Derek Ward

Why are my superiors so sure that the Purists are like the rabble that call themselves dwarven independence fighters? I know that in the beginning they may have been. At least from the reports my superiors shove in my face every time I tell them the situation my men face. I tried to explain the current crop of Purists were more like professional soldiers. Which, if the Purists are the heirs to Cull, it would harken back to the Black and the Red. Those were fanatics, but they were fanatics who trained under former infantry officers. Given the numbers of Reclamation War veterans, even veteran officers, is it truly out of the realm of probability the Purists managed to form their own copies of the Black and Red? – Personal correspondence from Capt. Tuli to his wife, ten days before his platoon was ambushed by a Purist forced and killed to the last man

RIN

“Welcome to our camp, Acolyte,” their captive said as they emerged from the tree line. His name was Kir, and he’d been recruited when Purist recruiters came through his town some sixteen months ago. After talking with him, it was clear Kir was recruited for his enthusiasm and a small skill at hunting, but not much else.

“Where is everyone?” Rin asked.

“I’m sorry Acolyte, but it looks like the main force has already left. Acolyte Smythe most likely went with them.” Marteen, Kurt, and Rin traded worried looks.

“I’m sure we’ll catch up to them,” Rin said, giving Kir a hearty slap on the shoulder. The elf smiled eagerly.

“It looks like Prior Venat is still here, at least” Kir said, pointing at the largest of the tents still in the clearing. “He’ll be able to tell you anything you need.”

“Lead on then,” Rin said. Kir briskly stepped down to the camp. Marteen kept his hands near the pair of swords he scrounged from the dead. Kurt was holding a primed musket in his hands with two more lashed to his horse. The dwarf was uncomfortable with the muskets, but Rin was confident Kurt could hit something within five meters. If nothing else, the gun smoke would give some concealment.

“Rin, this looks more like a proper military camp than something thrown together by a rabble,” Kurt observed.

“How many would you say they had here when it was full?”

“If they set this up like Imperial Army encampment, I’d say about two thousand,” Marteen said.

“Two thousand?” Kurt asked, barely keeping his voice low. “How, under the Mad God, did the Purists manage to scrape up two thousand people to fight for them?”

“Better question – how long were they here?” Rin asked.

“From the way the earth is churned up and the smell, I’d say at least a couple of months,” Marteen said.

The remaining Purists in the camp looked suspicious of the three but didn’t say anything. Kir waved at two musket-armed elves standing guard at the largest tent’s entrance.

“Talen, they need to see the Prior,” Kir said to the taller of the guards.

“Where’s the rest of your patrol?” Talen asked with a deep voice. “And who are these three?” His eyes locked on Rin and went wide.

“That’s what I need to talk with the Prior about,” Kir said. “Talen, it’s urgent.” The guard nodded and stepped into the tent. After a few moments, Talen emerged and motioned for them to follow him.

As Rin stepped into the tent, the first thing he noticed was how empty it was. For as large as the tent was, there were none of the trappings Rin expected. The only furnishings in the tent were the stool the Prior was sitting on and the paper-strewn camp table the elf was hunched over. The Prior was an older elf in worn brown pants and an even more worn off-white cotton shirt. The Prior’s weary face twisted into a scowl as Rin and the others came closer. He pulled the black hair back and examined the trio with small, dark eyes.

"Kir, what under the Light is going on?

“The other acolyte needed to speak with you, Prior,” Kir said, his voice faltering.

“What other acolyte?” Prior Venat looked over at Rin’s group and his face blanched.

“You idiot! Those are the ones you were supposed to kill!” the Prior said. The slight hiss of Marteen’s swords clearing their scabbards was followed by the sound of flesh slicing open and screams of pain. The guard behind them was down. Rin drew his own sword and cut down Kir before the elf could react. As Kir fell, Rin pounced on the Prior as the old elf struggled to pull out an old flintlock pistol. Rin severed the Prior’s hand with a clean slash.

“Marteen, watch if any other guards come through,” Rin said.

“I know how to handle myself in a fight, Rin,” Marteen answered. “This is what I do, in case you’ve forgotten.” Marteen always sounded so happy in a fight.

“Just make sure we don’t get shot,” Rin said before turning back to the Prior.

“You will all burn in everlasting torments,” the Prior said.

“I’m sure. Where is Smythe?”

“Two weeks gone! On his way to purify the Crystal Palace alongside the Edess Kul and the Regiment of the Pure,” the Prior answered with gleeful abandon. “You will never be able to get to Lisandra before they crush and purify the heretic–” Rin slashed open the Prior’s throat. He got everything he was going to get from the old elf. The killing had nothing to do with how the Prior was talking about her. Nothing.

“God of Iron, if they left here two weeks ago, then they could be in Lisandra in another week or two. It will take us at least three weeks to get there at best speed,” Kurt said.

“What’s the worry? The Capitol Army will tear through this rabble,” Marteen said, with a sudden dark tone. “Especially with all of the muskets and cannon the humans gave them.”

“No, you idiot, they won’t,” Kurt said, “The Capitol Army is out on the White Plains training with those muskets and cannon. The only military force in Lisandra right now is the Crystal Guard.”

“Pallus is leading them,” Marteen replied, “I’m sure he can handle it.” There was a nasty undertone in the elf’s words, but Rin didn’t have time to sort it out.

“Can we worry about the Purists out there first?” Rin asked, moving his sword to his left hand and drawing his revolver. They heard the loud clacks of dozens of muskets being cocked in unison. Rin slashed at the far wall of the tent and yelled for Kurt and Marteen to follow him. As soon as they were out of the tent, Rin pushed them to the ground. He knew the next sounds. First, the metallic snap of the locks. A brief pause. Then, a small pop as the powder in the pan ignited the powder. The ragged roar of the volley followed quickly by the whistles of the musket balls whipping over their heads.

“Up! Now! While they’re reloading!” Rin commanded, jumping up to his feet. He charged around the tent, revolver in hand. From the shocked looks on the Purists’ faces, they expected Rin and his friends to be dead. Rin gunned down the elf leading the firing line before turning the revolver on the four closest on the volley line. Before the dead elves hit the ground, Marteen sped by him with a cackle. The swordmaster flung himself into the throng of desperately reloading Purists.

It had been a long time since Rin watched Marteen dance. It was a sight both terrible and beautiful to behold. The elf effortlessly glided around his opponents’ stumbling attacks while lashing out with perfect cuts, slashes, and lunges. During the Reclamation War, Marteen earned the name “The Scythe.” From the stories, entire battalions were brought to a standstill by the elf dancing in front of Rin. To the humans who fought him, Marteen was death personified. To the elves, Marteen was simply the greatest swordmaster of the past three generations. Marteen ended his dance with a few minor slashes and slightly out of breath. Marteen saw Rin staring, and true to form, bowed with dramatic flourish.

Marteen didn’t see the Purist emerge from a tent with musket in hand. Rin dashed towards the Purist as the elf kneeled and brought his musket up. The Purist saw Rin, but to his credit, he kept his focus on the confused Marteen. Rin saw the flash of powder in the pan, and a half-second later, the rolling smoke and thunder. The Purist was smiling as Rin opened him up with a pair of slashes.

“Rin!” Kurt yelled. Rin spun around. Marteen was on the ground unleashing a string of profanity. Rin slid next to Marteen and did a quick inspection of the wound. It was worse than he feared. The musket ball slammed into the elf’s shoulder and tore it apart. Blood was quickly pooling under Marteen.

“Kurt, third bag on the left side of my saddle. Bring the whole bag,” Rin commanded, as he pulled out a pair of small wax capsules from a small pouch on his belt. Marteen would understand. The elf looked up at Rin with a bewildered look. Rin bit down on both capsules and forced them into the wound. Marteen screamed in agony as oily fluid erupted from the capsules and filled the hole in Marteen’s shoulder. The bleeding stopped instantly, but ripples of black were visible on the edge of the wound. Rin let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. It contained itself to the wound, thank the Protector. Rin concentrated on the thrum in the medallion. She was still there.

“God of Iron, boy, what did you do?” Kurt said, holding a saddlebag in his hands. Damn, Rin forgot exactly how fast the dwarf could move on those stubby legs of his.

“Ichor,” Rin answered, taking the bag out of Kurt’s hands and rummaging through it. Where was that bottle? Of course, it slipped down to the bottom of the bag. Things could never be easy.

“What is ichor?”

“Demon blood,” Rin answered as he worked furiously. Kurt’s eyes went wide, but Rin ignored him. There would be time to deal with Kurt’s outrage later. Rin pulled out a small flask and a roll of bandages. He unstoppered the flask and poured a shot into Marteen’s mouth. Marteen recoiled at the taste but swallowed. Then, his head lolled to the side as his body used all its strength to fight the wound and the ichor’s infection. Rin hoped he got enough of the vile concoction into Marteen or the elf might not survive the next fifteen minutes. Rin quickly wrapped Marteen’s shoulder. Having done all he could, Rin sat back down and caught his breath.

“Son, what did you just do?” Kurt asked, warily.

“Kept Marteen from bleeding out,” Rin said, “If we’re lucky, he might even regain the use of his arm.”

“With demon magic?” Kurt asked, his voice a barely controlled whisper.

“No, demon blood,” Rin replied.

“Why would you use demon blood?”

“Ichor will seal the wound. It’ll keep him alive until we can get him to a cleric.”

“Does demon blood corrupt a person like demon magic does?” Kurt asked.

“Yes, but slowly,” Rin answered, letting his anger tint his tone. “If we can get Marteen to a cleric, the corruption can be cleansed before he’s separated from the Goddess. And we both know there’s one not too far off.”

“You felt her too,” Kurt said. “Did you consider her when you decided to use that on Marteen?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Rin answered, wearily. “Using ichor is a last resort type of thing. If I didn’t use it, Marteen would have bled out in a few minutes. Maybe less. Even if we stopped the bleeding some other way, he’d probably lose his arm.” Kurt nodded with understanding, but not agreement. Well, Rin would live with that.

“So, how are we going to get him to her before that desecration of his body and soul is permanent?” Kurt asked, “She’s not far, but she’s not close either. And Marteen is unconscious.” Almost as if to answer Kurt, Marteen jumped to his feet and screamed in pain. The elf sprinted in random paths around the camp while screaming at the top of his lungs. Kurt gave Rin a questioning look, but the human just shrugged.

“He’ll be good enough to travel in a few minutes,” Rin said.

“Demon blood does that?”

“It’s not from the ichor. I needed to give his body’s vitality a boost.” Rin held up the small flask. “It’s a concoction the army chemists use.” Rin watched Marteen running around for a moment more.

“From personal experience, when Marteen comes down off the initial rush, I’m sure he’ll think it was demon magic.”

It was the better part of two days’ ride to the small cottage nestled in a clearing. There wasn’t even a real path through the forest, just an overgrown game trail. As the trio emerged from the forest, Rin felt his medallion pulse faster. The metal disc was happy to be this close to her.

“Well, that certainly looks cozy,” Marteen growled. Rin ignored Marteen’s foul temper. Ichor sapped a person’s vitality and did nothing to ease the pain of the wound. To Marteen’s credit, he wasn’t any worse than he was when he was hungover.

“Be glad she’s here,” Kurt said.

“Why is she here?” Rin asked.

“We don’t know. She just told us she was leaving Lisandra about eight years ago,” Kurt answered.

“At least she told us was leaving.” Rin ignored the jibe.

“Marteen, go knock on the door while we tie up here.”

“Why me?” Marteen asked.

“Because you’re the hurt one, and we’re busy.” Marteen harrumphed and dismounted from his horse. It was more of a controlled fall than a proper dismount. Marteen staggered down the well-tended path to the cottage’s front door. Marteen knocked twice on the blue door before it swung open. A lithe, dark-haired elf woman in light green robes stood in the doorway. Around her neck, she wore the same medallion as Rin, Kurt, and Marteen. Her beautiful face was contorted in a mask of rage. Rin was taken aback. He’d never seen her so furious in his life, and he pushed her temper hard a couple of times.

“Uh, hello, Selene,” Marteen stammered as he stepped back from the enraged woman. Selene took a step, and just as Marteen taught her so many years ago, punched Marteen square in the face. Kurt nearly fell off his pony laughing.