THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  “So there we was, burning up at the edge of the forest, right?” The mercenary took a swig from a canteen, laughing and burping at the same time. “All these boys was screamin’, and cryin’, too. And that’s when it hit me.”

  “Mhm,” answered Saint, half distracted by the task at hand.

  “Wait, this ain’t no damn earthquake!” continued Wilhelm. “All this ducking and covering! I should’a been stop, drop, and rolling this whole time! Raahahahaha!”

  “So how long d’ya think he’s got left?”

  In front of the opposite wall, Albus and Sula stood side by side over the wounded comrade, rubbing their bearded chins thoughtfully as he bled out.

  “My share of the silver says five minutes, give or take. You?”

  “Oedipus’ left nut says one since he’s already tellin’ stories. ”

  “Bah!” Sula waved the cheapskate off. “As if I’d ever want that shit. Put up some real money if you wanna gamble.”

  “Hey, were any of you mercenaries surprised when Oedipus betrayed you?” Saint asked, running his hand over an invisible surface occupying an otherwise normal doorway. In his other hand, a chunk of Cedrick Goodhall’s flesh writhed between gauntleted fingers. “Can’t imagine there’s much camaraderie between you if you’re casually betting on each other’s lives.”

  “You kiddin’ me?” Albus scoffed. “It may not look’en like what you’re accustomed, but the nine of us—”

  “Eight, after we ate the cat.”

  “Eight of us—”

  “Seven, after Lash decided to clean up one of my offerings.”

  “Seven of us—”

  “Six. After—”

  “Six— five—three of us are tighter than a virgin’s asshole. Tell ‘em, Willy!”

  “…”

  “Willy?”

  “Reckon he’s fading.” Sula took a knee. “Oh, squelchous and sticky Blood God, please spare this man, for he is innocent of committing mercy!”

  Slap!

  “Innocent!”

  Wilhem stirred, mumbling something incoherent. “… no… no! No more fire!”

  Sula slapped him again. “Innocent!”

  “By the Heavens… Dear Lightbringer, is that you?” He muttered, looking around in a fugue state. “What are you doing down here?”

  “Listen to me, Spineless!” Albus erupted. “Don’t go towards the Lightbringer! Hit him again, Sula.”

  “Innocent!” With tears running down his cheeks.

  Slap!

  The mercenary jolted awake. “Okay, okay. I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  Before promptly being sent back to sleep.

  Slap!

  “Innocent, I say!”

  “Looks like it’s working.” Albus gave the cultist a hearty slap on the back, then turned on his heel, leaving them to their business. “I’ll leave this one to you, doc.”

  As he walked off, Wilhelm stirred weakly in the sand. One blood-slicked hand reached out and clasped around his comrade’s calf. “… seconds.”

  He muttered something, voice low.

  Sula glanced down, frowning. “You sayin’ summin’, sir Spineless?”

  Wilhelm coughed and raised his head. “Who the hell are you to tell me how long I've got? Furthermore, I ain’t got no damn five minutes.’” He shifted, barely. “Fifteen seconds.”

  “For what?”

  “That bitchin’ weapon of yours says I got fifteen seconds left in me before I kick the bucket. Deal?”

  Sula scoffed. “As if you can withstand the might of my cleaver. Deal.”

  Saint wiped his forehead with his free hand, catching a bead of sweat. His focus reflected in the droplet; he pushed that finger into the threshold. Despite the barrier, both his finger and the droplet went through.

  The escapee’s brow furrowed.

  He did not verbalise the thought.

  Albus’s shadow engulfed the doorway, stretching its back. “How long are you gonna be at it, quickie?”

  Saint wiped the droplet in his palm. “Long as it takes.”

  The mercenary sneered. “Guess it’s true what they say about you, huh?”

  “Depends on what they say.”

  “Pin-point accuracy…” Albus chuckled lightly, dropping a hand on his shoulder, letting the man smell his foul breath in an intimate whisper. “Even when you’re not usin’ a bow.”

  Saint’s eyes widened.

  He twisted the mercenary’s meaty arm behind, kicked the back of his leg and shoved him forward.

  “…Ten… Nine.. Eight…” The others counted down in the background.

  “There it is.” Albus croaked, grin shoved up against the window.

  Saint manifested an ornate dagger and held it against his throat, keeping the hilt exposed. “How much do you know?”

  “Enough not to tell the others.” The lesser giant confessed. “I can respect a man of many faces. So long as he knows when to show ‘em.”

  A cold gaze shot through them both, originating from a nearby rooftop.

  There, the self-proclaimed shepherd watched, thin and unmoving. Like a skeleton preserved in stone. He bore a matching wolfish gaze behind his wrappings. And there were multiple streaks of red creeping up his neck.

  Solvanel hadn’t returned since attacking Spineless, but didn’t stray too far, either. Saint was happy the kid didn’t get his hands dirty, but clearly, this measure of revenge hadn’t been enough.

  Then, the mercenary continued. “Do you?”

  He was released without further question.

  Saint went back to his experiment while the giant hovered over his shoulder, pushing his patience to the limit. “So, what kinda name is ‘Saint’ anyway?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “It’s yours? I thought it was—”

  The escapee repeated himself firmly. “No. It’s not a moniker. It’s not an Alias. That’s the name I assigned to me at birth: Saint.”

  “Your parents had high expectations.”

  Saint pressed the writhing flesh chunk up against the barrier.

  As expected, a piece of the shade didn’t go through, even when separated from the greater whole.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “You’re surely a long way from home, aint’cha, ‘Saint’?”

  Saint held out the decaying flesh chunk in his gauntleted hand. “Spit on this.”

  Albus shrugged, not feeling particularly guilty about spitting on his mentor’s spoil of battle, which had become his comrade’s prized possession. “I don’t suppose you’re really huntin’ us, are you?”

  Saint added another coat of saliva. “If I were hunting you, you’d be dead.”

  “Then what are you after?” he asked. “The comet? The boy? Don’t see how that would help you in becomin’ one of the greats.”

  “The greats of what? Some burning hellscape with no hope of salvation?” Somehow, people like this always end up saying the same things. Saint would have killed himself laughing if he had something to drink. “Thanks, but you and the rest of the sinners can fight over the ashes. I’m not interested in that kind of glory. Never was. Far as I’m concerned, both me and this world are already dead.”

  He enclosed the blighted flesh around the gauntlet of Steel Man origin. A faint shiver of numbness passed through his hand, but he masked it behind a steady expression.

  “Put this on and try to punch through the barrier.”

  Albus did as he was told and reared back, flexing his fingers inside the gauntlet with a sudden seriousness.

  With a low grunt, he drove his fist into the barrier.

  The air shimmered at the point of impact, waves travelling outward from the point of impact—torrential and tidal. The gauntlet sparked, red veins of energy crawling up the wrist as the barrier resisted, a deep hum vibrating out from the strike.

  The mercenary stepped back, huffing lightly. “You know, this type of thing is more Wilhelm’s specialty.”

  “What’s the matter, Albus Feroce, kicked out of his home village for selling women and children to wandering traders over the fence?” Saint asked, revealing some of what he knew in return. “Feeling burned out?”

  “Heh…” The mercenary breathed. “Not at all.”

  He punched again—this time, throwing with his back.

  This time, he was met with little resistance.

  The barrier shattered. Leaving only the silence of exposed air and the faint hiss of heat dissipating from the gauntlet’s knuckles.

  Saint nodded approvingly at his own work. “I-”

  The mercenary interrupted, panting while on his knees. “You gave it too much. The undead shade and the poison in Goodhall’s flesh. Plus our spit. Plus whatever Wilhelm’s gauntlets are made of. And in doing so, you overloaded the barrier. Pretty good.”

  The mercenary’s analysis stunned the escapee into silence.

  “What can I say? I’m more than just a pretty face.”

  Albus threw the gauntlet on the ground, grunting. “I don’t know how he does it. Feels like ants runnin’ under my skin.

  “Two…One...” The man in question finished his countdown. Wilhelm’s head fell limp halfway through the final number, his last words being a weak, “Told you I’d die in…”

  “You did, comrade,” acknowledged the cultist. “You did.”

  Sula realised his weapon, the fearsome Teardrop Cleaver, and wrote in the sand:

  And so was the end of The Great Backbreaker, Wilhelm Olivera.

  A son who became a friend. A boy who became a man. A man who became a killer. A killer who stayed a friend. Until the end.

  “May your blood boil in hell, dear comrade.” Sula blessed, gently closing the Backbreaker’s lifeless eyes. “You were always the best of us.”

  The cultist left him as he was, the burden upon his shoulders greater than ever. No longer a mercenary. No longer a cultist. But a cultist-mercenary who loved. A cultist-mercenary who lost. A cultist-mercenary who cried.

  “Bury him with the cleaver.”

  A cultist mercenary who heard a squeaky voice come from behind him, sounding suspiciously like a certain fallen one.

  “You!” The Teardrop Cleaver went through the air and bit into the mercenary’s abdomen with a wet, tearing crunch.

  “Argh! You’ve killed me. You’ve bloody killed me!”

  This sudden attack caught the shepherd’s attention.

  When he saw the red aura originating from the instrument, he peered into the composition for a deeper understanding.

  TEARDROP CLEAVER

  Sworn to Cynzen Sula

  Lame éveillée

  Rank: A

  La dent pourrie d'une ombre ancienne.

  Blood Manipulation — Absorption

  Drinks the blood of those it cuts, which can then be used to reinvigorate the user or a target.

  Blood Manipulation — Wave

  Sends forth a wave of blood.

  Siren’s Wail

  Emits a screech that causes enemies to approach.

  The red aura escaped from holes in the weapon, like smoke through a chimney.

  Wilhelm’s back arched as it entered his wounds. The injuries across his body closed. Muscles knotted and bones popped back into place. Torn skin tightened over bruised ribs. He let out a gasp as colour flushed back into his face.

  The mercenary wiped blood from his mouth and grinned, exhaling as he dislodged the weapon. “Aaah! Now that’s more like it.”

  He gasped. “My baby!”

  Wilhelm abandoned the cleaver for the sake of his gauntlet, diving into the

  catch. He emerged victorious from a roll, wearing his piece of the armour. “The hell are you playing at, fatty? Didn’t anyone teach you how to treat a lady?”

  Saint shot the shepherd a look as Albus welcomed them into the conversation.

  His heart skipped a beat when he saw the rooftop was empty. The kid was gone.

  Saint really hated kids. He wrote off having his own after the valley, but this entire situation reminded him why he made that decision in the first place.

  “Like I was saying, Sainty-boyo. It’s a good start, but it ain’t gonna work. Ody’s been around barriers for years. If you and me can figure it out, then I can bet it’s the first thing he fixed.”

  “Doesn’t matter what he fixed if he didn’t do it properly,” he responded, knowing he was about to explain barrier-physics to barbarians, a topic he grasped on the basest level. The headache was coming on already. “Barriers look like thin air, but they don’t just pop up out of it.”

  [When comparing a barrier to a physical wall, one must consider three key factors:

  Subtlety:

  Whereas a wall obstructs vision, a barrier has the opposite advantage.

  On first arrival, it is as unspoken as the proverbial line in the sand between oneself and the enemy, undetected until they’ve exhausted one of their resources—be it a single arrow, artillery, the energy spent on a swing, or the sword chipped against the surface.

  Size:

  The art of masonry is older than kingdom walls and, therefore, equally mastered. However, a reliable craftsman recoils at the idea of brick-stacking past a certain height, due to the constraints of physics.

  A barrier, on the other hand, is a paper-thin construct, taking up zero space, capable of stretching and shaping to fit the task, at the cost of requiring a constant fuel source and precious non-renewables.

  And thirdly, most importantly, expertise.

  A sturdy fortification is the combined effort of hundreds of men, using hundreds of techniques, breaking thousands of tools in the process. But a barrier is the effort of a handful of men, whose ideas and expertise are as valuable as all the citizens in that area combined.

  Therefore, there is no such thing as a weak barrier. Because if a barrier is weak, then the makers are foolish. And there is no such thing as accidental genius.]

  A sturdy barrier is a tantalising fruit—in concept, the result, and execution.

  It demanded time, resources and expertise.

  If a barrier grid flickered out at once, it was because the source ran out of power.

  If barriers connected to the same grid flickered out independently, it was because of bad design. And judging by the architecture alone—gemstone fillings and gold adornments—these people suffered no shortage.

  The escapee dumbed it down for the mercenaries, then relayed the key to their success. “I asked the kid about the barriers, and he said there are only a few of them scattered around the city. Does that make sense to you?”

  Two of the mercenaries said nothing—a quiet understanding that this conversation wasn’t meant for them.

  Albus stroked his beard. “So, if the grid was just runnin’ out of fuel, the barriers’d all come down at once. Which means Ody took some of ‘em down on purpose to strengthen the one in the centre.”

  “And if all he did was strengthen the barrier…”

  “Then we just need a stronger overload,” finished the giant. “That means more shade material and more organic material on top of that.”

  Saint nodded, somewhat disturbed.

  He guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised. No two brothers, after all, but still. What did Albane get? The looks?

  “Hold on, there, smarty-pants,” voiced the Spineless, making himself the target of their quiet understanding. “What’s he saying?”

  “Well, old buddy…” Albus scratched the back of his head with a half-torn sigh. “We don’t got the whole of it, but I can tell you’re not gonna like it. We’re goin’ back to fight the beast.”

  Wilhelm slammed his fists together. “Like it? If it gets me to my silver, then I love it!”

  “And not only that, but you’re gonna have to make it wear one of your gauntlets. Lead it to the barrier and such so it can do the breaking.”

  "What?!"