Chapter Seven

“SoMeTiMEs DEaTH is PreFerAbLe.”

-Scrawled onto a cell wall in the Rashavain Imperial Prison.

Several thousand kilometer to the northwest of the battlefield was a temple. The entrance to which was three quarters of the way up a mountain. The entire temple was part of the mountain, every room and even the original furniture were carved from the stone, all of it a single piece. The man made passages extended both deep into the mountain and right to the peak, vents that allowed in fresh air, cut cleverly into the stone to hide them from view. The single entrance was an unadorned archway that stood at nearly ten meters tall. Despite being so large it was only accessible by a set of narrow stairs that spiraled around the mountain.

This was Wakin’s roost, the center of his sphere of influence, his subjects wild beasts and magical monstrosities that had subjugated themselves to him out of fear or for protection.

In its heyday it had served as the home of a small enclave of mages who spent their lives studying the secrets of the arcane in the cold, dark stone halls and bare cells, isolated from the influence of the mundane world.

That had been centuries ago. Now the temple was in ruins, the tunnels were cracked, rooms had caved in and the furniture was rubble, more than two thirds of it was uninhabitable. The walls that had once been carved with mysterious and magic runes were encrusted with feces and all manners of lichens, fungi and molds. Then there was the scent of fear, so deeply ingrained into the fabric of the place that no magic could remove it.

Only beasts moved freely through the halls now, servants to the lord of this ruined temple.

It was in the very heart of the temple, its library, that Wakin made his nest. The massive cavern that had once housed over a million scrolls, tomes and documents on magic, a glorious place of learning. Was now the home of a beast. The shelves had been cleared to the edges. Their contents, at least what wasn't already dust, was strewn around haphazardly, covered in filth and ripped apart.

The floor was coated with a three foot thick layer of bleached and broken bones, belonging to those Wakin had preyed upon over the centuries. The centerpiece of the room was a massive nest made of whole saplings and the largest of the bones from the monster’s meals. Rotting inside were the half-eaten corpses of his last and next meal.

The foulest part of the library was not the nest, nor was it the carpet of bones, it was in fact the a small adjoining room on the north wall. The tiny ten by ten box was where Wakin kept his most prized possessions.

Chained to the walls were five young woman, all of whom shared a single trait, their eyes were pure white save for a black circle.

Looking more like five corpses, the nude figures all bore signs of horrendous, physical and sexual torture. Once beautiful and youthful, their now gaunt and pale skin was stretched tightly over starved bodies, their bones outlined underneath.

Each figure was a unique and macabre tapestry of burns, bruises and scars, added on a whim by a monster that took everything from them.

Four of the woman were gone, having retreated deep into themselves, hiding from the constant pain of their broken bodies. It was likely nothing could rouse them, they almost empty husks, kept alive by the magic forced upon them by Wakin. The oldest of them, a woman who looked thirty, was actually nearing four hundred, four entire centuries she had lived as a slave.

Only the youngest girl, a lass no more than thirteen, still had a hint of life inside. The once vibrant little girl whimpered in her ever present darkness as she struggled with the collar, and begged for whatever god could hear, to let her free.

She desperately wanted to escape before the monster returned to inflict more pain on her. More and more often a nagging voice deep within told her that it was impossible, that she would forever belong to the man who had hurt her and killed her father.

She knew, even though she couldn't see, that he was dead. She had been pinned under her papa’s heavy body when he died, his warm blood soaking her as it pumped out through the slit in his throat, her tiny hands unable to stem the flow. That had been three months ago.

Panting she collapsed, her starved body was too weak to let her move for more than a few seconds at a time, not mention the pain that came from everywhere.

Suddenly there was unbearable agony from deep inside, worse than anything she had suffered to this point. Slowly a mess of golden lines appeared on her eyes, contained within the black circles. She was not alone in her pain as the same happened to the other four woman in the room. For the first time she knew that she was not the only one here, there were others, suffering.

The women continued to scream, all writhing as they felt pain in their very souls, each golden line that appeared on the surface of their eye increasing the torture. Of the five of them, only the marks on the youngest and the oldest had glowed brightly.

The moment the distant Wakin shattered one of the symbols on his body, the oldest witch felt something snap inside of her. The unbelievable pain silenced her and brought a hellish moment clarity to her mind. If there had been anyone watching they would be treated to the horrifying sight of body aging a quarter of a century in an instant.

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The pain passed before it could give Fulgan an advantage and with a sudden wellspring of energy Wakin shot toward the cliff, the seven spectral swords blasted away by nine gold-tinged bolts of crimson lightning.

In the blink of an eye he was mere meters from the cliff, his talons outstretched to tear his foe apart and claim his prize. He could taste success, raising his head he gulped down air, his excitement in the moment needing an outlet.

The triumphant caw that was building up in his lungs died when the giant bird locked eyes with Fulgan. There wasn't even a hint of worry in his steely grey orbs as Fulgan struck out with the sword in his hand, the comparatively small weapon glowing like a small sun, an eighth sword forged of willpower superimposed over the material blade.

Impossible! Was the only the only thought in Wakin’s mind as he tried to change his course, he needed to retreat from the terrifying man in front of him, he wasn’t fast enough.

Together the two swords split the sky, forming a massive crescent composed of mana forcefully shaped by willpower. The giant blade separated a wing from Wakin’s body in a shower of blood and feathers, that soaked the cliff and the immovable man on it.

“Tch! I missed.”

No longer able to fly Wakin stabilized himself in the air with magic as he fled back into the sky, utter horror in his eyes as he stared down Fulgan. He didn’t get far before the eight swords circled, him, trapping the injured monster.

“How?”

Behind Fulgan, Garret and Taran both ignored the blood that spattered them, their faces frozen somewhere between joy and terror, the events of the last few seconds changing to rapidly for their expressions to keep up. From the high they had as Wakin was fought to a stalemate, to the terror when Fulgan was rushed and finally, right up to joy as a wing was completely removed.

“How! How! From six to eight is impossible in two years!” raged the increasingly erratic and madden bird in the sky, more and more lightning flooded out of his body just barely holding the swords at bay.

Fulgan didn't answer the dying bird as a pained look crossed his face for a moment, something thankfully hidden from Taran.

His youngest son wasn't the only one haunted by the death of Adran, the last stand of his first child tore Fulgan up inside, each second of it a torture he re-lived every night.

Back then he had been two weak.

Six years ago Fulgan had been able to form six swords with his will, leaving him as one of just around a thousand Six Sword Saint on a continent with around three billion inhabitants.

Content, he’d put his training to the wayside to raise his sons, one a child and the other a young, talented Sword Saint.

While non Bloodline Birthmarks are not inherited directly by blood. There is an increased chance that a child will be born with the same Birthmark as their parent when compared to the child of someone without that Birthmark.

Adran was one of those lucky children. He was also far more talented than his father, reaching the level of a Six Sword Saint by the age of fifteen, something seen only a handful of times.

It was only a year later, fueled by a need to protect his family, that the sixteen year old Adran managed to condense a Seventh Sword. That very same night he had his last stand, killing the Divine Council’s men and dying in the process to give his family the time they needed to flee.

Forced to to leave the corpse of his son behind Fulgan made the best of the time that had been purchased for them and led his family towards the Godless Peaks. Four years of running followed that, their footsteps hounded all the way, but the headstart had paid off and they made it, escaping the influence of the gods and finding a place to call home.

With his family finally safe, Fulgan had thrown himself into his training. Four hellish years a step ahead of death had tempered his will, making it easy for him to become a Seven Sword Saint when he was finally able put his guard down and truly relax his mind.

Forming the eighth sword had been the result to his own brutal efforts the last two years. Never before had was he so spartan with himself and his training. Besides three hours in the morning he spent teaching the children and a few hours asleep, Fulgan trained. Putting himself through countless life or death struggles to temper his will and wring out every bit of his latent talent. Beneath his tunic his body was a patchwork of scars and injuries in various states of repair.

His efforts had paid off three months ago and so he agreed without a second thought when Garret came to him with a plan.

Blinking his eyes as the pain of the past faded Fulgan looked at monster that threatened his family with a cold smile.

In the sky Wakin was going insane, his mind reverting to that of a dumb beast as injuries began to pile up. He had to escape, he needed to escape, but he couldn't not with a single wing. It would be impossible for him to outrun the eight blades.

It had been centuries since he thought it death, now it was looming and he was terrified. That primal fear of mortality bubbling up and flowing through his veins like venom, poisoning his mind. Cornered and close to death he rushed towards the outcropping once more.