[Mkguild] Cycle of Journies - Requiem of Vengeance (4 of 4)

[Ryx]

                He said nothing of his decades of crime, grimly standing his 
ground at the minstrel’s advance.  Boqu and Lessan were down, but alive.  No 
missing hand would stay Varek his taste of blood, he knew, if it came to that.  
There was a sword on the ground at his feet, dropped by someone in full 
retreat.  Varek hooked his toe under it and deftly kicked it up and snatched the 
hilt with his empty hand.
                No sooner did  his fingers closed around the simple hilt than he 
was forced to put it to quick use.  The minstrel lunged forward, again with that 
blinding lunge like a striking snake covering more ground than the length of its 
body should ever have allowed, and smashed both short blades down on his new 
weapon.  Unlike the poorly trained lout that had lost the sword he managed to 
maintain his grip, letting the weapon fall back and away under the assault as he 
swept his own sword, heavier and longer, across and down to chop at the arms of 
his enemy.
                Malger danced back and the sword swept at empty air, but just as 
quickly came out and upward in a reverse sweep that sent the minstrel back 
another pace.  He did not make any motion to block the heavier sword, only 
stepping back inside the sweep of its strike and lancing one short blade out 
toward Varek’s face.  The shorter sword flashed across and batted away the 
thrust, leaving Varek’s left flank open to the swift strike of Malger’s second 
blade.
                Varek lunged into a swift turn, sucking his side away from the 
slash and cutting down and across with the retrieved blade.  Again his parry was 
true and the minstrel’s attack turned.  The two danced past each other with 
respective turns and both sent questing slices out, seeking flesh and bone 
before the motion carried them too far past one another.  Steel rang and sang 
but no flesh was parted.  Malger took three paces beyond the larger man, 
swatting aside the sword of yet another caravan guard, and snarling at the man 
only inches from his face.
                This time it was Malger’s turn to stagger before he could put 
the guard out of his way.  The man’s buckler slammed into his chest, completely 
halting his forward momentum, and they stood nose to nose for an instant.  
Malger’s whiskers teased the man’s cheeks for a moment before, with a dart of 
his head and a slight twist, he bit down soundly on the end of the caravan 
guard’s nose.
                “Son of a misbegotten whore!” the man yelped, jerking his sword 
up, but only as far as the blade that caught at the crossguard.  Malger’s jaws 
pinched his teeth closer together, until the guard released his blade and 
reached up to shove his face away with his freed hand.  Malger released the 
man’s nose, having only pierced it with one sharp fang, and turned with a sudden 
upward swing of one blade.  He had seen, in the heartbeat before his jaws 
opened, the horror dawning in the man’s eyes.  He caught the downward sweep of 
Varek’s heavy blade with his upraised sword, the weight of the blow hammering 
him to his knees as he fought to keep the shorter, lighter blade in the 
swordsman’s off hand from skewering him.  He angled the chopping stroke off to 
one side with only a brief wrench of his shoulder.  Behind him he could hear the 
caravan guard dancing back hastily to avoid the doom he had seen coming down 
with that heavy longsword.
                Malger gritted his teeth in a feral snarl and lashed upward with 
his free blade as he saw Max making a retreat.  He had moments before the man 
would escape.  Either to the safety of his wheelhouse and whatever weapons he 
might have within, or to outright flight on foot in the easiest direction 
given.  Varek jerked his sword away and Malger regained his feet.  “Varek the 
hand.” His voice was flat and hard now, his breath coming in swift, harsh 
gasps.  A burning knot of pain clutched at his sides from the sudden fury of 
exertion, but he ignored it.  “Nine times darkness and pain, beyond the measure 
of all others.  That is the justice I have come to serve.”
                “Gods fuck your justice you piss whelped whore.” Varek growled, 
sick of listening to the minstrel’s imprecations.  He lunged forward with a 
thrust of the short blade in his off hand, expecting the parry that would tie up 
one sword and leave his opponent off balance to parry the weight of his own far 
heavier blade.  To his surprise the minstrel did not parry.  He stepped lightly 
a half pace to one side and took the edge of the shortsword through his 
doublet.  Blood blossomed from where the tip scored, but Varek paid little 
heed.  His crossways chop intending to remove the minstrel’s head now had two 
unfettered blades to condend with.
 
                Maxamillian the magnificant lurched to his feet and looked 
around quickly, guaging the swiftest route to safety away from the insane 
minstrel.  That route was between the hyena and deer wagons where there was no 
crowd gathered.  From there it would be a short sprint to his wheelhouse where 
he could secure himself against the madman’s rage and bloody justice.
                He was angered and amazed that the Lightbringer did not order 
her own warriors into the fray, but she just sat there in her divan, a great fat 
lump of a giant woman, and watched.  Oh, she looked horrified enough at the 
display of raw carnage, but did nothing to thwart it.  What of her magic, Max 
fumed as he backed away toward the gap between the trailers.  What of the great, 
vaunted clerical powers of the Lightbringer order?  She raised not a single 
finger to put a stop to the madman’s rampage.
                Had he said something to her?  He recalled seeing the minstrel 
near her divan.  Had he claimed some strange protocol of justice from the 
priestess?  Their faith was not something that Max had ever embraced, but he 
found it a great deal more useful than the narrow focus of the Follower god.  
They were more powerful, too, in a very mortal, visceral way.
                The minstrel took a moment to put one of Grimmarn’s men out of 
the fight, yet again, without so much as laying a blade to him, and turned back 
to his fight with Varek as Max felt the tongue of the wagon against the back of 
his boots.  He stepped cautiously over it.  The minstrel looked over at him, his 
bloodied face a study in purely animal rage the likes of which he had seen on 
the bestial faces of his menagerie for years.  He was well familiar with it, 
almost a scholar in angry facial body language now after six years dealing with 
the unholy beasts.  But this was a man’s face, twisted up into a grimace of pure 
feral rage that made him look more animal than some of his charges.  It put a 
lance of icy fear up his spine to behold.
                And his hands, who were uncommonly adept at putting down any 
thoughts of rebellion among his specimens, were falling before his fury like 
autumn wheat before a reaper’s scythe.  Abruptly Varek was short an arm at the 
shoulder, his sweep carrying his severed limb away attached to the heavy blade 
he had been swinging a half second before.  The minstrel fell back a step and 
with the return sweep of that same blade opened Varek’s throat in a spray of 
vivid red.
                “Darkness receive you.” He snarled, and Max could hear his voice 
as clearly as if it were spoken in his ear, not uttered twenty paces away.  It 
cut through the roaring chaos of noise created by the animals in his wagons or 
the cries of the caravan guards trying to cut off the lone swordsmaster and 
bring him to heel.  It was obvious now to Max that Grimmarn’s men had no hope of 
outright stopping or killing him, and had switched their focus to just trying to 
surround and corral him.
                Varek collapsed in a heap, the stump of his right arm spewing 
fountains of scarlet red blood while darker blood oozed slowly from his throat.  
That killing slice had not been deep enough to sever the main arteries to 
Varek’s brain, Max realized.  The insane musician wanted his death to be a slow 
one, and a painful one, forcing Varek to realize his doom long before it 
swallowed him.
                Mad, the man was.  Totally cold, bloodthirsty mad.
                Max turned and took a step, coming up short when a young, 
muscled man passed around the back of the hyena’s wagon and looked up at him.  
The young lad, he was only seventeen if Max recalled correctly the details of 
men too low in caste for his full regard or attention, was carrying a long, 
wicked looking spear.  The blade on it was easily as long as any sword, and four 
inch spikes thrust out from either side of the blade’s root.  The young man’s 
attention was only on Max for a brief moment before shifting beyond him to the 
hideous end of Varek’s savagery.
                Maxamillian let him pass, glancing back over his shoulder to see 
where his enemy was.  To his amazed horror the minstrel was only ten strides 
away and closing at a swift walk.  Three caravan guards were hastening to 
intercept him, but one of them had nothing more threatening than half a broken 
blade.  Max had never heard the clash that snapped the sword in two.  He quailed 
at the look on the man’s face.  Reacting in swift depiration he turned and 
grabbed the young spearman’s shoulder, his other hand shoving between his 
shoulder blades, and turned his entire body about to thrust the youth toward the 
minstrel.
                The lad let out a startled cry as he staggered forward, gamely 
bringing up his spear and levelling it at the madman’s breast.  Quick as a 
striking snake the minstrel turned, sweaping his near blade in, around, and up 
to catch the lethal length of the spearman’s blade and turn it aside.  A 
protracted shriek cut through the din as the two weapons slid down to lock 
crossguards, the spear cutting a grazing swath across the minstrel’s hip.  With 
a wince and a snarl the minstrel cut across with his other sword, half cutting 
through the stout wood of the spear shaft.  It snapped and folded, bodily 
jerking the weapon locked against it from the madman’s grasp.  Yet he continued 
forward, reaching up with his now empty hand, hooking his grasp behind the young 
man’s head, and jerking him forward while at the same time shoving downward.
                The spearman spilled forward over the tongue of the wagon with a 
startled yelp and gasp as the impact with the stout wooden beam drove the breath 
from his lungs.  The minstrel stepped past him.
                Max turned and darted around the wagon, barely twisting aside as 
he found the master of the caravan guards there.  The man only stared at him 
coldly, his attention momentarily switching to the minstrel as he stalked past 
in pursuit.  He made no move to raise his sword against this foe and Maxamillian 
shot him a murderous look as he turned his back on them both and ran.
                Grimmarn watched Malger stalk past, saying nothing as he watched 
the enraged minstrel stalk after his retreating employer.  He held up one hand 
as a cluser of his own guards surged into the broad gap between the wagons, 
halting them with a gesture.  Two of them sheathed their weapons and helped his 
gasping son back onto his feet.  “Let ‘em be, this aint our fight nae more.”
                “Grim?” another guard asked, breathless and red faced.  Not from 
the exertion, Grimmarn saw, but from his own broken nose.
                “Bloody noble shouldn’a shoved me boy at th’ minstrel’s blade.” 
Grimmarn growled angrilly as he stooped to pick up the spear and discarded 
sword.  “‘E’s on ‘is own now.”  He looked at his men dispassionately for several 
moments, then let out a gruff laugh.  “Sorry lot ye louts be, cannae e’en stop a 
bloody insane minstrel.”  But he was not bellowing in anger, that was not his 
style.  “Come, let th’ noble play wit’ ‘is new friend.  We need t’ be about 
gettin’ this mess ‘ere into order.”  He waved his son’s broken spear at the 
chaos of screaming animals in their cages and pale faced menagerie laborers 
standing around in fearful expectation of worse yet to come.
                Few seemed to care that their employer was running for his life 
from that insane minstrel.  Only the lightbringer and her quartet of stone faced 
men at arms made any move to follow, trotting across the open space between 
wagons toward the caravan master’s wheelhouse.  Only an hour before she had 
supped from his table while her men looked on, engaged in empty discourse with 
him about the nature of humanity’s arrogance.  Now she watched with calm 
disattachment while he fought for his life and three of his personal guards lay 
bleeding their lives out into the churned grass.
                One was certainly dead, the other two might be saved if someone 
raised a hand to aid them.  Her oath to witness and not interfere with the 
strange, brutal justice that the minstrel was engaged in prevented her from, for 
the time being, lending a hand to aid or hinder him.
 
                Magnificent Maxamillian, owner of the Magical Menagerie of now 
manifestly maddened monsters, bolted around the back side of the wagon closest 
to his own at a sprint, his velvets and lace flying, all decorum and showmanship 
abandoned.  A fox stood at the door, dressed in in a fine silk dress of southern 
fashion much like his own expensive doublet, but the expression on her narrow 
red muzzle has far from concerned for his safety.  In fact, she looked downright 
pleased, slender arms crossed over her chest.  A scabbarded sword lay in the 
grass at the foot of the wagon steps, and beside it the kite shield bearing his 
heraldry; a caged wagon on a field of gray.
                “Sheyiin!” Max gasped breathlessly as he charged for the steps.  
There was no sign yet of his pursuer.  “Open the door, Sheyiin, or get out of 
the way!” the man waved his arm wildly for her to step aside.  She did, hopping 
nimbly down and walking over near one of the tall wheels of the wagon.  Her 
lush, white tipped red tail flitted and lashed behind her as she walked away.  
Maxamillian took the steps four at a time, which cost him only two strides, and 
grasped the handle of the stout door.
                It did not budge.  He yanked again, desperately, with both 
hands, but the door refused to open.  He threw his shoulder against it, but he 
had built it far too stout for such an assault.  It only rattled and threw him 
back.  He snarled angrilly and stepped back down the steps, looking back toward 
the lions’ wagon.  The minstrel was there, coming around it now.  There was a 
crimson stain on his right side and a long red slash on his left, but neither 
seemed to discomfit him in any way.  He looked down at the sword and shield 
laying in the grass where his bodyservant had obviously thrown them before 
locking the wagon door.
                “Sheyiin!  The key, you ungrateful bitch!  Give me the forsaken 
key, on your own blood!”  Jumping down from the steps he made a lunge for her, 
but the vixen was far too nimble for such a floundering grasp, and deftly 
avoided him.  Her cold green eyes bored into him with such fiery hate that he 
fell back, aghast.  She had never turned on him before.  She had always been the 
quiet, compliant one to all of his needs.
                “I can’t, master.” She growled, her voice harsh yet somehow 
edged with an insane pleasure.  “I locked it inside.  Your sword, master, he is 
coming for you.”  Her tail swayed slowly as she stayed just out of reach, 
looking past him toward the bloodied minstrel.  With a wince Max turned to look 
toward him as well.  Another person, dressed in a similar style of clothing, ran 
up alongside the minstrel and grabbed his arm, stopping him half way between the 
two wagons.
                Max grabbed the momentary reprieve and quickly took up his 
sword, a slender double edged rapier more appropriate for dueling than outright 
combat, and his shield.  At least the shield was good, stout wood with steel 
banding.  It could hold up against the razor edge of the remaining blade the 
musician carried.
 
                “Malger!” Murikeer hissed as he grabbed at the minstrel’s arm. 
He could feel tense muscles like cords under his fingers through fur and 
clothing.  Malger tried to yank his arm away but Murikeer maintained his grip, 
hauling him up short.  “Malger, you must stop this!”
                The marten turned on him, his eyes wild even with the overlaying 
illusion that stole their animal brown and left him with purely human blue.  
Azure, deep and cold like a mountain lake, almost black with his intensity.  
“She’s dead Muri.” Malger snapped, jerking at his arm again, but Murikeer held 
on.
                “I know she is, I know.  But this is wrong!”
                Malger turned, nose to nose, his breath scalding as it flattened 
Murikeer’s whiskers back and set the young mage on his heels.  “What is wrong 
with justice?” he snapped.  “What is wrong with pain?  You don’t know what these 
monsters have done.”
                “I do!”  Murikeer reached up and grasped his other arm, feeling 
blood seep through his fingers.  Malgers, or someone else’s, he did not know.  
“The lightbringer told me what you said, I know it is for her sake that you do 
this.”
                “It is for her memory, but it is for my pain.” Malger 
reitterated, “Justice demands blood.  She is dead, kid. You’ve had your justice 
for her death, you’ve taken it with your own hand.  Now release me for mine.”
                Murikeer’s hands tightened, “Look what it left me with!  One eye 
gone, and the magic that is my whole purpose leaves me with agony.  Is that what 
you want, Malger?  Is justice so expensive?”
                Malger tensed and looked over at Max as the man gathered up his 
weapon and shield.  “My pain, Muri.  My justice.”  He jerked back one arm, and 
Murikeer released him.  “For her memory, stay out of this.”  He turned and faced 
the showman, whose face was a study in betrayal and fear.  Murikeer stood 
unmoving, his hands slowly dropping to his sides.  He heard a cautious step 
behind him and glanced back to see Vinsah hovering a short distance away.  A 
clutch of menagerie laborers and Grimmarn’s guards stood with him, and the 
Lightbriner with her retinue not far away.  Murikeer paced backward until he was 
among them while Malger moved forward to brace his enemy.
                But for the raucous cries of the imprisoned in their cages the 
camp was quiet.
 
                “Maxamillian, once Lew, once Moe, always Sideshow.”  Malger 
pronounced as he walked toward the cornered showman without haste.  The vicious 
anger had clotted to a knot of heavy cold fury in the center of his chest, four 
long years of suppressed pain and memory flooding to the surface once again.  
“Kidnapper, I name you.  Torturer, I name you.  You bade your men beat her, you 
bade them to break her, and they almost did.”
                “Break who, gods be damned!  I do not know you, minstrel, I do 
not know this woman you speak of!” Maxamillian bellowed, brandishing his sword 
with a slash.
                “A mink.”  Malger stepped closer, still well out of reach of the 
sword.  The vixen moved cautiously away, beyond reach of her master’s blade and 
ire, watching with the intensity only a predator can afford to something it 
knows is about to die.  “You never considered to ask her name, though she 
screamed it at you often enough.  You did not listen.  She was already changed 
by the curse, you did not have to imprison her in a cage for weeks at a time, 
and gamble.”
                Max surged forward and aimed a slash at Malger’s head.  The 
minstrel’s block was quick and negligent, sending Max’s rapier high with a 
shriek of steel.  He did not press his advantage.  “One of the cursed demonspawn 
creatures, what was this monstrosity to you!?”  Max slashed again, snatching his 
sword away from the parry and thrusting in a lightning swift change of 
direction.  Malger batted the thrust aside and only received another slash 
across his once expensive traveling shirt that did not score flesh.
                “I loved her.  And you had her raped.  You set your men upon her 
as a huntsman might set his dogs on a fox.” Malger toyed with Max’s defense, 
batting at his shield and sending him back a half dozen paces with his sword.  
Max hid behind it, ducking back and keeping his blade at the ready to parry 
anything that got past his heavy wood and steel wall.
                “Who in all the hells are you, then!  Another demonspawned, 
occursed, misbegotten monsters from the hell that spat her out?”  Max roared in 
fear and anger, trying to riposte the attacks and regain the ground he was fast 
loosing.  He looked wildly around from behind the protective wall of his shield, 
and gaped when he saw the short, vicious dagger that his own bodyservant held in 
her graceful fingers.  She was still near the wagon, standing in the shadows 
between the two great wheels, and met his gaze when he looked back.  She smiled, 
a curling of her upper lips that revealed glistening white teeth in a feral 
snarl, and beconed at him with the slender stiletto.
                Death pressed him in the guise of a simple traveling minstrel 
spouting justice, and death stood at his back waiting for her own chance.  He 
had little recourse but forward or back, and the wagon would slow him down even 
if he did cut the betraying vixen down.
                He launched himself at the minstrel, shield held before him to 
drive the smaller man down.  There was nothing there to run down, however, for 
the minstrel merely stepped to one side and, with a swing that was so brutal and 
swift that Max never saw it, shattered his rapier six inches above the hilt.  “I 
am Malger Sutt.  I am judge.” The minstrel wailed as he struck the sword.  The 
sound of sundering metal made his ears ring.  A hand grasped the edge of his 
shield and wrenched it aside despite the superior strength of Max’s arm.  A face 
came inside his defense as his numbed fingers lost their grip on the shattered 
remains of his sword.  Max felt whiskers, the teasing touch of fur against his 
cheek as a pair of intense blue eyes bored into his own.
                “I am Malger Sutt.  I am a jury of the wronged.” The minstrel 
continued as he shoved the shield out and away.  Max, in full forward momentum, 
could not arrest his charge.  The minstrel kept pace, backpeddaling easily as a 
final, feral leer crossed his muzzle.  “I am Malger Sutt, executioner.”  It was 
that moment that Max found his charge stalled by the force of a blow to his 
chest that staggered him.  He never felt the pain of the minstrel’s murderous 
blade driving through his sternum and heart to emerge between the ribs of his 
back.  He staggered, stopped, and fell back a pace as he looked down at the 
bloodied hilt with its blue tassles.  He grunted at the blow, his breath 
wheezing from his lungs, and looked up to meet the furious blue gaze of the 
minstrel.  “I am Malger Sutt, one who loved a woman.  A woman bereft of 
justice.  A woman whose name was Joy.”  The wailing howl was gone, replaced by a 
furious, sneering growl as the two stood face to face on the grass.  Max gurgled 
as he tried to take a breath, but a catching pain in his ribs arrested his 
lungs.  Blood welled up his throat as he blinked at his slayer.  Malger’s 
shoulders bunched and his entire upper body flexed, his hand giving the sword 
buried in Max’s flesh a jerking twist.  Maxamillian the far-from-magnificent 
gurgled in pain, his eyes going wide at the sudden explosion of agony in his 
breast.  His empty hand clutched impotently at Malger’s forearm, but the 
minstrel paid the ineffective touch no regard.  Malger only leaned closer, an 
alien tickle across Max’s cheek of unseen whiskers as the final words he would 
ever hear were growled into his ear.  “Joy was that mink.”  Malger said at last, 
watching the light in Max’s eyes slowly fade.
                He took a step back, turned his sword violently with a sound of 
breaking bone, and let the deceased showman’s lifeless corpse slide from the 
blade.  Blood gurgled from the savage rent in Max’s expensive doublet and he 
sagged to his knees, then over sideways into the grass.  Malger stood panting 
over his foe, blood dripping from his blade for several seconds before he calmly 
knelt and wiped it clean on the dead man’s doublet.
                A heavy voice intuded on the uneasy silence behind him as he 
cleaned his blade.  “Are you quite finished, dreamwalker?” Asked the 
Lightbringer flatly.  Malger stood and turned to look at her, his gaze drifting 
to Murikeer and a horrified Vinsah beside him.
                He nodded.  “Yes, mistress.  It is done.” His voice wavered, 
weak and spent.
                The lightbringer waved one large hand and the four men at arms 
that had been attending her stepped forward.  “Very well.  Sieze him.”
 End Requiem


      

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