Chapter 4. Second Chances

THE EMPIRE

The Northern Empire, officially called the Cranswell Territories, is the name given to the lands held by Manus Cranswell. This territory was founded some twenty years ago following Manus's mercenary company sacking the House of the Bull. From here, the company took over as rulers of the region, pushing its borders outward into feudal villages and uninhabited areas, then poorly defended villages, and further on into fortified towns.

Manus' youth spent in poverty, coupled with his insatiable lust for power and territory, makes him a jealous and ruthless defender of his lands, both internally and externally.

Manus found an escape from his humble background following an alleged prophetic dream in which an angel showed him the kingdom he would one day come to rule. The validity of this story is debatable, but Manus' endless ambition is not.

The laws of his land are strict, and rigorously enforced, but as a result crime is exceedingly low. Dissenting voices are silenced ruthlessly, as are ineffective feudal rulers. The Empire generally fares incredibly well in affairs of trade and standard of living, as well as education as a result of this highly regulated society.

Priscilla Cranswell is the second-in-command of the Imperial forces. She married Manus before he had even formed his mercenary group. Little is known about her past, but rumors circulate nonetheless, ranging from that she was an assassin to a former high priestess. She has remained loyal to Manus' goals, and her own over two decades. In her own right she is an able strategist and soldier, but her greatest strength is in her ability to temper the tendency of her husband's words and actions to grate on his subordinates, ensuring smooth running of the upper strata of the Imperial Court.

Lilith stood in defiance of her captors, both parties waiting for the other to make a move. One of the guards stepped forward, uncertain. Lilith took the opportunity. She drifted in, her opened palm connecting with the leader's solar plexus, the padded armour doing little to disperse the impact. There was a faint crack, as he was sent reeling back, coughing and gasping. She continued to glide through the hall, each of her strikes branches of a single, fluid, advance. She didn't need weapons, as all nobles of her house, she had been trained in martial arts, and war magic to boot.

Her movements were perfected by endless hours spent honing them, and fortified by the faintly glowing magical energy shrouding her. Her mother's technique passed down. Where her attacks connected, they did so with extreme force, becoming ever deadlier as her dance gained momentum. Reinforcements came, forming a shield wall. There's no point wasting energy, Lilith thought.

She sprinted down the hallway, hoping to reach a window or door leading outside, yet, it seemed guards were pouring forth. She had refrained from using the fangs on her Ophidian Brace, seeing no reason to kill, yet that resolve was weakening as the guards seemed ever more eager to kill. She pounced on an advancing opponent, knocking him down. She raised her fanged hand, poised to bury those two glistering points into his neck.

Yet, in that moment, she hesitated. She saw the fear in his eyes, the desperation. In her split second of hesitation, a steel ball clattered to the ground, spewing yellowish smoke. One lungful dazed Lilith, a second blurring her vision. In seconds, she was unable to stand, the fumes crippling her. She collapsed, just as manacles were affixed to her wrists. She'd be dragged off to the dungeons beyond the walls. Whether or not she'd return, that was to be seen.

***

Dolorem drifted, separated from his body, somewhere between life and whatever lay beyond. He found himself in a vast field of red spider lilies. Before him stood a figure swaddled in black cloth, with great feathered wings and four arms. In one hand it held an hourglass, in another, a scroll. Its face was pale and feminine, with kind eyes. "Five-Seals Dolorem" she said, voice full of sympathy. "It's a sorry state you find yourself in." her voice was kind, maternal. Dolorem shuddered, then fell to his knees in despair. He had nothing to say. There was nothing left in him. Death crouched down beside him, "You aren't, not yet. You certainly can go with me now, if you wish, but it's your decision." Dolorem looked up at her. "What do you mean?" Death looked up wistfully.

"I'll have your soul eventually, but there's no hurry," she said "My favorite people are the ones who avoid me, strangely. The mad alchemists, the berserkers, those with undying will. They'll all find their own way to me. When they do, I welcome them with open arms." Dolorem struggled to comprehend what was happening, but had managed to regain some semblance of composure. "Why?" he whispered. Death looked at him, puzzled. "To live is to suffer, Dolorem. Mortals, they conform, or force others to do so, they conquer, and are subjugated. All they have and know will eventually be taken from them. My domain is a place of peace, and rest, but if anyone wishes to return to this imperfect world, and find beauty within the suffering, within the futility, I won't stop them." Dolorem was stunned. Her words made perfect sense. Would it be easier to leave it all behind? No, of course not, it would be betraying those he defended, betraying Lilith. Dolorem felt a sudden wave of shame come over him for even thinking of taking the offer. "Send me back," he said, adamant.

Death stood up, smiling. "As you wish, but before you go, heed my words, Five-Seals. To walk the path of the hero is to suffer."

Dolorem felt himself being pulled back into the material world, re-inhabiting his body once again. That same, burning pain once again greeting him. He opened his eyes, finding himself laid out on a stretcher. The worry-worn face of the priest he'd spoken to earlier loomed over him. He said nothing, but continued to apply a gently glowing salve to his shoulder wound.

Dolorem dared not speak, any disturbance to his breathing could puncture a lung or worse. The old man seemed to understand this. The salve was clearly enchanted in some way, as it was unnaturally warm, and began to close the wound as soon as it was applied. It was probably a transmutation medium, the gel a tribute to create new tissue. Expensive, unless you could make it yourself. Most priests were, however, elementary transmuters.

Dolorem passed several hours in absolute stillness, as his carer left and returned, no doubt tending to other patients. The salve took effect only on his external wound. Internal damage would require specialized spells. Such spells took time to prepare, and were difficult, no jutsu had been created to emulate them either. He caught a few hours of dreamless sleep, which, while beneficial, was often broken by shooting pain, or an accidental movement. Eventually, a separate priest, a portly man in his fifties came with the required components to repair his shattered rib cage. The process was uncomfortable for Dolorem, if for no reason other than listening to his own bones snapping into place, knitting back together. Despite this, the ability to inhale freely was a blessing. Once he had taken his first few, frenzied gasps, he thanked the priest profusely, the man bowing his head in humble reply. The two spoke at length about the current state of affairs, and matters regarding Dolorem's condition.

He found out that the man he had spoken to earlier was the abbot, Father Grimes. His own son had died during the revolution, and ever since he'd buried himself in his work. Dolorem found out that his jacket and trousers were gone beyond salvaging, and was provided with a linen shirt and hose, as well as his own relatively undamaged boots.

His belt lay at the foot of his bed, somewhat out of place on his new outfit. A surge of annoyance hit him when he realized his swords were broken, and he had neglected to pick them up after fighting the Masked. The idea of losing his swords wasn't too bad, they were standard issue, and he never had a preference for them, but replacing them would be an annoyance.

His primary concern was getting home. Father Grimes tried to convince him otherwise, but upon discreet explanation of Dolorem's situation, he relented. He did, however, provide Dolorem with an immensely strong painkiller, out of a mix of morality, and Dolorem's insistence on leaving with or without help. Once he could walk, he thanked his saviors and promised to return someday with a reward fitting their herculean efforts. With his business finished, and his injuries near-fully healed, Dolorem set out. Despite his now healed body, the energy expended to do so wouldn't return so rapidly. His body had been stripped of any fat, defining his muscle underneath to an almost grotesque degree. It didn't matter, Dolorem had work to do.

The trek back home had to be taken by hired cart, Dolorem wasn't planning to risk exhaustion. He had to save any shred of strength he had. His swords were shattered, left on the battlefield, his tools were in a knapsack, and he was unarmoured. Things could get out of hand quickly once he got back.

He'd visit a safehouse first. His shinobi clan had built dozens across the South, and a handful up North. Places to store weaponry, food, tools and supplies in secret, should a shinobi find themselves in need. Some even had reserves of money and medicines.

Stopping off at a safehouse would be wise, if only to get a few hours sleep and new swords.

The safehouse lay just on the outskirts of the House of Mist's citadel, tucked away in a hillside, little more than a shack with a storage chest beneath the floorboards, and a bed. Dolorem lay down, aching, staring up at the thatched roof.

The storage chest had no swords in it, instead containing a wickedly sharp Kusarigama. Sickle and chain, with a weighted end. Endlessly versatile, and a weapon Dolorem knew his way around. He was proficient with many weapons, being advised and trained never to have preferences. Swords were common, hence why he carried them, but the kusarigama were exotic, difficult to predict. He needed the element of surprise.

That night, he managed to steal back a few hours of deep, dreamless sleep. Once dawn broke and spilled golden light into the hut, he departed, his tiredness lifted somewhat. He approached the Citadel, the air stiflingly still. Soldiers milled about, hushed. They all shrank from his presence. They silently watched him as he entered. Inside was dimly lit, and the floorboards creaked dryly beneath his feet.

The entryway was silent, and voices drifted from the great hall. Undeterred, Dolorem opened the doors, panic rising within him. At the opposite end of the hall, he saw Solomon, reclined in his throne, flanked by the Archduke himself to the left, and the Masked to the right. They all fell silent as soon as Dolorem entered. Dolorem strode up, hatred burning within him. He said nothing, concealing any facial expression was enough effort. A tense silence hung over the room. Motes of dust drifted in shafts of morning sunlight. Solomon sat up.

Dolorem broke the silence "Your excellence, to what so we owe the pleasure?" he coldly greeted his guest. "Dolorem, enough!" Solomon snapped. "Did you ask your superior for permission to speak, Solomon?" Dolorem asked back. The Masked said nothing. A vein in Solomon's neck was bulging. "Allow me to make the situation clear, Dolorem. I will allow you to surrender your Mark, and leave here as an exile. You can live out your days as an outcast, and be expunged from all house records. It is a mercy I fought hard to afford you, as my personal connection to you cannot see you hung as a traitor, against my better judgment?"

Dolorem narrowed his eyes. "And if I refuse?" Solomon waved a hand at his guards, and within seconds, they dragged Dolorem's parents into the room. They were roughed up badly, wide eyed in terror.

Dolorem was silent for a moment. "Where's Lilith!" He whispered, his rage now seeming to pour out around him, filling the air with pure menace. Solomon's face was graven, seemingly remorseful. "She's been retained, it seems you're not the only traitor within our walls. No harm has come to her, I assure you, but the threat she poses to our security cannot be overlooked." Dolorem's eyes were fixed on the ground, muscles shaking. Dolorem's face hardened. "Come here and take the Mark from me". Solomon looked over at Dolorem's parents, still terrified.

"Kill them" he said, covering his eyes, as if ashamed.

Dolorem's eyes widened as the guards drew their blades. His hands went to his waist, and the weighted end of the kusarigama whistled through the air, sinking deep into the skull of one of his parent's captors, he fell forward, unconscious or dead. Either way, Dolorem didn't care. There was still one immediate threat. With inhuman speed he dashed across to them, bringing his sickle up in a venomous slash, catching the guard under the chin. The honed edge sank deep, hooking him like a fish.

For a moment, the guard was unaware what happened, before his eyes widened in shock. Dolorem switched his grip, twisting the guard's head violently, the force snapping his neck. Dolorem turned immediately, sickle and chain slick with blood. He had positioned himself between his parents and Manus. He gestured for them to run, desperately waving his hand in the direction of the petrified couple.

They did, albeit falteringly, run. Dolorem remained, swinging his chain in circles, building momentum for another lethal throw. The Archduke was somewhat taken aback, before nodding to the Masked. Immediately, they held out their hand, and pillars of stone erupted from the ground, impaling the pair as they ran toward the door. Dolorem didn't process the fact. His mind was shut down, almost. He was aware of what happened, indeed, tears were flowing down his face, yet adrenaline almost insulated from emotions. Mortal fear gripped him. He was more than likely going to die. He couldn't save his parents. Lilith was in some god-forsaken prison.

Everything was falling apart.

He had failed.

Only an honest death would redeem him now. He'd take Solomon, and the others with him.