Zachary Jernigan - No Return

A Pustan fisherman’s version of Adrash would be unrecognizable, unbearably offensive, to the conservative Adrashi nobles of Stol or Nos Ulom, who revered the god as all-powerful and immutable, as distant from man as scrub grass was to sentinel oak. In this regard, Pol stood somewhere on the fringe of both groups. In the days of youthful revolt, he had been much influenced by the fishermen. In truth, he still considered Adrash a vengeful, even capricious lord. But in accordance with conservative Adrashi ideals, he believed Adrash had always possessed the armor. His other weapons were the stuff of myth.

No god would debase himself with such crude tools. Only man and elderman relied upon the strength of bone and steel.

‡

Mid-afternoon, Pol walked to the docks to buy a set of knives. Not any knives, either. He required a very specific design for his purpose. Garrus had recommended a bladesmith in Vanset, but Pol did not trust Ulomi and decided on a shop Shav recommended in Little Demn. He admired Tomen for their serious, frequently violent practicality. If anyone could make a knife suitable for an assassin’s hand, a desert man could.

He met every stare in the street, unafraid. The unsheathed blade of his liisau caught the sun, announcing his presence from several blocks away. For someone like Pol, Little Demn was just as dangerous during the day as the night. Men could easily see him for what he was: not only an Adrashi, but one who actively sought peace with the devil.

It was an important distinction, for just as many types of Anadrashi zealot existed as Adrashi. Roughly equal in number but generally less organized than their god-worshipping brethren, one basic belief bound them: Adrash should not be worshipped. The reasons for this numbered in the thousands, but roughly boiled down to two philosophical stances—the canonical and the personal.

The Black Suit orders, for instance, taught that Adrash actively sought the destruction of the world, and could only be kept at bay by displaying one’s faith in mankind, by cursing the god at every opportunity, and by physically besting those who worshipped Adrash. Though they acted in the community, they primarily expressed their faith through planned, bloody encounters with similarly outfitted Adrashi orders. Their faith was a thing of rigid order, tradition, and—though they would not admit it—a certain measure of symbiosis.

This expression contrasted sharply with that of the Rinka, a fraternal organization of former Adrashi in Northeastern Casta. Bound by the shared experience of family abuse, the members expressed their ecstatic faith in city squares and markets. Crying and screaming were encouraged as part of the proselytizing. Members often renounced drinking and gambling, and preached nonviolent opposition to Adrash through meditation and fasting.

Tomen rejected both the canonical and personal stances. They considered the existence of Adrash—whom they considered to be a demon of great power—to be a practical affront to humanity, and reacted in kind. Reasoning that Adrash drew strength from his worshippers, the men of the desert took every opportunity to take the lives of Adrashi, as well as weak-wristed Anadrashi. They valued freedom and self-sufficiency above all else, wrote no creeds, proselytized not at all, and committed no violence upon their brothers. Some claimed that within Toma existed the most peaceful society on the continent.

Along its borders, however, more men died in combat than anywhere else on the continent—a situation mirrored in their expatriate communities. But for the presence of the city watches, places like Little Demn were for all practical purposes border towns at war.

Pol interpreted the looks he received correctly. They would gladly gut him if given the opportunity.

A month ago, he might still have chosen to travel alone, but he would have seriously considered the consequences. This morning, however, he had not given it a second thought. Cool fire moved along his nerves, twitched the muscles in his fingers, urged him to move, to strike.

Do it , his stare mocked. Attack. He knew with every ounce of his being that an entire army could not stand against him.

He had moved the Needle.

Every day since Ebn’s disastrous mission, he had awakened to the same nervous sensations, the same memory of knocking one of Adrash’s spheres out of alignment. He recalled the pain of the sigils awakening upon his body—the mounting, rapturous pressure of the unknown spell straining for release—the vaguely disappointing knowledge that he had acted too late to save his brethren—and then the near-instinctive unloading of his pent magic upon the first target that came to mind. He tried to summon the exact feelings to him again, lingering on each detail as one might linger on a lover’s touch.

It had been a gift from the void. A call to action, proof he could no longer sit by and let events continue unchecked. He would answer the call and make himself a leader of men, but to do so he knew he must prepare carefully.

For a brief period after the disastrous encounter with Adrash, he worried he had become too addled to continue painting sigils on his skin. But, despite all of the energy coursing through his system, his hands were sure with each stroke. He even found himself painting his back, as though his fingers had eyes of their own. Sometimes it seemed the sigils were painting themselves. The marks became more complex, esoteric, and dangerous. He became a collection of alchemical lore. A weapon.

His power would soon eclipse Ebn’s. Possibly, it already had.

Odd now that I must search for knives , he thought. Such crude implements, yet he did not want to rely solely upon spells and sigils. He would not underestimate Ebn, a craftsman of magic with few equals, a mage who responded to attacks with cunning and raw power. She had even swayed Adrash, if only for a moment. Undoubtedly, she had examined her memory of the failed mission. Perhaps she had discovered what Pol had done, knew his power for the threat it was.

During the final confrontation, she would not allow sentimentality to cloud her judgment.

In this, they were bound. He prepared himself, and thought up novel ways to kill a master mage in orbit.

‡

Shav weighed the knife, flipped it a few times to test the balance. Ten heavy inches of steel, a straight handle accounted for half its length. The teardrop blade, edge ground to razor sharpness, accounted for the other half. Per Pol’s request, the bladesmith had bound a fine layer of charcoal to its surface so that it would not reflect light. It was a simple, elegant weapon, a tool clearly intended for killing.

“I told you he was good,” Shav said. “When will the others be ready?”

“Week’s end, he said.”

“You must have been robbed.”

Pol smiled. “Yes, I was, and he took some convincing. He told me that if he accepted my business, he would be dead by week’s end.”

“Nonsense.” Shav stood and threw the knife overhanded into the target Pol had fixed to the wall. His next throw hit flat and clanged to the floor.

“Why is this shaped so?” he asked, running his finger over the chisel-shaped tip of the handle.

“I have designed the knife carefully,” Pol said. “Once thrown, it has two tasks. First, it must shatter Ebn’s helmet. Second, its weight must carry the blade forward into her skull. In many ways the handle is more important than the blade.”

Pol gave this information without hesitation. He had long since ceased keeping secrets from Shav. He no longer hid his sigils. Though he had not yet discovered a use for the quarterstock, his idiosyncratic presence was oddly comforting. Furthermore, he was an excellent lover. Even his smell, which seemed to always carry the salt and rot of the sea, had an odd charm.