his sword slid from the sheath and levitated in the air before him, blade tip aimed directly at the burning creature. Matthew reached out and grasped the sword. With the feel of the master’s hand, the blade fired out a beam of light, striking the carcass. The beam disappeared, and Matthew stood awkwardly for a second, mystified. He shook his head at the phenomenon and attempted to sheath his sword, yet it was unmovable, as if magnetically sealed to the spot. Then Matthew noticed that the flames were no longer lapping at the creature. They were not moving at all. Suddenly, the carcass began to glow, and the glow floated up and meshed together on itself, before floating through the air to envelope the outstretched sword. The brief smell of peaches hit Matthew’s nostrils as the sword absorbed the remains of the creature.
Matthew sheathed the sword and turned back to the north, sighed again and began his walk. He stopped and made camp, not bothering to build a fire. Hunger did not plague him, although he had not eaten since breakfast. The despair gripping him didn’t care if he was nourished. Nor did he, any longer. He just stared into the sky for what seemed like a long while before his eyes fell shut and his mind coiled within itself.
The sky was a morbid red and it flashed with an almost skeletal lightning from poisoned clouds. Matthew stood in a wasteland, looking around at the remains of a beautiful world. Lightning flashed and struck the parched, cracked ground near Matthew and he instinctually shielded his eyes. He dropped the hand and his father stood, peering at him with a malicious gleam in his eyes and an insane grin plastered on his face. Matthew reached for the man, and he… flickered. Matthew thought he saw a bald manlike thing with scrolling scars across its nude body. Then it was his father again, and Matthew’s hand clapped down on his shoulder. Jeremiah winced, and then screamed in horrific pain as his shoulder under Matthew’s hand began to decay, ripping the skin, and then rotting it to nothing. Every fiber screamed as Matthew pulled back his hand, horrified. Jeremiah screamed again and began to tear at his hair, ripping up skin and causing blood to pour down over his face. Matthew stared, enrapt at the horror before him. Suddenly his sword drew itself and hung, suspended in air. A voice whispered to him and said, “End his pain…” Matthew grasped the sword, and lightning struck again, this time striking the sword and climbing up his arm, spreading at his shoulder. One tendril climbed around his neck and entered his ear, causing his head to go numb and everything to attain a certain type of clarity. The other tendril dug into his heart and he fell, dimly aware of how he had failed his father…
Matthew awoke violently to find his sword unsheathed and stuck in the ground next to his head, gleaming in the light of the dying fire. Fire? I didn’t make… Matthew bolted upright to see two people sitting around a small fire. One was male and the other was female. The woman was staring at him with an almost raw intensity. The man stared off to the west; thoughtfully chewing on a toothpick he had probably whittled himself. “W-who are you?” Matthew choked out, soaked with sweat from his dream.
“We’re here to protect you.” The man said, still staring off to the west.
“From what?”
“From yourself.” The girl said, angrily, “look at your arm before you ask stupid questions.” Matthew was dimly aware of a searing pain in his left arm. He looked down to find blood. He wiped it away and a gasped. A rune was carved into his skin. A bloody razor lay on the ground several feet away.
“We heard you shouting in your sleep. We came across you rolling around on the ground hacking at yourself. As much as you moved, it’s amazing that the rune turned out so perfectly.” The man said in an unconcerned tone. He turned his head and looked Matthew in the eye with one of his own. The other eye was merely a scarred hole. “My name’s Nahum, by the way. And this fiery and rather angry young woman is Ruth.” Matthew nodded and rose, grasping the hilt of his sword. He pulled it up from the ground and his eyes widened. In the distance, yet coming closer, Matthew heard footsteps. He transferred his sword to his other hand and assumed a combat stance. As his body formed the age-old stance out of mere habit, he heard the footsteps increase into a run.
A slender young man, younger than Matthew, charged into the ring of light put out by the fire. The man, hardly more than a boy, didn’t slow as he came closer to Matthew, almost as if he couldn’t. Matthew put an arm over his face as the newcomer collided with him at full speed, knocking them both to the ground. Matthew rolled to the side and kicked off the ground to his feet. He stared down at the newcomer. He was dressed all in leather. His sleeveless jerkin was torn in several places, with scars to match the tears. His boots, however, were in the worst shape. One was mangled to the point that it couldn’t really be considered a sandal, and the other had no sole.
The mere sight of the ragged man enraged Matthew, and he threw his sword to the side as he screamed in his rage. The sound was unintelligible and throaty. Violence flashed in his eyes as he began to kick the man’s torso, over and over. The man rolled over and began to rise, but was thrown back to the ground by the force of Matthew’s boot. After a while, Matthew stooped and grabbed the man’s jerkin collar and pulled his face near to his own. “What the hell were you thinking, charging me like that?” He growled violently through clenched teeth. The poor wretch loosed an inaudible noise and then coughed. “What was that, you worthless b*****d?” The wretch lifted a hand to Matthew’s neck and pulled himself closer to his ear. “M-mark.” He whispered before settling down into his dying position. Matthew dropped the corpse back to the earth, but then gasped as he saw the man’s forearm. A scar identical to the rune carved into Matthew’s own arm was only slightly faded.
Matthew stood and picked up his sword. He turned to Nahum and Ruth, who were staring at him with indifferent expressions. “So what next?” Matthew said, regaining his composure.
