The Old World: Origins

No one knows where I was born, beyond “up north.” Every time someone said “up north,” they would spit. Because up north is where the monsters come from. It's where I was born, even if I cannot remember it.. 

I was found in a fjord during a spring thaw, a baby tangled in the branches of a tree that took six men to pull from the water. The shipwrights saw a tree of this magnificence and knew it would lay a beam for a ship like no other to sail the Sea of Claws. But the shaman knew something else came that day. His god sent visions, terrible ones, about the baby wrapped in the branches of the tree. None heeded his wisdom, for the warriors didn’t trust the twisted, sickly shaman.

I grew up in the town of Suderholm on the shore of the Sea of Claws, under the banner of Scarocat, called Doomfury. He ruled as Jarl under the mark of the High King of the Sarls, who ruled under only the gods.

Doomfury took me for his son, saying my survival of the rapids and twists was a sign of the gods’ favor. His wives were all barren, and some rival clans were eyeing the aging jarl’s lands as bounty when he inevitably fell. With me, the line would continue. My arrival broke whatever curse existed on Doomfury, and he had more children over the next few years. But he never forgot that it was my coming that broke the curse. He never thought of me as less than the children of his blood.

He trained me to be a warrior, and instilled in me a skill at arms to match any of the trueborn sons of the clan. When the horde of the Doomfury marched to war, our rage beat the sky itself. We all could shrug off wounds that would fell lesser clans, and waded deep into battle. I earned names in combat, even as a teen showing my talent for the press of sword and shield. Battle Eater. Witch Breaker. The Shout That Shatters Banners. My father boasted of my accomplishments alongside his own, in his cups claiming that I am the type of monster the soft south will fear beyond others. 

The fury of my father’s name never found me in battle. Though I fought with skill and strength, I fought cold. Knowing this, my father had delegated to me the flow of tactics and strategy, and many battles were won under my keen eye and eager mind. The other warriors didn’t understand my cold fury, but they saw it win us many battles, and looked past what they thought of as my deficiency.

With these victories, Doomfury’s fortunes changed, alongside our clan’s. We grew strong, taking on more lands, more thralls. Suderholm grew rich and prosperous, our longclaw boats always heaving with treasure, and our fields bursting with food. Soon Doomfury gathered banners of his own, and the Sarl took exception to it.

I was young, no more than nineteen when the Sarl gathered armies and marched on Suderholm. We had our fury, and the strength in our arms, but with the Sarl marched Godtouched warriors. Heavy, thick armor that turned our strongest blades, twisted mutations that let them spit poisons or take to the air and attack. We fought hard. We fought long. We fought, and lost.

The Sarl didn’t shatter our clan, he cut us down to size. Doomfury died, sacrificed to his Blood God on the blades of our enemies. Most of my brothers fell, and my sisters were taken as slaves. Husbands who survived were pressed into thralldom, leaving the wives and children to work our fields until we grew strong again.

With my father dead, the clan blamed me for living. I charged in the van, alongside my father and brothers, but no wound could end me. Deathblows turned away as the foe stumbled, or an ally stepped in the way of a blade meant for me. I earned the name Luck In Battle that day, a name I came to curse in the weeks following the shatter of spears. I almost danced between the foes, slashing and slaying with each beat of the battle drum. Arrows flashed by me, catching in my hair and armor, but none found rest inside my breast. 

One of my innumerable petty wounds turned infectious. The Plague Father’s Godtouched marched with our foes, pestilential flies that surrounded them clouding the air even after the battle chilled and our pyres cooled. As I lay in fever, they would gather in my eyes. I was too weak to blink them away.

While I was lost to fever, the clan spoke more and more against me. They no longer remembered the joy at our growthing strength, but only hatred at the ruin our hubris gained them. A sacked town, missing brothers, husbands, children. Our treasures carted away. The shaman spoke against me, remembering the visions and portents he saw during my early life. Harrald, my next oldest brother, began to gather support against me and my claim to the clan.

He lied about my birth, claiming that my original clan gave me to the river because I was cursed. That Doomfury was mistaken to take me in, that I brought the Sarl upon us all. None of the friends I loved or the siblings of battle I had made spoke in my favor, seeing that the shaman supported Harrald. A few tentative helpers would provide me with water, tried to feed me, but not many dared approach me in my sickness.

Less than a week passed from the battle before Harrald decided to challenge me for leadership of the clan. Less than weak, I found myself gathered up and carried to the challenge stone. I saw my brother through fevered eyes touching his spear to the sacred stone, asking the gods to watch our challenge and determine the fate of the clan. The ritual torches filled the air with greasy smoke, despite the sun being high in the sky. I was not allowed the honor of speaking to the gods. Instead I had a sword shoved into a shaking hand and a shield strapped to my all-but-useless arm. As Harrald turned away from the stone and entered the challenge ring, I was pushed forward stumbling.

Falling, my shield dragging me down, I collapsed to a knee. Harrald laughed, shouting about how my weakness was a manifestation of my curse. The fat flies buzzed around me, biting my ear as I stood again, shaking. Adopted or not, I was a child of Doomfury, and would not die on my knees. I tried to focus on my foe, not the faceless crowd surrounding us. Wracked with fever, I could only see him as a blur in the sun as he came in.

Harrald’s spear shot out towards me. He wasn’t seeking a killing blow, but was instead toying with me. Instinctively, my shield raised and shoved the spear over my shoulder. I tried to strike as he was extended, going for the soft flesh of the underarm. My strength was drained by my sudden move and I coughed up something thick, losing my opportunity as he returned to a fighting stance. He struck again. Again I turned his spear. Again I lost myself in coughing. 

I pushed forward with my sword, not looking, and connected with his arm. A slight blow, barely drawing a line of blood across his forearm, but I bled him before he bled me. He grew angry, I could see it clouding his eyes. Doomfury told us all that first blood might feel important, but it was never as important as last blood. I smiled, feeling my familiar battle mind settle upon me. It did not fire my blood, and gave strength to my limbs, but allowed me to see my enemy. See his mistakes, his weaknesses. Gripping my weapon tighter, I shuffled my feet into a battle stance.

The crowd was murmuring, the torchbearers turning to neighbors whispering. Some few remembered my battles, remembered me standing against all foes, standing over the fallen as they bled into the dirt. The shaman was looking back and forth, from them to me. I grinned and stepped forward. Harrald slammed his shield forward, hard into mine. The strength of battle was in me, but I was not at my normal health and I fell down. Harrald was on me quickly, crashing onto me. Fortune was with me, for this knocked another cough out of my mouth, along with a wad of phlegm directly into his eye. He recoiled, and I smashed the flat of my sword into his head, dazing him slightly.

Harrald lunged blindly but his strike was thrown off as I twisted. His spear lodged in the leather and wood of my shield. I rolled away, trying to take his spear with me, but he held on. I cut my shield as I stood, its weight slowing me down. I took my blade in both hands and stabbed trying to take him before he returned to his senses. The shaman shouted, alerting Harrald to my attack. Rolling away himself, he managed to avoid me long enough to find his feet. I struck once more, this time bleeding his thigh, a deeper cut. It wasn’t a life-ender, I knew, but these stings were angering him more.

With my illness, my battle strength would fade quickly, so I could not wait for him to make a mistake. I had to force one. I lunged as he cleared his eyes, but instead of landing the blow as I had the last one, I feinted and tripped him. He fell back and I moved to end this fight, when one of those cursed flies bit my ear. The pain was worse than any I had known in battle, and a fresh wave of weakness washed over me. My sword fell from my slack fingers.

My brother looked at me and grinned. He threw his shield, catching me in the gut. My wind left me, spittle and snot flying from my mouth as I gasped. Harrald stood and came at me. I was all but insensate at this point, but I somehow managed to catch his spear shaft as he pushed. His blade hit me in the middle of the forehead, driving to bone. Blood filled my vision, but with my second hand below the head of the spear, I broke the shaft. I tossed my head to clear my eyes, but the blood from a head wound is constant and fast. I had to wipe my eyes as I gripped the broken off spear point in my hand and moved in on my disarmed brother.

He got the shaft between us, pushing me away. His greater leverage was greater than my own and we separated. He shifted his spear shaft to a staff grip, me holding the broken spear head like a knife. I tilted my head, allowing the blood to collect in one eye. Harrald grinned at me, a manic rictus caught in the battle rage of our father, and I grinned back. I was struck once, him twice, but we both know he was getting the better of it now. I was sick and blood blind. But he hadn’t seen the battles I had.

Reaching up, I gathered a handful of my own blood and threw it forward, into Harald’s eyes. He instinctively recoiled and I moved in as fast as I could. I tripped him again, but this time met his head with my knee as he fell. His eyes crossed and he went limp. I stepped back and coughed again. There was ample time, my brother would not rise soon. Wiping my face, I leaned over to deliver the death blow.

Suddenly, a massive chill came over me. The air around me filled with a mist, a pestilential green, shifting with the gray of dead flesh. I coughed again, deeper, as the mist clawed its way into my lungs. I felt the chill fill me, sapping my strength. I turned, coughing harder, to see the mist flowing from the mouth and nose of our shaman. His fingers moved in mystical arts, directing the cloud to surround me. Falling to my knees, blood spraying from my lips with the force of each cough, I felt myself weakened further than any illness had taken me.

One of the ritual torchbearers turned, shouting at the shaman to end his blasphemous interference in a Gods judged duel. He added a twist to his motions and she too bent over retching. Another torchbearer stepped up and swung his burning brand at him. The first, still coughing, jammed her torch in the shaman's face. As the flames met the cloud leaving his body, the mist ignited. The fire burned unnaturally, blues and purples among the red and oranges. The shaman’s face melted in the heat, the flames burning into his head as the gas tried to escape it. His clothes burst into flame, the colors matching the rippling flames in the air. 

The fire followed the path of the gas, and surrounded me. It lapped at my skin like a liquid. I felt supported like I did in a warm bath, buoyed by the flames. It burned against me, through me, but not with the anger it burned the shaman. The heat felt like sunlight on a lazy day. It coursed through my veins, burning any sickness away. The blood on my face dried and flaked, cracking as I smiled. Joy filled me, and I moved quickly to end my brother’s life. He died unconscious, on his back, as an unnatural fire shifted around me and permeated my being. The eyes of gods had seen our struggle and judged us both. 

The flames left me, and I stood. I turned to the shaman, still alight with flames of every color, his flesh running like wax. His eyes popped and his bones showed through his liquid flesh. He seemed to scream, but it was lost in the roar of the flame. He stumbled and gripped the torchbearer, transferring the flames to her. Quickly, too quickly, the flames shot high to the sky and the shaman’s body burst, casting the flames in a widening circle. The townspeople gathered for the combat caught alight, their clothing catching as the unnatural fire flowed from person to person. Some managed to beat it out, but many were ended by the explosion. At the end of the pyroclasm, barely a dozen of Suderholm’s residents were standing. 

Singed, broken, and tired after the loss of war and kinship. Too few to rebuild the clan from the damage the Sarl had done. 

I stepped to the broken corpse of the shaman, only a few bones recognizable in the pile. His skull was there, burned black, with blue fire burning deep in the depths. As soon as I saw the flames I was caught, unable to even blink. I saw the flames, but I saw more. There was a multitude of futures laid bare before me, destinies beyond counting open to my mind. I fell to my knees, the pain in my head all but blasting my sanity away. I still could not look away, my hands reached out and gripped the skull. I lifted it, and the flames showed more, and more, and more. Too much for me. My mind was shattering, stretching, I screamed with pain, something not one the battles of my life had been able to pull from me, still unable to look away. 

One thread through them all drew my eye. I greedily focused on it, trying to learn my fate, but I felt my mind ripped asunder, tossed about on the fickle winds that come from the god of fate. I couldn’t focus and lost consciousness.

It was hours later before I awoke, cold with the wind blowing out of the north. The shaman’s skull had burned to nothing, ashes filling my hands. No sign of the unnatural flames remained, nor of the few surviving villagers. My clan, my life, had been removed in a pyre sent by the gods. My head throbbed, and I reached up to rub it. My fingers felt a new scar on my forehead. My brother’s strike had healed, but the scar was like none I had felt before. A heavy lid, but soft flesh behind it, it felt like a closed eye. I knew then that I was one of the Godtouched.

A staggering array of visions marched before me, but none with the force of the flame visions. I saw one thing in them, uniting them. A great warrior, uniting the treasures of darkness and bearing the mark of all gods. I saw him leading us south, to conquer and slay. I stood, wavering slightly. I searched the ashes of my town, but there were none of my clan left. The survivors had scavenged supplies and left, taking the last of the longclaws from the pier. 

I took up a sword and shield, wrapped food and bedroll into my pack and set off. Somewhere out there the gods would lead me to a warrior who could unite us all, and I would find him.

When Faith Requests

The tithe came for us at the worst time. The red robed priests of the faith with their symbols of death on their robes. They reminded us of the glory of worship and service as they told us they would take our children. Behind them were their giants, with their guns. Their fists. They were silent, but they did more to remind us of the cost of worship. 

Johan was six months old, at the top of eligibility for the tithe. I held him in shaking arms as the priest came for him, murmuring words I couldn’t understand. 

The thick smoke of the censers made Johan cry. His bright red hair was the only part of him sticking out of the bundle when they came for me. I thought I could hide him, hide how well healthy he was. But he cried too loud, too forcefully.

So many of the children were sick. Twisted by the radiation and pollution of the factories we were forced to work in, for the glory of worship. Our service made so many of us die so young, made so many of us twisted.

I was told I was blessed to have a healthy son. One with strong hands, strong lungs. He cried as the priest took him from me, but I didn’t. There were no tears left for me. The ash of the furnaces had dried them up years ago. Silent sobs shook my body, but I kept my eyes downcast as the priest moved on. 

The giant that followed him was silent too. I stared at his feet as he passed. The red plates of armor with black trim. His presence was a threat, a reminder of what we had to worship. The whine of his servos in his armor were not enough to eclipse the cries of my son as they both left my tiny hovel.

He had such strong lungs.

I was not the only one to have to give a child to the tithe. Three on my work crew had to turn them over, but they were grateful. There was one less mouth to feed, a little more left in the rations they gave us. They didn’t have someone like my Johan at home. 

The acolytes tried to comfort me in the days following. They reminded me of the glory of worship, the glory of service. I was told of the rituals that Johan would undergo, to make his form more fit for that worship. That service only he could do.

The careful surgeries, done without anesthesia as pain was part of the service. I knew this myself, having worked on the assembly lines since I was old enough to see over the top of it. I had lost fingers to the snapping jaws of the rollers, an ear to the cutters. Pain was service. Pain was worship.

They told me of the augmentations that he would be given. That they would help him serve, help him worship. That by his worship, others would be saved. That the truth would pour forth from him and confront the enemies of the faith. 

I told the acolytes that I was comforted.

My reward for this service, for the service of my son, was a promotion up the line. I was moved away from the forges and their acrid smoke. I would work on more refined products, further from the raw cutting and smashing that had stolen my flesh. Away from the machine that I had serviced as an act of worship.

That worship that had stolen more of my flesh than I knew I had.

I was told to be grateful. Johan’s service would be one of pride in the faith, and his light would reflect on me when I finally died. Snatched up by a machine, or panting as my lungs filled with blood. The only two outcomes those of us who worshiped knew.

That worship bought us a place after this life, a brighter, better world. The acolytes would descend from their temples of death and pain and tell us that. They would assure us that we were fighting for the truth, for the faith, as surely as any soldier. That we would be rewarded in the end.

The temples would open their doors like jaws once a month and take us inside. We would march before the altars of bone metal, forged in the very factories we toiled in. Did my flesh go into their construction? Had my blood spilled across their surfaces?

The icons and trophies of the faith filled the rooms, and we were brough to our knees by the glory of what we worshiped. Music of war, of bloodshed, of the glory of pain filled the rooms as the choir of cherubs entered, and we knew that we were safe in the truth. We were protected by the silent giants, with their silent guns.

Censers were born aloft by their flight. The smoke moved among us, scented heavily with the incense and oils of that sacred place. So different than the smoke of the forges that tainted us even in this holy place, and even the music could not hide the bloody, hacking coughs.

Prayer scrolls trailed from their bodies, more symbols of death I couldn’t understand. These were repeated on the banners around us. Everywhere the same icons, hammered into the altars by the machines I now ran.

I raised my eyes from the altar, gazing at the cherubs. The wings stitched to their backs hid the propulsion packs that kept them aloft. Their eyes were a mirror of our own pain, even if they couldn’t understand it. 

The rituals were explained to me so clearly. How they would cut away the parts of him that made him grow, made him more than just a toddler. How the priest would pray as they cut into my Johan, anointing him for his new purpose. They would only take the purest white wings for my son.

I found him among the choir. His mouth was stretched wide, so the speakers could fit. His bright red hair was waving in the force from his repulsors. I could see the red flesh where the wings were stitched on. They were beautiful.

My son was singing. His lungs had been so strong, but not strong enough. Not for the benedictions he needed to sing now. Not for what he needed to do to protect us.

That strength wasn’t enough for the God-Emperor’s priests.