This story centers around the events in the life of John Henry Westhead, a major player in the Abyss of Chaos RP, shortly before the Magickal Holocaust forever altered the face and fate of the planet. It will give you a fleeting glimpse into the world the RP will be taking place in.
Feel free to leave any comments within this thread, as it will only be a single post.
IF YOU RP AND HAVE NOT YET SIGNED UP, THERE IS A LINK TO THE SIGN-UP THREAD IN MY SIGNATURE.
Enjoy.
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Am I dead?
Dead? No, not dead. Dying, perhaps. But not wholly dead. And I can make you live again.
Who are you?
I am your strength. I am your intelligence, your dexterity. I am that which drives your very existence. I am that which makes you succeed, overcome, and emerge victorious. I am that which makes you kill.
It’s your fault I killed all those people in Terrin? It’s your fault I went crazy, unable to control my own two hands?
They were so much fodder. Do not concern yourself with them. They were weak. You are strong. You can be stronger.
Stronger? Why would you make me stronger? Why would you help me?
Because you are mine. You will be my physical presence on this wretched world. You will usher in a new, greater version of the lowly humanity from which you sprang. You are humanity’s natural progression. You will destroy the Arcane.
Come, see your destiny.
You will be the force of my will.
The old man took a washcloth from the bucket on the floor next to the bed and wrung out most of the excess water. He dabbed the cloth on the lips of the man lying unconscious on the only bed in the austere dwelling. The old man was a hermit. He had been living in his hut deep in the forest outside of Terrin for nearly sixty years now. Very few people had seen the interior of his hut. The man lying on his bed now was not one of them, for the man had yet to regain consciousness since the hermit stumbled upon his body in the woods some eight days prior. In those eight days, the man on the bed made no move. The hermit occasionally had to hold a mirror above the man’s lips to assure himself the man was still breathing. He was, rhythmically and markedly peacefully, considering the ragged state his body had been in when the hermit discovered him. The man had been lying on the forest floor, half propped up against a boulder as if he were a toy discarded by a giant. His body was a ragged mess of blood, cuts, and bruises, and a few broken bones. The hermit had constructed a small litter and dragged him back to his hut, where he began to dress and tend to the man’s wounds. The man proved to be a remarkably fast healer. The bones set quickly, the cuts scabbed over, and the bruises were nearly faded. If he ever regained consciousness, the man would be nearly fully healed.
But alas, the man had yet to open his eyes, so the hermit continued his ministrations as the man convalesced. He dipped the washcloth into the bucket once again, and repeated the ritual of trying to get at least some water into the man’s system, lest he dehydrate. It was difficult to tell whether any got into the man’s mouth, and the hermit sighed in consternation. Dropping the cloth in the bucket, he rose from his chair and made his way over to his small cooking area in an effort to begin his own meal.
“I need food.” The voice behind him made the hermit jump and turn. The man in the bed had awoken, but lay still, with only his open eyes belying his sudden return to consciousness. The man offered no other words or insight to his condition, so the hermit returned to his cooking, now preparing for two. Once the meal was ready, he brought a bowl of the vegetable stew over to the man on the bed along with a bowl for himself. The two ate in silence, the hermit occasionally glancing in the man’s direction. Finally the meal was finished, and the hermit collected the man’s bowl and placed them in kitchen. Returning to his chair at the side of the bed, the hermit sat and waited. After several long moments, the man in the bed finally broke the silence.
“Why do you stare at me, old man?”
It had been some years since the hermit last used his voice. Thus, it was strained and creaky from disuse, and it took him several moments to formulate his words. “Strange bed. Strange hut. Strange man beside you, taking care of you. Your body is battered. You are not where you were when you fell. Yet you ask no questions and only make one demand. For food. Most would have many questions. Most would demand answers.”
“I am not ‘most.’”
The hermit inclined his head slightly in agreement. “Who are you, then?”
The man on the bed turned toward the hermit. It was the first time the hermit noticed the jagged black streaks across the irises of the man’s eyes. A curious mark, if ever there was one. The man answered. “I am the harbinger of the next version of humanity on the planet. I am the catalyst for the destruction of the world and the regrowth that will follow. I will shape a viable society out of the dregs that remain after the Holocaust. I am the force of the will of Magick.”
The hermit was not sure what surprised him more. Was it the certainty of the man’s words, or was it his own certainty that the man spoke the truth? “Some “force” you are. Can’t even get out of bed.”
The man turned his head toward the wall, hiding his face from the hermit. “Do not mock me, old man. Even in my state I could destroy you with a minimum of effort.”
The hermit reminded himself just how large the man was, and just how difficult it was to drag him back to the hut. “I believe you. So why do you not?”
“The food, the bed, the shelter. You are still of use to me.”
“Indeed.” The hermit rose, took two cups from a cabinet and went outside. He returned with the cups full of water from the rain barrel he kept at one corner of the hut. Handing a cup to the man, he sat down in his chair again. “Well then, sir “force,” how did you come to be in my forest?”
The man sat up, bracing his back against the wall behind the head of the bed, and took a drink from the proffered cup. “That, old man, is not a pleasant tale.”
The hermit sighed. “In this day and age, few tales are.”
The man took another drink. “That is true. Where to begin?”
Late at night, a horse-drawn carriage pulled up to the front gate of the Westhead manor in the Merchant District of Terrin. The driver of the carriage hopped down from his perch, jogged around to the door and opened it, allowing a well-dressed noble lady to emerge from within. The driver extended his hand to assist the lady in stepping down from the carriage and escorted her the few steps to the front door of the large estate. The massive oaken double doors swung open for Anne Westhead, the lady of the estate, wife of the prosperous merchant John Henry Westhead. The house man, James, took the lady’s shawl and overcoat and trailed her to her dressing room.
“Where’s John Henry?” She asked her butler along the way.
“The master has yet to return home, milady.”
“Still? It’s been nearly a week this time.”
“Five days to be precise, madam. We have no word of him being anywhere within the city limits.”
Reaching her dressing room, Anne sat down in front of a large antique oval mirror and removed her jewelry. “You are to inform me the instant he gets back. Is that clear, James?”
“Absolutely, madam. Will there be anything else before you retire?”
Anne shook her head. “No, that is all.” With a slight bow, the butler left the room and closed the door behind him. Anne stood, removed her dress, and changed into her nightgown. She stepped through the door from her dressing room into her and John Henry’s bedroom. There was the slightest hint of concern etched on her face. Her husband’s absences were getting longer and more frequent. At first she thought he was simply taking extra trips to the city’s many brothels. But when the absences began to last for three days, she knew that could not be the case. John Henry told her that his disappearances amounted to business trips, but Anne found that hard to believe, considering the declining state of John Henry’s business partnerships. An absent entrepreneur could not effectively keep up close contact with his buyers, sellers, or partners. The disappearances of her husband coupled with the apparent madness that seemed to be afflicting much of the city of Terrin caused Anne to become a creature of worry. She was hardly able to enjoy the nightly galas and balls her fellow nobles threw virtually every night. The number of attendees had been dwindling slowly over the past several weeks.
Anne had pulled the covers back on the bed when she felt a draft coming from the large bay windows accompanied by the faint smell of dirt and leather. She moved around the bed and over to the wall and drew the curtains closed. As she turned around to walk back to bed, a pair of strong arms grabbed her. One circled completely around her middle pinning her against the man holding her. The other hand reached up and covered her mouth, suppressing the scream that emanated from Anne’s lips. The man smelled of the dirt and leather that Anne had noticed earlier. But he also carried the coppery scent of blood; it was both dried blood a few days old as well as blood freshly spilled. Looking down to the man’s hands and arms, Anne could faintly make out the dark splotches of congealed blood on his clothes and skin. The man leaned into her and whispered into her ear. “Anne.”
Upon hearing the voice, Anne allowed herself to relax. The man released his grip on her and she turned to face him. “John Henry? Why in the world are you sneaking around your own house in the middle of the night?”
Her husband’s eyes bore a haunted look as he glanced around like an animal being hunted.
“The Assassin Guild has marked me for death. I can’t afford to be seen by anyone. I‘m taking a risk by even talking to you.”
Anne’s hand went to her mouth in dismayed shock. “The Assassin Guild? But why? We’ve always been on good terms with them?”
John Henry’s glance flicked quickly to the window and back to his wife. “Not any more. I killed one of their charges.” Anne was stunned into silence. John Henry‘s words came out in a rush, tinged with desperation. “Anne, listen, it isn’t giving me the time to stay here. They’re coming. I can’t stay longer than I have already. I just came to say goodbye. I won’t put you in danger. It wants me to, but I won’t.”
“John Henry, what are you saying?”
“I can feel the destruction coming, Anne. It’s close. Very close. You should go. I have to go. Otherwise they’ll find me. It can kill you, but I won’t let them. I just came back for something.” John Henry went to the wall behind the bed, away from the windows. Kneeling on the floor, he pulled back a section of the baseboard and released a catch. A portion of the wall swung open, revealing a hidden compartment. John Henry stepped in, momentarily disappearing from Anne’s sight.
When he emerged again, he carried with him a two-handed sword. Clipped to his waist were his twin chakram and the two bagh nakh, the bladed fist weapons he preferred for close combat. Anne noticed blood on the blades of the chakram. He must have used them already, she thought. And that must not be his blood. Her husband was a trained fighter, schooled in the military academy outside of Terrin. He also spent several years as a mercenary, and he was good at what he did. She knew it would take quite a bit for someone to get the better of him. Especially in his current state. Anne watched him as he came out of the hidden closet. Suddenly, his face jerked up toward the windows. He jogged quickly over to the far window, making sure he stayed in the shadow created by the curtains. He peeked out of the window, then turned to Anne. “They come for me.”
“The Assassins?”
“Yes, them too. I must go.” John Henry unsnapped the leather thong that held the bagh nakh at his hip and put the weapons on his hands, ready to fight. He then looked back at his wife. He went to her and took her into his arms. He whispered into her ear. “I really was trying to protect you from them. I’m sorry.”
Anne returned the embrace and tried to console her husband. As she opened her mouth to speak, her breath caught and she backed away from John Henry. She looked down to her sides and saw blood seeping through her nightgown. John Henry had slid the blades of the bagh nakh into her. She would be dead within moments. She looked at him one last time as he whispered, “It was the only way to keep you safe.”
Anne Westhead sank to her knees on the floor. As she knelt dying, John Henry Westhead opened a window and left the manor behind him.
Several Days Later
John Henry’s tall frame was now lean from the combination of malnutrition and constant exertion. He could not count the number of victims he had claimed since his last night at the manor, but he was dimly aware that it was not a small number. The deaths barely created a ripple on his conscience, however. The Magick had fanned the flames of his natural, long-buried bloodlust. He was now a killing machine, a demon that stalked the streets and alleys of Terrin, looking for his next victim.
But even as he was hunting, he was also the hunted. He now found himself in a dead end alley facing four Assassins. The Assassins Guild had marked him for death. There were only two possible outcomes now. Either he would not emerge from the alley, or he would be the only body to emerge from the alley.
“Westhead.” The lead Assassin spat out his name as if the very letters themselves were poison. John Henry offered no inclination that he had heard the Assassin, or even acknowledged his presence. Indeed, he leaned casually against the back wall of the alley, as if he were simply waiting to meet a friend.
“You understand why we have to kill you, do you not? The life of one who murders one of the Brethren is forfeit, and is beholden only to those who would take their revenge. You‘ve had dealings with all of our hierarchy. Surely you knew of our code.” John Henry still offered no acknowledgement of the Assassins. The lead Assassin shrugged. “As you wish. You will die this night, by our hands.” The Assassin drew his blade, and his compatriots followed suit. “But answer me this, if you’ll humor me.” John Henry finally acknowledged their presence by looking up, directly into the eyes of the questioning Assassin. “How could you be so stupid as to kill an Assassin? Especially the way things are now, with the city gone to hell.”
The laughter that came from John Henry was slow to build. It was maniacal and detached from reality. “You said it yourself, Assassin. The city has gone to hell. And I am the demon that hell has loosed to patrol its streets. I killed him because I could. Because I wanted to. Because it suited my purpose. And mostly, because it wanted me to. And I could not deny it. There is no more reason to the madness in this city. There is no more reason to me.”
The Assassins approached their adversary, gradually forming a semi-circle around him. John Henry reached to his hip and silently unsnapped the chakram. Waiting for the perfect moment, John Henry threw one chakra at the Assassin to his right. The arc of the spinning blades took the chakra through the Assassin’s throat, killing him in a burst of arterial blood. Hardly noting their downed colleague, the Assassins kept their focus on John Henry. As such, the Assassin next to the now dead attacker barely had time to recognize that the chakra was coming in his direction. He turned his body out of the way, but too late, as the blades of the chakra sliced across the upper part of his chest, exposing ribs and muscle tissue. Screaming in pain, that Assassin dropped to the ground clutching his chest. The other two Assassins were able to see the chakra coming and spin out of the way. The throwing weapon completed its arc and returned to its owner, who caught it deftly with one hand and returned it to its resting place.
Westhead then reached over his right shoulder and drew his massive zweihander. The two-handed sword was as long as most men were tall. Keeping his back to the wall, he brandished the sword in a defensive posture, daring the remaining two Assassins to come with the sword’s deadly range. The lead Assassin made a quick gesture toward his subordinate, sending him to John Henry’s left side. John Henry turned to face him, recklessly exposing part of his body to the lead Assassin. The subordinate charged aggressively, blade aimed at John Henry’s midsection. Westhead brought the zweihander to bear, parrying the blow. Swinging back through, he forced the subordinate to leap back out of the way of the tip of the sword. The Assassin tried to counter quickly, but John Henry was quicker. As the Assassin lunged forward, Westhead took his bottom hand off the hilt of the sword, spun away from the attack, and landed an elbow squarely onto his attacker’s nose. The Assassin went down in a unconscious heap, nose crushed from the blow.
At that moment, the lead Assassin made his move, leaping onto John Henry’s back and driving his blade into the meat of Westhead’s right shoulder, then quickly removing it and readying for another downward strike. Grunting in pain, Westhead dropped his zweihander, reached behind him with both hands and grasped the Assassin by his tunic. He threw the Assassin forward into the alley and the Assassin landed heavily on the hard ground, driving the wind from his chest. Westhead was on him before the Assassin could recover, bagh nakh in both fists. A combination of punches and slices from the heavy metal fist weapons ended the Assassins chances of seeing the next dawn.
His work virtually completed, Westhead returned to pick up his sword. He went to the unconscious Assassin whose nose he had broken and thrust his sword through the man’s heart. Wiping the blood off on the man’s pants, Westhead looked up to see the Assassin with the chest wound still alive and crawling his way out of the alley. John Henry made his way toward the only survivor when he felt the ground tremble underneath his feet. Surprised, he slowed his pace. Then the ground shook again. And again, harder this time.
With no further warning, an explosion rocked Terrin. A giant canyon opened in the middle of the city, splitting it in two and swallowing several structures along with not a few people. Had John Henry still been standing where he was when the explosion hit, he would have fallen to the depths of the new canyon. Instead, he was flung upward and outward, out of the city limits and into the depths of the forest beyond Terrin. The branches of the trees helped to arrest his fall, though his body still ended up battered, beaten and bruised when it hit the ground, instantly knocking John Henry unconscious. He lay where he fell for the next several days.
“That, old man, is the last I remember until I awoke on this bed, in this shack.”
It was an outright lie. Westhead had other memories from the time he was unconscious. While his body lay on the forest floor, his mind was being taken on a journey by Magick. It coerced him and coaxed him to be fully bent to its will. Sensing his eagerness, Magick took Westhead’s mind and showed him images of war, murder, greed, misfortune, and any other malicious act the sinister being could conjure. The mental bombardment stripped John Henry of any semblance of morality he once had. Magick replaced that morality with a single-minded purpose; the man who was once John Henry Westhead would become Magick’s physical power, its gauntleted right hand. He would sweep the planet clean and rebuild it in the manner that Magick saw fit.
But he had no reason to tell that to the old man.
The hermit stared intently at his patient. “That must have been the Holocaust. I found you some days later, just stumbled across you really, amazingly alive and unmolested by the creatures of the forest. I put together a litter, managed to get you on it, and dragged you back here. It‘s been eight days since then.”
“You’ve healed me well in those eight days, old man.”
A slight grin creased the hermit’s wizened features. “I don’t think it was completely my doing.”
“Nevertheless,” the man began to stand, the bed straining under the shifting weight of his massive frame. “I feel good enough to leave now.” He stood fully, flexed his hands, and stooped to reach under the bed and retrieve his weapons - the bagh nakh, the chakram, and the zweihander.
The hermit spoke softly in response. “Do you feel good enough to fight those blessed by the Arcane, Force?”
The large man hesitated only a moment while buckling his scabbard across his chest. “You know the name the Magick gave me.”
Nodding, the hermit replied. “Yes. I knew the moment I saw your eyes. There are many who will be what you said you were, ‘the force of the will of Magick.’ But very few will bear the visible marks of the taint of Magick on their soul. The moment I saw the jagged streaks in your eyes, combined with your strength, I knew.” A sigh. “And I knew my fate.”
Finishing the final adjustments of his scabbard and the belt from which hung the bagh nakh and twin chakram, Force addressed his benefactor. “I appreciate what you have done for me these past few days. But understand I must do this. You reek of the Arcane.”
A wry grin came from the hermit. “I am one of her servants, yes. And my death will serve a purpose. Just as you will be the harbinger of the forces of darkness, my death will serve as an alarm to those of the Arcane. They will know that the forces of Magick are mobilized, and are walking the planet.”
Force picked up his zweihander and swung it experimentally. The hermit continued. “Do what you must, Magick-spawn. But know this,” the two men locked gazes. “You will face a bitter struggle to the very end. Aye, you may succeed. For who can say what the future holds? But you, and all of your ilk, will have to fight and claw for every inch of ground you gain. For just as the Magick has released its chosen, so has the Arcane found hers. And they will come for you.”
Force hefted his sword and drove it through the chest of the hermit, virtually obliterating the man’s torso. Placing a foot on the hermit’s thin chest for leverage, he pulled the sword out and wiped it on the old man’s spare robe hung from a peg near the door.
Setting foot outside the hut, Force wore a malicious smile.
“Let them come.”
Feel free to leave any comments within this thread, as it will only be a single post.
IF YOU RP AND HAVE NOT YET SIGNED UP, THERE IS A LINK TO THE SIGN-UP THREAD IN MY SIGNATURE.
Enjoy.
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A PRELUDE TO RAGE
Am I dead?
Dead? No, not dead. Dying, perhaps. But not wholly dead. And I can make you live again.
Who are you?
I am your strength. I am your intelligence, your dexterity. I am that which drives your very existence. I am that which makes you succeed, overcome, and emerge victorious. I am that which makes you kill.
It’s your fault I killed all those people in Terrin? It’s your fault I went crazy, unable to control my own two hands?
They were so much fodder. Do not concern yourself with them. They were weak. You are strong. You can be stronger.
Stronger? Why would you make me stronger? Why would you help me?
Because you are mine. You will be my physical presence on this wretched world. You will usher in a new, greater version of the lowly humanity from which you sprang. You are humanity’s natural progression. You will destroy the Arcane.
Come, see your destiny.
You will be the force of my will.
*****
The old man took a washcloth from the bucket on the floor next to the bed and wrung out most of the excess water. He dabbed the cloth on the lips of the man lying unconscious on the only bed in the austere dwelling. The old man was a hermit. He had been living in his hut deep in the forest outside of Terrin for nearly sixty years now. Very few people had seen the interior of his hut. The man lying on his bed now was not one of them, for the man had yet to regain consciousness since the hermit stumbled upon his body in the woods some eight days prior. In those eight days, the man on the bed made no move. The hermit occasionally had to hold a mirror above the man’s lips to assure himself the man was still breathing. He was, rhythmically and markedly peacefully, considering the ragged state his body had been in when the hermit discovered him. The man had been lying on the forest floor, half propped up against a boulder as if he were a toy discarded by a giant. His body was a ragged mess of blood, cuts, and bruises, and a few broken bones. The hermit had constructed a small litter and dragged him back to his hut, where he began to dress and tend to the man’s wounds. The man proved to be a remarkably fast healer. The bones set quickly, the cuts scabbed over, and the bruises were nearly faded. If he ever regained consciousness, the man would be nearly fully healed.
But alas, the man had yet to open his eyes, so the hermit continued his ministrations as the man convalesced. He dipped the washcloth into the bucket once again, and repeated the ritual of trying to get at least some water into the man’s system, lest he dehydrate. It was difficult to tell whether any got into the man’s mouth, and the hermit sighed in consternation. Dropping the cloth in the bucket, he rose from his chair and made his way over to his small cooking area in an effort to begin his own meal.
“I need food.” The voice behind him made the hermit jump and turn. The man in the bed had awoken, but lay still, with only his open eyes belying his sudden return to consciousness. The man offered no other words or insight to his condition, so the hermit returned to his cooking, now preparing for two. Once the meal was ready, he brought a bowl of the vegetable stew over to the man on the bed along with a bowl for himself. The two ate in silence, the hermit occasionally glancing in the man’s direction. Finally the meal was finished, and the hermit collected the man’s bowl and placed them in kitchen. Returning to his chair at the side of the bed, the hermit sat and waited. After several long moments, the man in the bed finally broke the silence.
“Why do you stare at me, old man?”
It had been some years since the hermit last used his voice. Thus, it was strained and creaky from disuse, and it took him several moments to formulate his words. “Strange bed. Strange hut. Strange man beside you, taking care of you. Your body is battered. You are not where you were when you fell. Yet you ask no questions and only make one demand. For food. Most would have many questions. Most would demand answers.”
“I am not ‘most.’”
The hermit inclined his head slightly in agreement. “Who are you, then?”
The man on the bed turned toward the hermit. It was the first time the hermit noticed the jagged black streaks across the irises of the man’s eyes. A curious mark, if ever there was one. The man answered. “I am the harbinger of the next version of humanity on the planet. I am the catalyst for the destruction of the world and the regrowth that will follow. I will shape a viable society out of the dregs that remain after the Holocaust. I am the force of the will of Magick.”
The hermit was not sure what surprised him more. Was it the certainty of the man’s words, or was it his own certainty that the man spoke the truth? “Some “force” you are. Can’t even get out of bed.”
The man turned his head toward the wall, hiding his face from the hermit. “Do not mock me, old man. Even in my state I could destroy you with a minimum of effort.”
The hermit reminded himself just how large the man was, and just how difficult it was to drag him back to the hut. “I believe you. So why do you not?”
“The food, the bed, the shelter. You are still of use to me.”
“Indeed.” The hermit rose, took two cups from a cabinet and went outside. He returned with the cups full of water from the rain barrel he kept at one corner of the hut. Handing a cup to the man, he sat down in his chair again. “Well then, sir “force,” how did you come to be in my forest?”
The man sat up, bracing his back against the wall behind the head of the bed, and took a drink from the proffered cup. “That, old man, is not a pleasant tale.”
The hermit sighed. “In this day and age, few tales are.”
The man took another drink. “That is true. Where to begin?”
*****
Late at night, a horse-drawn carriage pulled up to the front gate of the Westhead manor in the Merchant District of Terrin. The driver of the carriage hopped down from his perch, jogged around to the door and opened it, allowing a well-dressed noble lady to emerge from within. The driver extended his hand to assist the lady in stepping down from the carriage and escorted her the few steps to the front door of the large estate. The massive oaken double doors swung open for Anne Westhead, the lady of the estate, wife of the prosperous merchant John Henry Westhead. The house man, James, took the lady’s shawl and overcoat and trailed her to her dressing room.
“Where’s John Henry?” She asked her butler along the way.
“The master has yet to return home, milady.”
“Still? It’s been nearly a week this time.”
“Five days to be precise, madam. We have no word of him being anywhere within the city limits.”
Reaching her dressing room, Anne sat down in front of a large antique oval mirror and removed her jewelry. “You are to inform me the instant he gets back. Is that clear, James?”
“Absolutely, madam. Will there be anything else before you retire?”
Anne shook her head. “No, that is all.” With a slight bow, the butler left the room and closed the door behind him. Anne stood, removed her dress, and changed into her nightgown. She stepped through the door from her dressing room into her and John Henry’s bedroom. There was the slightest hint of concern etched on her face. Her husband’s absences were getting longer and more frequent. At first she thought he was simply taking extra trips to the city’s many brothels. But when the absences began to last for three days, she knew that could not be the case. John Henry told her that his disappearances amounted to business trips, but Anne found that hard to believe, considering the declining state of John Henry’s business partnerships. An absent entrepreneur could not effectively keep up close contact with his buyers, sellers, or partners. The disappearances of her husband coupled with the apparent madness that seemed to be afflicting much of the city of Terrin caused Anne to become a creature of worry. She was hardly able to enjoy the nightly galas and balls her fellow nobles threw virtually every night. The number of attendees had been dwindling slowly over the past several weeks.
Anne had pulled the covers back on the bed when she felt a draft coming from the large bay windows accompanied by the faint smell of dirt and leather. She moved around the bed and over to the wall and drew the curtains closed. As she turned around to walk back to bed, a pair of strong arms grabbed her. One circled completely around her middle pinning her against the man holding her. The other hand reached up and covered her mouth, suppressing the scream that emanated from Anne’s lips. The man smelled of the dirt and leather that Anne had noticed earlier. But he also carried the coppery scent of blood; it was both dried blood a few days old as well as blood freshly spilled. Looking down to the man’s hands and arms, Anne could faintly make out the dark splotches of congealed blood on his clothes and skin. The man leaned into her and whispered into her ear. “Anne.”
Upon hearing the voice, Anne allowed herself to relax. The man released his grip on her and she turned to face him. “John Henry? Why in the world are you sneaking around your own house in the middle of the night?”
Her husband’s eyes bore a haunted look as he glanced around like an animal being hunted.
“The Assassin Guild has marked me for death. I can’t afford to be seen by anyone. I‘m taking a risk by even talking to you.”
Anne’s hand went to her mouth in dismayed shock. “The Assassin Guild? But why? We’ve always been on good terms with them?”
John Henry’s glance flicked quickly to the window and back to his wife. “Not any more. I killed one of their charges.” Anne was stunned into silence. John Henry‘s words came out in a rush, tinged with desperation. “Anne, listen, it isn’t giving me the time to stay here. They’re coming. I can’t stay longer than I have already. I just came to say goodbye. I won’t put you in danger. It wants me to, but I won’t.”
“John Henry, what are you saying?”
“I can feel the destruction coming, Anne. It’s close. Very close. You should go. I have to go. Otherwise they’ll find me. It can kill you, but I won’t let them. I just came back for something.” John Henry went to the wall behind the bed, away from the windows. Kneeling on the floor, he pulled back a section of the baseboard and released a catch. A portion of the wall swung open, revealing a hidden compartment. John Henry stepped in, momentarily disappearing from Anne’s sight.
When he emerged again, he carried with him a two-handed sword. Clipped to his waist were his twin chakram and the two bagh nakh, the bladed fist weapons he preferred for close combat. Anne noticed blood on the blades of the chakram. He must have used them already, she thought. And that must not be his blood. Her husband was a trained fighter, schooled in the military academy outside of Terrin. He also spent several years as a mercenary, and he was good at what he did. She knew it would take quite a bit for someone to get the better of him. Especially in his current state. Anne watched him as he came out of the hidden closet. Suddenly, his face jerked up toward the windows. He jogged quickly over to the far window, making sure he stayed in the shadow created by the curtains. He peeked out of the window, then turned to Anne. “They come for me.”
“The Assassins?”
“Yes, them too. I must go.” John Henry unsnapped the leather thong that held the bagh nakh at his hip and put the weapons on his hands, ready to fight. He then looked back at his wife. He went to her and took her into his arms. He whispered into her ear. “I really was trying to protect you from them. I’m sorry.”
Anne returned the embrace and tried to console her husband. As she opened her mouth to speak, her breath caught and she backed away from John Henry. She looked down to her sides and saw blood seeping through her nightgown. John Henry had slid the blades of the bagh nakh into her. She would be dead within moments. She looked at him one last time as he whispered, “It was the only way to keep you safe.”
Anne Westhead sank to her knees on the floor. As she knelt dying, John Henry Westhead opened a window and left the manor behind him.
*****
Several Days Later
John Henry’s tall frame was now lean from the combination of malnutrition and constant exertion. He could not count the number of victims he had claimed since his last night at the manor, but he was dimly aware that it was not a small number. The deaths barely created a ripple on his conscience, however. The Magick had fanned the flames of his natural, long-buried bloodlust. He was now a killing machine, a demon that stalked the streets and alleys of Terrin, looking for his next victim.
But even as he was hunting, he was also the hunted. He now found himself in a dead end alley facing four Assassins. The Assassins Guild had marked him for death. There were only two possible outcomes now. Either he would not emerge from the alley, or he would be the only body to emerge from the alley.
“Westhead.” The lead Assassin spat out his name as if the very letters themselves were poison. John Henry offered no inclination that he had heard the Assassin, or even acknowledged his presence. Indeed, he leaned casually against the back wall of the alley, as if he were simply waiting to meet a friend.
“You understand why we have to kill you, do you not? The life of one who murders one of the Brethren is forfeit, and is beholden only to those who would take their revenge. You‘ve had dealings with all of our hierarchy. Surely you knew of our code.” John Henry still offered no acknowledgement of the Assassins. The lead Assassin shrugged. “As you wish. You will die this night, by our hands.” The Assassin drew his blade, and his compatriots followed suit. “But answer me this, if you’ll humor me.” John Henry finally acknowledged their presence by looking up, directly into the eyes of the questioning Assassin. “How could you be so stupid as to kill an Assassin? Especially the way things are now, with the city gone to hell.”
The laughter that came from John Henry was slow to build. It was maniacal and detached from reality. “You said it yourself, Assassin. The city has gone to hell. And I am the demon that hell has loosed to patrol its streets. I killed him because I could. Because I wanted to. Because it suited my purpose. And mostly, because it wanted me to. And I could not deny it. There is no more reason to the madness in this city. There is no more reason to me.”
The Assassins approached their adversary, gradually forming a semi-circle around him. John Henry reached to his hip and silently unsnapped the chakram. Waiting for the perfect moment, John Henry threw one chakra at the Assassin to his right. The arc of the spinning blades took the chakra through the Assassin’s throat, killing him in a burst of arterial blood. Hardly noting their downed colleague, the Assassins kept their focus on John Henry. As such, the Assassin next to the now dead attacker barely had time to recognize that the chakra was coming in his direction. He turned his body out of the way, but too late, as the blades of the chakra sliced across the upper part of his chest, exposing ribs and muscle tissue. Screaming in pain, that Assassin dropped to the ground clutching his chest. The other two Assassins were able to see the chakra coming and spin out of the way. The throwing weapon completed its arc and returned to its owner, who caught it deftly with one hand and returned it to its resting place.
Westhead then reached over his right shoulder and drew his massive zweihander. The two-handed sword was as long as most men were tall. Keeping his back to the wall, he brandished the sword in a defensive posture, daring the remaining two Assassins to come with the sword’s deadly range. The lead Assassin made a quick gesture toward his subordinate, sending him to John Henry’s left side. John Henry turned to face him, recklessly exposing part of his body to the lead Assassin. The subordinate charged aggressively, blade aimed at John Henry’s midsection. Westhead brought the zweihander to bear, parrying the blow. Swinging back through, he forced the subordinate to leap back out of the way of the tip of the sword. The Assassin tried to counter quickly, but John Henry was quicker. As the Assassin lunged forward, Westhead took his bottom hand off the hilt of the sword, spun away from the attack, and landed an elbow squarely onto his attacker’s nose. The Assassin went down in a unconscious heap, nose crushed from the blow.
At that moment, the lead Assassin made his move, leaping onto John Henry’s back and driving his blade into the meat of Westhead’s right shoulder, then quickly removing it and readying for another downward strike. Grunting in pain, Westhead dropped his zweihander, reached behind him with both hands and grasped the Assassin by his tunic. He threw the Assassin forward into the alley and the Assassin landed heavily on the hard ground, driving the wind from his chest. Westhead was on him before the Assassin could recover, bagh nakh in both fists. A combination of punches and slices from the heavy metal fist weapons ended the Assassins chances of seeing the next dawn.
His work virtually completed, Westhead returned to pick up his sword. He went to the unconscious Assassin whose nose he had broken and thrust his sword through the man’s heart. Wiping the blood off on the man’s pants, Westhead looked up to see the Assassin with the chest wound still alive and crawling his way out of the alley. John Henry made his way toward the only survivor when he felt the ground tremble underneath his feet. Surprised, he slowed his pace. Then the ground shook again. And again, harder this time.
With no further warning, an explosion rocked Terrin. A giant canyon opened in the middle of the city, splitting it in two and swallowing several structures along with not a few people. Had John Henry still been standing where he was when the explosion hit, he would have fallen to the depths of the new canyon. Instead, he was flung upward and outward, out of the city limits and into the depths of the forest beyond Terrin. The branches of the trees helped to arrest his fall, though his body still ended up battered, beaten and bruised when it hit the ground, instantly knocking John Henry unconscious. He lay where he fell for the next several days.
*****
“That, old man, is the last I remember until I awoke on this bed, in this shack.”
It was an outright lie. Westhead had other memories from the time he was unconscious. While his body lay on the forest floor, his mind was being taken on a journey by Magick. It coerced him and coaxed him to be fully bent to its will. Sensing his eagerness, Magick took Westhead’s mind and showed him images of war, murder, greed, misfortune, and any other malicious act the sinister being could conjure. The mental bombardment stripped John Henry of any semblance of morality he once had. Magick replaced that morality with a single-minded purpose; the man who was once John Henry Westhead would become Magick’s physical power, its gauntleted right hand. He would sweep the planet clean and rebuild it in the manner that Magick saw fit.
But he had no reason to tell that to the old man.
The hermit stared intently at his patient. “That must have been the Holocaust. I found you some days later, just stumbled across you really, amazingly alive and unmolested by the creatures of the forest. I put together a litter, managed to get you on it, and dragged you back here. It‘s been eight days since then.”
“You’ve healed me well in those eight days, old man.”
A slight grin creased the hermit’s wizened features. “I don’t think it was completely my doing.”
“Nevertheless,” the man began to stand, the bed straining under the shifting weight of his massive frame. “I feel good enough to leave now.” He stood fully, flexed his hands, and stooped to reach under the bed and retrieve his weapons - the bagh nakh, the chakram, and the zweihander.
The hermit spoke softly in response. “Do you feel good enough to fight those blessed by the Arcane, Force?”
The large man hesitated only a moment while buckling his scabbard across his chest. “You know the name the Magick gave me.”
Nodding, the hermit replied. “Yes. I knew the moment I saw your eyes. There are many who will be what you said you were, ‘the force of the will of Magick.’ But very few will bear the visible marks of the taint of Magick on their soul. The moment I saw the jagged streaks in your eyes, combined with your strength, I knew.” A sigh. “And I knew my fate.”
Finishing the final adjustments of his scabbard and the belt from which hung the bagh nakh and twin chakram, Force addressed his benefactor. “I appreciate what you have done for me these past few days. But understand I must do this. You reek of the Arcane.”
A wry grin came from the hermit. “I am one of her servants, yes. And my death will serve a purpose. Just as you will be the harbinger of the forces of darkness, my death will serve as an alarm to those of the Arcane. They will know that the forces of Magick are mobilized, and are walking the planet.”
Force picked up his zweihander and swung it experimentally. The hermit continued. “Do what you must, Magick-spawn. But know this,” the two men locked gazes. “You will face a bitter struggle to the very end. Aye, you may succeed. For who can say what the future holds? But you, and all of your ilk, will have to fight and claw for every inch of ground you gain. For just as the Magick has released its chosen, so has the Arcane found hers. And they will come for you.”
Force hefted his sword and drove it through the chest of the hermit, virtually obliterating the man’s torso. Placing a foot on the hermit’s thin chest for leverage, he pulled the sword out and wiped it on the old man’s spare robe hung from a peg near the door.
Setting foot outside the hut, Force wore a malicious smile.
“Let them come.”
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