Lightblessed
Chapter 26

After Auryn the Crazed decimated Praxoenn, the Lightblessed’s standing with the Illuminari waned. In the wake of this tragedy, shamanism became outlawed, a form of paganism that could no longer coexist with the Light. The Lightblessed could still grant exemptions but this only further sullied the reputation of both.

***

Each wagon had backed itself up into a much tighter circle than usual, Trynneia saw as they approached the encampment for the night. The horses had been taken off to the side, watched over by a lone tender who nodded at their approach. Like most of their fellow travelers, Trynneia failed to recognize him, but Modius returned the nod with a wave. Firelight flickered amidst the canopies of canvas and wood, peppered with shadows that undulated in the waning evening.

The two dismounted and gave their horse into the care of the handler and walked in on foot. Trynneia pinched the blanket around her head, clasping it at her breast as a makeshift cloak Modius looked lost in his own thoughts. Passing between the closest wagons, Trynneia had to cut off a shriek of horror at what she saw.

Lines had been erected between four of the wagons. Where they intersected, Eilic dangled upside down. Blood dripped from a massive gash in his throat, collected in a small cauldron above the roaring campfire. The rest of the contingent of travelers sat around the center, entranced.

What terrified her most was Sariam, who walked from person to person. Her eyes had sunken in, and her nude body revealed dry and paper-like skin desiccated by the heat. Torn across her throat, a gash similar to Eilic’s gaped with crusted blood. She carried a bloodied dagger in her hands that Trynneia had no doubt was used to kill Eilic. Each man and woman the blood witch approached would lick the dagger before consuming a small piece of flesh she provided them.

Trynneia looked at Modius questioningly, but his face was both intimidating and unconcerned by what presented itself before them. He watched with an intensity that brooked no questioning. She remained just as silent as he while they approached the strange gathering. Blood magic! Her heart quailed at the thought, not comprehending how this woman, who was clearly dead, also walked yet among the living.

For the first time during this journey, she saw the ten crates had been brought out of her wagon, used as seats for the assemblage. The auras appeared to be gone, smothered by an overall blackness surrounding everyone present that could not be attributed to nightfall alone.

“This is your birthday celebration, Trynneia. Please, sit and be welcome,” Modius whispered in her ear. His provocative voice lulled her, captivating her curiosity while at the same time heightening her repugnance at his comfort with the situation before them.

“It’s not my birthday,” she returned, even as he led her to the nearest crate. As she sat, she heard the familiar knocking beneath her, a subtle thumping. Her unease grew while she watched Sariam come closer, presenting the dagger to each person in turn.

“You’ve been with us long enough. The others wanted to celebrate,” replied Modius, lightly licking the blood from the dagger Sariam held before him. Then it was Trynneia’s turn. “This night shall be a long one. I probably should have warned you,” he smirked.

Sariam moved in front of Trynneia and pointed the dagger at her mouth. The girl noticed that the woman had no eyes at all, that her eyelids had been sewn shut. Black pus had oozed out and dried in place of tears. She smiled a toothless, craggy smile. “Taste,” the word came unbidden to her mind, sounding like Sariam’s voice though it had not been spoken aloud.

Trynneia looked at Modius, who merely nodded and raised his eyebrows, indicating she should do as she’d been asked. Letting go of the blanket, she grabbed hold of Sariam’s wrist. She winced at the cold touch of flesh, but pulled the hand closer, and licked the knife, terrified of what might happen if she refused.

Blood dribbled onto her tongue, and memories grasped her even as she felt the dagger pass just into her mouth, and a hand pressed her jaw shut around it. Every indecency Eilic had visited upon her came instantly to the fore of her mind. Hatred replaced the shame and degradation she experienced at his hand. An overwhelming compulsion to exact revenge consumed her. For months, the physical injuries and emotional distress had compounded within her, and now those sufferings were let loose as her inhibitions melted away.

Eilic hung there before her, his nude body untouched but for the gash through his throat. The cauldron beneath him overflowed with his blood, blood that boiled upon the flames, crusting and caking the force of his life. Eilic had not suffered enough. He needed to suffer. Never before had she felt this rage before. Her own blood ran hot with the need, while her rune covered flesh felt like ice, colder than the harshest winter.

She jerked the dagger free from her mouth, not caring that it slashed part of her tongue or ripped her lips. Trynneia did not question how easily she took control of it from Sariam, and ignored the blanket falling from her shoulders to the ground. The distance between herself and Eilic’s corpse vanished amidst the rising of a chant around her, thrumming to the knocking in the crates.

It did not matter that he was already dead. She slashed. Striking over and over, she vented every ounce of her anguish. His neck happened to be at the perfect height. Vengeance, she thought, blind to everything else, her strength unleashed itself against her tormentor. Trynneia created a foul mess, but did not care, and did not stop until Eilic’s mangled head fell, glancing off the cauldron and spilling its contents into the flames adjacent to her. Only then did she become aware of her surroundings and fall to her knees, sobbing.

“It’s over, Trynneia. He’ll never hurt you again. You’re free,” Modius said, placing his hands upon her quivering shoulders. She looked up at him, and saw pride and acceptance, but also somehow stern resignation. “But you’re not done yet,” he indicated the result of her actions.

Catching her breath, she realized the chanting had intensified, and there was a distinct rocking from each of the crates, all except the one she and Modius had initially sat upon. “Bring that here, quickly.”

Knowing better than to disobey or hesitate, disgusted by the feel of blood and matted hair slithering upon a ruined scalp, she picked up Eilic’s head and approached their crate. Each step felt like a lifetime as Modius opened it up and she recognized the contents: severed heads. With each step, she took in the sight of each one, her heartbeat matching the rhythm of the chant.

Deputy Fant. Step. Evar Gress. Step. The man with the goat. Step. The magistrate. Step. Old Chet. Step. Ohla. Step. Miss Jessmyn. Step.

Rendrys. Her heart felt numb at the sight of her mother’s head here, even after she’d watched Ditan bury it. No hint of decay existed on any of them, and only the injuries inflicted in conjunction with their removal remained, each perfectly preserved.

Around her, the others stood up and opened their crates, revealing more heads than she wanted to count. Every aura within the crates had vanished, gone completely in the dark. There was no breath left for her to breathe. This wasn’t just the people whose deaths had resulted in her banishment. Not one person from her village had been spared. She’d slept between these very crates for the entirety of her captivity. Her stomach turned.

Suddenly the skull she held in her hand seemed more comfortable by comparison. She stared at each laceration, the destroyed expression, the shattered jawline and punctured cheeks. Mother, no! Not the Light, she couldn’t utter a devotion to the Light, would not sully it with her profane voice.

Trynneia felt her tongue swelling, her lips aching from the gashes she’d given herself. She dwelt on that too, anything to turn her mind from the sights surrounding her. What have I done? She asked herself. With her weakened left hand, she held Eilic’s head to her breast, supporting her body as she dry heaved.

Decay and rot filled the air around her as the chanting crescendoed. Sariam picked up the dagger from where it had fallen and dipped it in the boiling blood that was rapidly turning to char. Trynneia watched Sariam continue her perverse ritual, only this time as she came to each man she would slit his throat and stand there in the shower of their blood as it fountained across her flesh. At each woman, she would slice a cross in their stomachs, and eat their entrails.

Not one person avoided this fate as Sariam took her time walking around the circle. When all were dead except for Trynneia and Modius, she gestured to each crate, and the word sounded itself in Trynneia’s head. “Coffin.” Modius indicated he wanted help, and she did her best to lift legs while Modius wrestled each body into a crate.

Trynneia purged her thoughts, working mechanically, her emotions too far removed already by the ritual. After Modius sealed each one, Sariam painted symbols with blood, runes of power that glowed as her finger passed along the surface. When the last was sealed, all ten burst into flame. Sariam turned her sightless gaze to Trynneia and drew apart her dress, marking her breastbone with the same symbols. “Shaman,” slammed into her head as her chest felt ablaze where the new runes marked her skin.

Ditan! She remembered him even as overwhelming grief devastated her. Modius spoke. “A shaman caused all this,” he hissed close to her ear. “Every one of these deaths could have been prevented if he’d been put down like the beast he is.”

All reason fled her. The tempo of the crates and the now deceased travelers pulsed in her blood and red filled her vision. She screamed, a death shriek of anguish and sorrow, rage and fury combined. Modius smiled, his insidious grin ignored by Trynneia as she shifted her gaze. Sariam stood by mutely, silently caressing her disturbingly distended belly, covered in blood and gore.

Trynneia ran to the runed wagon and wrenched the protected door open. The runes burned at her touch, but she did not flinch at the agony in her hand. Ditan remained trussed up and unconscious, his incompletely healed wounds seeping. Of the weapons she’d been presented before, only the club remained.

She did not hesitate, recalling her earlier resolve to inflict his punishment to atone for her guilt. Trynneia gave in gladly, fueled by an unholy rage she could not comprehend. He was her oldest friend, whom she loved as a brother, but that was not enough for her now. Everything seemed twisted, her mind muddled. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Yet she’d been presented with insurmountable evidence against him. Try as she might, Trynneia could no longer consider any redeemable qualities that he had. She had no pity, she would not heal him first. Indeed, she doubted the light would answer her call any longer. Only darkness could she see around him.

Very faintly, those tiny specks of light, colored hues that had swarmed about him before, showing her how to heal him, retreated.The comfort those had also brought retreated from her as her righteous madness built up. Her anger then turned toward Eilic and how she’d watched him pummel Ditan with that very club. He’d not done it right. Now she wished he hadn’t been slain already, so she could show him a masterwork of torture.

She had nothing left. No friends, no family, no village to go home to. No real hope to return to the Light. Just this moment to prove her worth, a fading fool’s hope that this retribution would pay for it all, that when the Light Judged her, all might be forgiven. Correct for the distortion created by the shaman, she thought, and be Lightblessed once more!

The club felt heavy in her hand, the weight of her own judgment, one last check against her motives. As she hefted it up, he shifted her stance to accommodate her damaged left arm. This would have been easier if she could heal herself. No matter. Trynneia swung, tears of fury and anguish stinging, blurring her vision. Just before impact, Ditan cracked open his eyes. Even weakened, the force of her first blow shook the wagon.

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