Page 15 of Anathema

He was evil, after all. Only a soulless creature could take life so swiftly and easily as he did. No remorse. No emotion. Nothing but a trained animal, forged from pain and suffering.

Two radiant moons illuminated the dusky sky, blanketing the ancient city in a silvery glow. Tall gothic spires of shops and cathedrals sliced through low lying clouds, their shadows stretching over the worn cobblestone streets whose wet surface splashed against the soles of his sturdy leather boots.

Black caligosian leather, named after the fierce creature whose hide was used to make it, clung tight to his body, the thick cuirass keeping him warm against the oncoming winter. The black hooded cloak he wore swept behind him, concealing the black Venetox steel sword that any savvy thief would’ve loved to swipe from his back.

Brisk strides brought him closer to the tavern, and he turned his head slightly, avoiding the stares of those who stumbled out the entrance. Drunks who dared to stare longer than they should’ve. Most respectable villagers tended to avoid him like a bad case of muripox, which suited Zevander just fine.

Just outside the building crouched a young boy, no more than a decade old. His gangly arms and pale skin revealed a map of pink veins that identified him as a spindling child. Born with no magic in his blood, at all. Two black horns stuck out from the top of his head, curving backward, their short length confirming his youth. Another unsavory trait of spindlings, ensuring they were often viewed as savages, as most Nyxterosi children had their horns cut at birth, the stubs usually hidden beneath their hair.

Aethyrians often possessed unique powers specific for their bloodline, gifted at birth, making them manceborn, or mancers. Much of the poor, living in the squalor of the The Hovel, couldn’t afford the vital vivicantem required to sustain their powers and, over time, the blood magic languished, diminishing to nothing. Those born with blood magic, who suffered a severe vivicantem deficiency and consequently lost their inherited powers, were called Nilivir. While they still possessed the longevity that set them apart from the mere mortals who resided in the deadlands of Mortasia, they were looked down upon by highblood Aethyrians. The worst were the children born to them, spindlings, who were often treated like animals and used as slaves, in one manner or another.

Fiery red eyes, common for spindling children, stared back at him as he approached.

Once inside the tavern, Zevander swept his gaze over time-weathered wooden booths that sat mostly empty, save for the relentless few still up at that hour. He clocked every being, from one corner of the tavern to the other, and sighted an older man with dark tawny skin and long white hair toward the back. His tall, pointed ears identified him as Elvynira–a common sight in Nyxteros, but what wasn’t common was the skill that he possessed, one that set him apart and had perhaps caused him to lose his mind.

For years, he’d served as one of the king’s most prominent mages, a respected member of the elite Magestroli, whose specialty was interpreting ancient codices and scrolls. He also possessed the power of foresight, a curse, as he’d often expressed, which made him privy to fearsome visions. Revelations that had turned the brilliant mage into an ale-guzzling recluse.

En route toward him, Zevander unbuckled the baldric at his chest and removed the scabbard holding his sword, but didn’t bother to remove the half-face leather mask, which left only his eyes exposed.

“You’re late,” Dolion rasped and glanced around the tavern.

Zevander slid into the booth across from him, resting his sword beside him. The single, black steel pauldron at his left shoulder, just beneath the cloak, felt bulky in the narrow booth, but he ignored his discomfort. He didn’t bother to address the man’s comment, either, as he reached into a pocket of his leather jerkin and removed that perfect, red spherical stone he’d collected. With shaky hands, Dolion accepted the stone and, from somewhere beside him, lifted a slim leather box that he opened to show five other stones–each a varying shade of red.

Every one of them a life Zevander had taken.

Dolion held the stone up to the lantern beside them on the table, out of view so as not to rouse the attention of anyone else. “The power of an entire bloodline cast in one stone,” he said, as he slid the object into a small depression beside the others.

“A patriarch reduced to ash.” Not that Zevander gave a good godsdamn for the greedy mancer. He just liked to remind Dolion that it was he who had risked his ass to acquire those stones.

The mirthful expression on the older man’s face faded. “I do not take pleasure in such thoughts. However, some deserved their fate. Parading around in jewels while their people starve.”

“Yes. Some deserved it. And some did not. I suppose that it’s not your conscience that must reconcile, but mine.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“I don’t.”

Dolion chuckled. “Well, you do possess an incredible power, my friend.”

What he possessed was nothing incredible. Sablefyre consumed. It drew cravings out of him that he didn’t care to entertain. It was madness in the making. An unfortunate fate. One he’d hoped to spare himself from by collecting the stones that would fuel the most powerful scepter in existence. The septomir–an impressive weapon that Dolion had advised was powerful enough to banish the dangerous black flame from his body.

In his furtive glancing around, Zevander caught sight of a man he’d noticed when he’d first walked in, sat in the corner of the tavern, his hood pulled up over his face as he lifted his tankard for a sip of ale. Zevander’s stare lingered a moment, and he studied the slow and easy movements of the stranger, who set his drink back down, not bothering to look up to allow Zevander a good look at his face. Making a mental note to watch him, Zevander resumed his scanning over the thin crowd, to a man sitting adjacent to him and Dolion.

On his forearm, he bore the mark of a predator. Rapax. Those who took advantage of children in one form, or another, either by sexual favors or abuse. The marks were issued by the Imperial Guard to identify them as molesters, and most served time in the mines of Solassia.

Having spent time there himself, Zevander was all too familiar with his kind.

A distant voice chimed inside Zevander’s head. “Knees, Boy.” Cold stirred in his chest as the image of him on his knees flashed inside his head. “Open your mouth.” The flavor of ash and embers burned his tongue. “Now swallow.” His fists tightened, and Zevander squeezed his eyes shut on the horrible scene in his mind. “You belong to me, Boy, from this night on. And what hell you will suffer.”

“A new vision came to me.”

Dolion’s words interrupted Zevander’s thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see the man across from him marveling his stones, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

Zevander unclenched his hands, noting the deep bloody crescents in his palm.

“A forest.” Dolion prattled on, slipping the case of stones into his pocket. “One of thick mist and shimmer. A stone with silver markings.” He lifted his tankard for a sip of ale, his shaking hands nearly spilling the drink over the rim. Hard to believe, a time ago, the old man’s visions were respected and sought out by the king himself. He’d disgraced his once revered bloodline with his mad ravings.

Dolion signaled the barmaid, who sauntered over with two tankards of ale that she slammed onto the table, her gaze never wavering from the mask that covered Zevander’s face. Most tended to fear him. The smart ones, anyway.

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