#4. TRAND & DEBROSH II

Trand lay on his cot, staring up at the ceiling. The grey hodgepodge was uneven, shaped roughly with unpracticed hands. It was evident that little effort was put into its making, and with the ease of magical power that was present in the Tularaans, that in itself was an insult.

He couldn’t shake the rage that settled in his gut like a buried wasp’s nest. It was buzzing within him, sharp stingers constantly reminding him of its vicious edge. He tried to pray it away, to drown it out with the scripture he knew so well, but still the anger boiled within him. He rolled over onto his front, pushing his fists against his eyes to dull it out.

Images and sounds. Scenes of fire filled with screams, and an ever present rain of ash.

He came to his feet suddenly, head ringing. Was there someone at the door? He turned to it, fists coming up in some semblance of defense. A moment passed, then another. After it became clear that no one was there, he sat back on his cot, breathing heavily.

He didn’t care if anyone heard. He said, “Damn them all to the Exus. Let them rot and burn and decay into nothing. Let the ether absorb them and their spirit to find nothing but suffering.”

It was a terrible curse to say about someone, but as far as Trand was concerned, the Tularaans were no longer human. They had sacrificed their humanity for power, and the cost was thousands, and soon to be millions, of dead.

He closed his eyes, was greeted by gruesome memories. He opened his eyes, was greeted by unending imprisonment and servitude.

If hell existed, this was its closest corporeal incarnation.

The door jostled, Trand’s eyes snapped to it. It opened and for a moment he hoped, deep deep in his heart, that a Tularaan guard would come inside and end his life.

But it was Debrosh, and the sight of the worn, old man was enough to bring tears of despair to Trand. Debrosh did not seem to notice, as he quickly closed the door behind him and came to sit next to Trand.

“I have heard good news,” he whispered, a newfound energy within him.

Trand didn’t respond, his eyes unfocused. Presently, he was lost within the terrible memories of his family’s death and the obliteration of his house. Debrosh shook his shoulder hard, breaking the reverie.

“What?” he asked. A part of him was surprised that Debrosh was there, as if he hadn’t fully registered his return.

“I have heard news!” Debrosh said more excitedly. “The Leylines are closed.”

Trand felt a small flicker within, enough to cause his head to turn to look at the old man. “Closed?”

Debrosh nodded. “The other realms have noticed what is going on here. It will not be long before they find a way to stop the Tularaans.” Debrosh’s hands were coming together in excitement, his cracked skin straining under his enlivened squeezing.

Trand was shaking his head already. Debrosh smacked him hard across the face, and the shock of pain was enough to get Trand to his feet, heart pumping and anger flowing through him once again.

“Damn you, Trand! Are you not hearing me? Reinforcements are coming!” We have to make sure that when they attack, they will find favorable conditions.” He looked at Trand as if he hadn’t just struck him, the same excited fervor still on his face.

Trand, no longer numbed with despair, looked down on the old man with terrible anger. It had redoubled harder than before and now it was as if the inferno in his memories burned across his muscles, his bones. The flames burned so brightly within him that he couldn’t really see as he raised his fists.

The inferno engulfed him, and in it Debrosh found his own share of Trand’s pain. Trand did not know how long it lasted, but when the fire evaporated from him and he stood over Debrosh’s beaten form, he knew that he may have just killed the only person in the universe who cared about him.

It was a blur. He stood over Debrosh for a long moment. Then he was being dragged down the street by two guards. Then he was being beaten himself, kicked and punched all over his body until the inferno from before began to spark to life once more. Guilt for what he had done to Debrosh mixed with his hatred of the Tularaans. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He rolled away from the guards, getting to his feet, and tackled one to the ground. He began striking with all his might, little as it may be, knocking away the man’s helmet and hitting him all over his face. Arms encircled him and he flew up into the air for a moment, weightless. But gravity brought him back down in a crunching tumble and he felt his wrist snap under him.

He cried out in pain, but it only fueled the inferno more. He stood, tears streaming down his emaciated face, wrist hanging limply in front of him, yet rage was the only expression he wore.

A guard was approaching, and as he grappled the weakened prisoner, Trand noticed that the guard was wearing a red gemstone on his neck.

Trand could only think of one way to get out of here alive. It was time to even the playing field.

He used his weight to unbalance the guard so that he fell onto his back. Then Trand jumped on top of him, his good hand immediately fishing into the man’s armor for the necklace. After a moment, realization struck the Guard, but it was too late.

It was a timeless instant when Trand’s finger came into contact with the Red Mysterium.

He was frozen there atop the guard, yet his awareness seemed to fluctuate, expand, grow outward. Even though he could not see anything beyond the width of his vision, there was a sense of things beyond his sight. This instant allowed him to reach outward further, and further, and further, feeling the paving stones and roughshod hovels as if his hand were running over each ones surface. More and more beyond his senses were coming into knowing under this new sense, this outwards looking from his mind.

But then, as if stretching too far and feeling the snap, his mind became disjointed from itself in all of its deep seeing. He felt his senses warble, cloud up, and his body and mind became confused. The inferno rage returned then, a response to being denied this exalted moment of infinity.

And the world around him caught flame.

There was no pain, yet he smelled the cooking of flesh and felt his hair and clothing burning away. The heat was beyond anything he had ever experienced, yet instead of anguish he was filled with righteous purpose. As the flames spread outward, engulfing the guards and the tents beyond them, and the huts beyond those, the purpose became clearer and clearer until the words echoed inside his head.

“Cleanse the wicked. Free the damned.”

In a spectacular whirlwind of flames, Trand’s body was destroyed and the fire grew outward as an unbound calamity. Where Trand had been was the red gemstone, the small fragment of Red Mysterium that the guard used to do his magic. It was the epicenter of the destruction, and the whirlwind expanded to envelop the entirety of the Tyulian Servitude Gulag, the flames killing victim and oppressor in equal measure.

When they were all gone and nothing remained but the glowing hot embers of the storms passing, the whirlwind closed in on itself once more, spinning, growing tighter and tighter until, in a flashing blink, it came to center around the gemstone like a solid orb of orange light. It sat there, suspended above the scorched wasteland, and slowly the form of a man emerged from it.

The being looked down at itself, then to the wasteland beyond. It thought for a moment before waving its hand nonchalantly. An ember sparked in the ground and wisp of flame crawled form the ashes. It had no form at first, but soon it took on an animalistic, four-legged shape.

“Come, Debrosh,” the being said.

It walked into the ashes to be greeted by the shadows of the growing night, tailed by its small sprite. Even it did not know where it was heading. It only knew one purpose.

Cleanse the Wicked.

Free the Damned.

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