Blood Lessons (be warned folks...its a biggy)

Blood Lessons

‘Again’.
The word echoed harshly across the square, punctuated by the scrape of sandals on stone and the meaty impact of wood on flesh. The boy crashed to the ground again, teeth gritted against the pain in his ribs. He’d learnt in the first hour that screams of pain would achieve nothing and now he bit down and swallowed his cries. The other boy stepped back, shook beads of sweat from his eyes and waited. He was older, bigger and stronger, already developing into the young man that would soon join the ranks of the Scarlet Crusade. By comparison the younger boy was thin, almost sickly looking and barely into his teens. He dragged himself to his knees, one hand curled protectively against ribs he knew were cracked and spat a bloody wad onto the stone floor of the training square. Staggering to his feet, wooden gladius clutched tight in one hand it was plain to see he was outclassed in every aspect. He desperately wanted to rest, wanted the pain to stop but he could not. It was forbidden to retire from the lesson until permission had been given.

‘Again’.
The Priest stood in the corner of the square motioned for them to begin. Tall, emaciated, his patrician features displayed no emotion or reaction to the lopsided duel before him. Other Priests of lower order and members of the Crusade stood in loose groups around the edges of the square sheltered from the drizzle by the overhanging arcades. They also watched and judged, murmuring amongst themselves but none speaking out in the boys defence.
The younger boy limped forward, gladius held up in a loose defensive guard. The older boy snorted derisively and stepped forward quickly. The combat was as short and brutal as ever. The older boy hammered aside the feeble defence and smashed a fist into the child’s stomach, driving the air from his lungs. As the younger boy bent double a knee was brought up swiftly and crashed into his face. He staggered back lips split and nose broken. Blood streamed down turning his lower face and chest to a crimson mask. The older boy gladius cut down and caught his sword arm on the wrist. Tempered ironwood broke young bones like kindling and the boys’ wrist shattered. Finally giving into the pain the boy howled and feel to his knees.
The older boy looked at the Priest. A nod and he moved in again. Blows from the gladius hammered down splintering ribs, breaking skin and smashing bones. Each new wound was accompanied by screams from the younger boy at first mere animal howls of pain then dying to whimpers through which words could just be heard.
‘Father..please……..please….’

‘Fear is nothing. Pain is nothing. They are distractions. To ignore them you must know them. To rid yourself of the fear of defeat you must first know what it is to be defeated. Pain. Loss. Fear. Defeat. This is the first Blood Lesson. Learn it well my son’

The Priest stood and watched as his son was beaten and broken. The drizzle hardened to rain, driving the other spectators inside and leaving only the Priest, his son and the older boy. There was silence, broken only by the rain, the impact of wood on flesh and the older boy. He giggled perversely at first, taking pleasure in his abuse. The last thing the boy heard before darkness took him was his tormentor laughing and laughing and…….


….laughing. The unholy bastard wouldn’t stop laughing. The last blow from its mace had driven me to my knees, my helm split open along my left eye. I tore the ruined thing off and hurled it aside, shaking blood from my face. A deep cut from the edges of my helm lay above my eye and I was fairly sure my cheekbone was shattered. I spat and rose to my feet, desperately casting my gaze around for my blade. The Revenant circled round, mace and sword held easily by its side. Male or female, I couldn’t tell and didn’t care. It had been dead for many years now and was little more than twisted desiccated flesh, sinew and bone held together by will alone. Ornate plate armour encased its body, once proud colours faded and its finish marred by rust, verdigris and the assorted blood and viscera of the battlefield. Rotting remnants of cloth showed here and there and gruesome trophies from past victories were haphazardly affixed to various surfaces. The things face was fixed in a rictus grin, lips pulled back from yellowing teeth just visible below its plate and chain helm. It stepped back and gestured to my blade, inviting me to pick it up. Bastard thing was actually enjoying this, while all around us battle raged and men were slaughtered.

I gripped my blade and nodded to the thing. The roar of combat was all around us, like a physical wall and the air was heavy with the taste and stench of blood and rot. The Undead had met us on the fields of the Western Plaguelands, pushing us back swiftly. The ruins of the town of Andorhal lay just behind us, already full to choking with the wounded we had managed to drag from the sprawling mass of indiscriminate slaughter. Several healers were draining themselves attempting to staunch wounds and get men back into the field but it was nowhere near enough. There were barely three-score of the soldiers we had accompanied left and every minute another fell hacked apart by ceaseless blows from skeletal warriors or savaged by packs of ravening ghouls. Of my Brothers I knew nothing. I not seen anyone living clad in the colours of the Order, merely a few broken corpses. I did not doubt that some like Sister Arill and that fool Jyggalag survived but they were young and untried. Save for myself, the veterans of the Order had accompanied the Lord Militant on some damn fool errand in Alterac, leaving the lower ranks of the Order to their own devices.

I took a steadying breath, gripped Hates’ Edge tightly and kissed the base of the immense blade. Dear Azeem had crafted the blade for me many years ago and it had served me well. It was a long heavy two-hander but balanced so beautifully that it flew through my hands. Its keen edge had never dulled and it glowed faintly with an echo of the light of the star its shape mimicked. There was a moment’s stillness then the Revenant surged in, mace high over its head and curved sword held low. I stepped forward to meet it, took the weak feinting blow from the sword on the thigh plate of my armour and brought my blade up and across to block the mace. Its flesh may have been rotting and foul but the Revenant moved quicker than many living foes I had faced. The curved blade sawed up towards my face and it hooked the mace back round and into the side of my left leg. My blessed armour gave beneath the blow, whatever dark magiks the mace was ensorcelled with sundering the plate steel like paper and a hiss of pain escaped my lips. The Revenant rattled a dry laugh again and somehow plunged its sword through my chestplate. The tip of its blade entered me just below my ribs, a needle of ice instantly numbing the area. I staggered back, blood washing down from the gouge in my armour and my lungs labouring to pull air into my frozen chest. I knew I was outclassed. I was bleeding heavily, strength seeping away with every beat of my heart. My face was a knotted mass of pain, my sight ruined by a slick of blood and earlier blows had broken two of the fingers on my right hand. By contrast the Undead warrior was virtually untouched. Hates’ Edge had torn great gouges in its armour and splintered bones but It ignored such wounds. Physical damage was a trivial thing to one who was animated by dark sorcery and will alone.

I tried to focus, to pull some strength from inside through the fog of pain. No use. I was too wounded, too weary. The running battle had raged for almost a full day, men dying from exhaustion as much as wounds. I was virtually spent, emptied by wave after wave of undeath that had fallen to my blade and the cleansing powers of the True Light. This Champion of the Scourge was too much, too much raw power contained within its dessicated frame. Around me men were dying, the very earth under my feet was sodden with blood and other fluids and their screams and cries rent the air.

The Revenant moved in, confident now it knew the end was near. Blows flurried in from mace and sword, quicker than I could follow. Almost unconsciously I parried desperately but it was too little. Mace blows splintered the ribs on my left. The sword sank into the meat of my thigh. My battle-plate was in pieces, rent and split and hanging loose in places. Hates’ Edge fell from my blood-slick grasp and I felt the shattered ends of bones grind against each other inside me.
It surged forward one last time, all of Its dire strength focused into a single sword thrust I was powerless to stop. The blade tip of its scimitar bit deep into my chestplate, met brief resistance then inexorably crashed through. I fell to my knees, transfixed on the Revenants blade. There was no pain, just ice cold numbness and I could feel wetness flowing down my skin beneath my plate. Its grin grew wider, a cruel smile of victory and It tore the blade out. A great slick of blood followed it and more gouted from my mouth. Hazily I saw the mace raised to finish the matter. My eyes...I couldn't focus....this was the end. Time seemed to slow. I was aware of every minute detail, the smell of the Revenants rotting cloth, the droplets of my blood still hanging in the air. The mace seemed to fall so slowly, like it had all the time in the world. Images and faces flashed before me - the Order, my Brothers..Evangelist...Azeem...fair Neverlite...the many foes we had faced together...

Something stirred deep within me. I felt the Hate move, awakening.

More images came to me......things I had not seen for many years. Morgaine...the Priests...dear sweet Melyssa.......the Crusade..the killing...Decius...the beatings..My Father

My Damned Father..........

I felt the Hate surge to life inside me, pouring up from the depths. It howled as it came, faster and stronger. Within me the Hate was rising and I...I welcomed it.

Time crashed back into place. The mace fell towards my head but stopped suddenly, caught somehow. I looked up slowly. My hand was circled round its haft holding it at bay mere inches from me. The Revenant pushed downwards but the mace did not move. I turned my gaze to Its terrible visage, met Its dead gaze. Smiled bloodily. The Hate drove me upwards, left arm pushing the mace up and away with the sound of splintering bone and my right catching its jaw in a gauntleted grip. The Hate howled again as the raw power of the True Light poured though my arm like a flood and hammered into the Revenants face. It hit like a ram, bone was simply powdered and steel plate crumpled. A loose collection of armour and bone crashed to the ground almost ten metres in front of me. Ranks of Undead closed in around me as I bellowed a wordless roar to the sky, echoed by the Hate howling inside me. The True Light streamed from my shattered frame in punishing wave after wave of raw power, utterly obliterating everything that came near me. Bone was atomised, rotting flesh burnt away in seconds as the Light cleansed everything. I stalked amongst the Undead killing with my bare hands. Skulls were crushed, bones snapped and limbs torn asunder. The waves of power died but the Light still flowed from my hands scorching everything I touched. The Hate howled in glee at what it had wrought and surged through my broken body lending me its strength. I killed and killed and killed again and still hungered for more. And then I saw him, the Necromancer who directed the massed ranks of Undeath. He was thin, sickly looking, swathed in black robes and fear was writ across his face as he met my bloody gaze. He blanched, gestured and muttered something quickly, almost stumbling over his words. Sorcerous black coils erupted from the earth and wrapped around my limbs, burning through my battle plate and clothing me in pain. The agony was immense but the Hate would not let me fall. It snarled and pushed me onwards. I blinked and suddenly I was there with him, my hands wrapped around his throat, fingers digging in so hard they drew blood. He gurgled wetly in my grasp and then something popped. Blood ran freely down his neck and through my knotted fingers and his eyes were bloodshot and glazed. The Hate refused to let go and my world narrowed to my hands on his throat........

Dimly I was aware of sounds. Plate harness jingled. Horses snorted and pawed the earth. Voices muttered. I felt the Hate die down and withdraw from my limbs. The Necromancer fell from my hands, torn and bloody, his head lolling at an obscene angle from his broken neck. I shook my head slowly to clear it and blearily looked around. Corpses littered the fields around me, shattered weapons and sundered armor piled amongst them. My own armour was a wreck, not one piece still intact. As for me, I was damn near broken. Every part of me ached and screamed and for a second the pain threatened to overwhelm me. Red clouded my vision and the sour metallic tang of blood filled my throat and mouth. My breath was laboured and I was sure one of my lungs had collapsed. I welcomed the pain, bit down on it and held it close. Pain could be mastered. I had learnt that a long time ago. I raised my head.

Around me stood the Order, some still mounted on their chargers, others on foot. They had weapons drawn and were surrounded by the glowing aura of the True Light. What faces I could see showed a multitude of emotions. Anger. Determination. Righteouness. And something else..something in their eyes..I smiled through the pain, through the weariness. Fear. My smile turned to a rictus grin, bloody teeth bared as one of the younger Paladins stepped forward with hammer raised. I realised how I must look to them, what they must think I was. Revenant, Undead champion clad in crimson and ruined plate, my face a mask of pain and suffering.

'By the Light!' cried the young Paladin as he swung the hammer in. I side stepped the blow easily and backhanded him aross the face. My gauntleted fist hammered him to the floor, lips split and bloody. Once again I felt the Hate stir and shift its coils from my heart. There was a cry from my assembled Brothers and Sisters and they surged forward with weapons ready. I steeled myself and felt the Hate start to flow through me again.

'Hold your weapons! Stand your ground!'

The ranks of Paladins halted and moved aside as the Lord Militant Macloren bellowed and pushed his way through, flanked as ever by Penitence and the Holy Evangelist. Penitence gasped as she saw me and ran forward. The Hate subsided, fleeing my body and I stumbled and almost fell. Her slender arms held me up and she steadied me against her.

'My Gods..Cartheron, how are you still alive?' she breathed, running her eyes over my wounds. There were incredulous noises from the assembled Paladins, as if none of them could quite believe that the vision of death in front of them was an ordained member of the Order. Macloren silenced the ranks with a steely glare and motioned for them to move back to give me room. Dear pious Evangelist said nothing, his clear blue eyes gazing at me, seeming to judge me. My face was locked in a rictus grin still and blood drooled from my lips. I met his gaze with my own. My voice grated harshly, like broken glass over stone.

'With Hate dear Sister..all things are possible..'

The young Paladin I had backhanded had scrambled to his feet and was clutching his bloodied mouth. He moved away and a knot of the younger members followed him, muttering amongst themselves and looking back at me with murderous eyes. I couldn't quite make out what they were saying but one word caught my ear. Balamir had spoken it, looking over his shoulder and stroking the pommel of his sword. Fallen.

I spat blood again and moved forward, supported still by Penitence. The tide of agony was rising steadily with every step. Penitence and Macloren were speaking, words of reassurance and comfort as they embraced and half carried me from the butchers fields. Their words washed over me unheard as I focused on the pain and the needles of agony from shattered bones. The grin was still fixed to my face and a choking rattling laugh hissed from my lips. Say one thing for my father, he had taught me well. Pain could be mastered. Could even be welcomed. I was still brokenly laughing as the darkness rushed in and took me. My vision tunneled and spiraled away. Penitence and Maclorens cries faded until all I could hear was the rain falling steadily and the boy in the courtyard weeping.

Here endeth the lesson.