“Death brings us fresh souls to command, more bodies to twist to our will, sate our lusts and serve his design…
“What is the body without the soul? Corrupted flesh, nothing more. Mark the passing of loved ones by giving their shell to the fire…”
“The body is everything. A soul without a body is a wasted, wretched echo of a life - ”
“I HEARD MY MOTHER’S VOICE!” He was on his feet, dagger in hand, crouched in a fighting stance, eyes now locked on the thing across the fire. “I heard my mother’s voice.”
The thing that had been Barkus got slowly to his feet, hefting the axe. “It happens sometimes, amongst the Gifted, they can hear us, hear the souls calling in the void. Brief echoes of pain and fear mostly. That’s how it all started, you know, your faith. Several centuries ago an unusually gifted Volarian heard a babble of voices from the void, among them the unmistakable voice of his own dead wife. He took it upon himself to spread the word, the great and wondrous news that there is life beyond this daily punishment of grief and toil. People listened, the word spread and so began your faith, all built on the lie that there is a reward in the next life for servile obedience in this one.”
Vaelin fought to master his confusion, tried to stop himself willing the blood-song to speak, to give the lie to this thing’s words. Wood cracked in the fire, the surf beat against the shore in a ceaseless rumble and Barkus regarded him with the cool, dispassionate gaze of a stranger.
“What design?” Vaelin demanded. “You spoke of his design? Who is he?”
“You’ll meet him soon enough.” The thing that had been Barkus clasped the haft of the axe with both hands, taking a firm grip, holding it up for the edge of the blade to catch the moonlight. “I made this for you, brother, or rather I allowed Barkus to make it. He always hungered for the hammer and the anvil so, although he resisted manfully until I took away his reluctance. Beautiful isn’t it? I’ve killed so many times with so many different weapons, but I must say this is the finest. With this I can bring you to the brink of death as easily as if I were wielding a surgeon’s knife. You’ll bleed, you’ll fade and your soul will reach out to the void. He’ll be waiting for you there.” The smile the thing offered was grim now, almost regretful. “You really shouldn’t have given up your sword, brother.”
“If I hadn’t you wouldn’t have been so willing to talk.”
The thing’s smile vanished. “Talking’s over.”
He leapt over the fire, axe drawn back, teeth bared in a hateful snarl. Something large and black met him in mid-air, fastening its jaws on his arm, rending and tearing as they crashed together onto the fire, thrashing, scattering flame. Vaelin saw the hateful axe rise and fall once, then twice, heard the enraged howl of a slave-hound as the blade bit home, then the thing that had been Barkus was rising from the dregs of the fire, hair and clothes aflame, his left arm hanging ruined and useless, nearly severed by Scratch’s bite. But the right arm was still whole, and he still held the axe.
“Asked the Governor to set him loose at nightfall,” Vaelin told him.
The thing roared in pain and rage, the axe arching round in a silver blur. Vaelin ducked under the blade, lancing out with the dagger, piercing the thing’s chest, seeking the heart. It roared again, swinging the axe with inhuman speed. Vaelin left the dagger embedded in its chest and caught hold of the haft of the axe as it swung round, backhanded a savage blow to the thing’s face and followed with a kick to the groin. It barely staggered and delivered a stinging head-butt, sending Vaelin reeling across the sand, falling onto his back.
“Something I didn’t tell you about Barkus, brother!” the thing said, leaping closer, axe raised. “When you trained together, I always made him hold back.”
Vaelin rolled to the side as the axe bit down on the sand, twisted to send a kick into the thing’s temple, surging to his feet as it shook off the pain and swung again, the blade meeting only air as Vaelin dived over the arc of the swing, ducked in close to snatch the dagger from its chest, stabbed again then stepped back to let the axe swing within an inch of his face.
The thing that had been Barkus stared at him, shocked, still, smoke rising from his burns, his ruined arm bleeding onto the sand. He dropped the axe and his good hand went to the rapidly spreading stain on his shirt. He stared at the thick slick of blood covering his palm for a second then slowly sank to his knees.
Vaelin moved past him and retrieved the axe from the sand, fighting revulsion at the feel of it in his hands. Is this why I always hated it so? Because this was its final purpose?