“What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie?
I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky.
The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing;
Rush in and die, dogs—I was a man before I was a king.”
Apprentice God-Butcher Ruhollah methodically removed the thin blood from the edge of his Estoc. It shamed him the noble instrument was sullied with such filth. The cleaning was necessary in two ways, it removed the stain of the unworthy from his blade and it put him in the correct frame of mind for the Ritual of Loss.
When the sword was restored to pristine glory he reverentially placed it upon his small shrine. Reluctantly he unclasped his helmet and cradled it in the crook of his arm. Scowling, he sniffed at the thin air. In this place it smelled of absolutely nothing. While he wore his helmet he could pretend to himself that a faint smell of the sacred blood still lingered. Without that scent the world was sterile and flat. Another loss.
Dropping to one knee he let his thoughts wind back to his youth in the Tailstones. Relentless heat and the heavy small of blood. Childish games of bravado, feigning indifference to the roars of the God. Underneath the shadow of the sacred enclosure they would dare each other to creep closer, shrieking and fleeing before they ever touched the outer wall. Knowing the other children were lying, still half believing when they said they had touched the wall, crept through the gates, seen the God up close. He remembered the faces of his friends. He remembered the heart stopping terror the day the wall fell and the God punished the city for hubris. The sounds off the buildings falling around him, trapping him in darkness. The indefinite period without light or water or hope. Only the constant bellows of the God had let him know he was still alive.
There was never any sound in this place.
He had cried out over and over again for the God to spare him, for anyone to rescue him. Panic had given way to a numb fatigue. Eventually the numbness was replaced by a cold fury. He had roared back at this cruel God who couldn’t even be bothered to kill him quickly. He battered against the fallen masonry ignoring the dust that spiralled downward and threatened to choke him. The blood and pain from his torn fingertips spurred him on, screamed at him that he was still alive. Until the sudden rush of light had seared his eyes and sent him staggering backwards. An irresistible force dragged him out of the rubble ignoring his struggles and curses. When his vision cleared the titanic figure of the God-Butcher was already wading back into the ruins to search for other survivors.
Until that day he had never considered what the God-Butchers really did. The God was not some distant unknowable force. It was a cataclysm at the heart of city, barely held in check by mere men and women. The assembled rescue teams were the dregs of the city, drunks, thieves, beggars. Though battered and bruised they stood in the shattered remnants of their homes and responded as one to the God-Butcher’s shouted commands. For the first time he understood the pride and heroism of his people, the nobility of their never-ending struggle against their terrible foe. Ignoring the pain in his hands he limped forward to assist the rescue party.
It was days later when he learned who had pulled him from the rubble. Immediately after securing the God, the legendary Macid Rex had marched his weary and battered butchers though the ruins of the outer wall into the devastation of the Tailstones. While the other High Lords of the city had fled or cowered in their palaces Macid Rex and his elite had been digging through the dust and corpses with the mourners and rescue crews. No bardsong, no parade to the glory of Salt in Wounds had even resonated with Ruhollah more than that simple image. He gave up his childish fancies of glory in battle and vowed that he would join the God-Butchers to serve the people. It was this concept of duty that sustained him through the long years of labour and study. The God-Butchers had no use for fools or idlers. Months of wading through shit and piss drove away those too vain or delicate for the order to use.
He learned the proper degree of respect for the great beast, leaned when to stand his ground and when to retreat. He buried those who were clumsy or slow to learn. He learned to rely on the other aspirants, when to follow and when to lead. The day when he received his Estoc and earned the rank of apprentice God-Butcher had been the proudest day of his life. Without wasting time on vanity ceremonies, the senior God-Butchers had sent the new initiates straight to work carving flesh for the ever-hungry city. As Macid Rex had always said, service was their duty and reward.
As ever his thoughts came back to the great captain. Within the order Macid Rex was a living legend, the Eidolon they all strove to emulate. When a sudden bout of reflux had scalded a team working in the oesophagus it was Macid Rex who had borne them to safety one by one through cuts and hidden channels even another master would struggle to walk. When the High Council tried to raise water taxes or cut funding to the rebuilding efforts, it was Macid Rex who faced them down. When an unanticipated movement of a hindleg trapped a team of fleshminers, who else could direct the weeklong campaign to reposition the limb and allow them to escape? When Namburg had sent the vipers of Sub-Optima to strike at the God, who else could lead the interception team directly from the flank to the heart? On that dreadful day when the God had shuddered and fallen still, it was Macid Rex who had stepped forward to save the city. He had reminded the terrified people who they were, given them fresh pride and purpose.
“Our enemies have struck a terrible blow at our heart. They think we are destroyed, that we are too weak and fearful to strike back at them. But we are Salt in Wounds. We are more than our God! There is plenty of meat for the taking. We shall feast on their flesh and raise their city to the ground. Shed no tears. Shed the blood of Sub-Optima!”
Every God-Butcher in the city had wanted to join the march north but they had duties remaining in the city. Ruhollah had remained behind to start work on the silent harvest. It was like entering another world. There was no sense of the reverence he once felt as the living landscape reacted to his every movement. The divine spark had fled, his purpose now was the grim task of carefully sorting the good meat from the spoiled. Managing and charting the corruption as best they could. He had vented his anger against the river demons who swarmed the city, promising the masses fish and water in exchange for slavery.
He had not been on the fields of Hellhest when his comrades tore through Sub-Optima’s emaciated dwarven slaves. While those assassins had cowered in the castle and sent wave after wave of sacrificial orc and horseman and dogfolk against the furious alchemical battalions. Where the righteous anger of Salt in Wounds had destroyed this dross Sub-Optima had revealed their true selves. Undead abominations, fire demons and river devils, eldritch flying horrors had rained down on Macid Rex and he had sent them all screaming back to their pits. In the end Sub-Optima had unleashed their final gambit – the moon demons and meteor weapons they had been testing on the empire for months. As an endless tide of horrors enveloped the battlefield and the demon moon itself cracked and fell upon the world even Macid Rex could not achieve victory. He had returned home to warn his people what was to come.
The empire was breaking apart. Meteor weapons were destroying supply routes and the fear of famine was taking root even though supplies were still plentiful. Looting and rioting was everywhere. The council and the noble houses were split between fleeing, profiteering and surrendering. Once again it fell to Macid Rex to take command. He had quelled the riots with brutal action and fresh meat. He rallied the defenders and smashed the profiteers. He let the cowards and useless eaters leave with whatever loot they could carry. He sorted and graded the prime cuts from the offal. All the while making his contingency plans.
Ruhollah spat. They should not have expected honourable combat. The Swarm Witch had come like a disease, twisting the minds of noble men and women and turning them against their kin. Tempting the remaining houses with promises of elevation in her new empire of lies. Destroying the faithful with Dunamancy she had learned from their own treacherous mages. They had slain her avatars many times but their blades were coated only with tainted water. The only flesh that they could cleave was that of her brainwashed slaves.
Some of them remained loyal and willing to until fight the bitter end. But Macid Rex had refused to dance to the witch’s tune. He would not see his people slaughter each other until Mesmerelda could harvest the secrets of the holy city unopposed. He had rallied the few Binder-Lords who remained loyal and persuaded them to release the sacred harpoons to keep them from enemy hands. He had gathered the remaining Archmages and master alchemists for his grand purpose. And finally, he had led his remaining butchers deep into the Godcorpse to reveal the great secret…
Ruhollah opened his eyes and rose to his feet. After replacing his helmet, he took a moment to centre himself, to hear his harsh breath echoing in his ears. Hefting his Estoc he gave thanks for the labour and craftmanship of the ancestors who had torn this bone from the God and fashioned it into such an exquisite weapon. He raised the blade into a fighting stance and began to flow through the practice forms. Silent contemplation was proper for the ritual of loss, but he preferred to move when he contemplated the rites of revenge.
The mages had talked much and said little about this place Macid Rex had selected to house the precious artefacts. Dunamancy, astral, timestream. The words meant little. Only the duty mattered.
The mages would guard the portals to ensure they could not be followed. They would study the magics that Mesmerelda had used to cripple their city. The witch would learn that a sword could cut both ways.
The alchemists would study the Godbane that had ruined their civilisation. They had the notes of the archtraitor Nespib. They had samples of the damaged flesh. In time an antidote could be devised.
There were creatures in this strange place. Their flesh was weak stuff to those who had tasted the divine meat but the God-Butchers would harvest it to feed the faithful. They would protect the sacred harpoons until they were needed again. They would guard the last of the trueflesh.
Macid Rex had given them their tasks, but had declined to join them. He would not abandon his people and the holy city. He had remained behind to lead those who kept the faith. He would live and die in the sacred city he had done so much to build and serve.
Ruhollah redoubled his efforts, the Estoc becoming a blur of bone in his hands.
Already there were those who whispered Macid Rex has been more than mortal. That he had been sent by the God to show them the true path, to preserve their way of life. Ruhollah paid no heed to this idle nonsense. It diminished the memory of the man. He had been flesh and blood, driven by implacable will and an unquenchable sense of duty to his people. He was mortal and his success was the greater because of it.
Then there were those who whispered that Macid Rex had been driven mad at the end. Ruhollah glared at the bloodstained rags he had used to clean his Estoc. They would not say such things again. Macid Rex had never sought or given false hope. If he said he had heard signs of life within the egg, then it was so.
Panting hard Ruhollah came to a halt and shouldered his weapon. Their path was clear. They would harvest and study and guard. Someday the sacred harpoons would be sink once again in the blood-soaked soil of his homeland. To the sound of divine fury he would draw his Estoc and cut the flesh of the young God with the bones of the old. They would tend and harvest the flesh to feed his people. He would walk the crimson pathways that few were ever privileged to see and hear the heartbeat of the divine.
They were flesh and blood. They were Salt in Wounds. They would have their revenge.