God Within Us

The world stood still for what seemed like an eternity as bloody splotches formed and expanded across the cloth wrapping.

Then the weight became too much, and the bloodstained cloth covering the Apostle’s cleaver fell apart as it unraveled, revealing rows of shining yellowed teeth and weeping human flesh. It felt as though the weapon had a heartbeat of its own, pulsating in place of Vasilisa’s own heart which would have been hammering with fear had it not been silenced by the teeth of night.

Her grip on the cleaver loosened slightly as she allowed herself a deep breath. She had grabbed for the cleaver on her back out of mindless desperation, knowing in her heart of hearts it was too heavy to draw in time - accepting the sharp pain and swift end of an axe to the head.

Except now the cleaver felt light - light enough for her to pull it from her back in the time it took for the mad warrior’s axe to swing down at her head. But more than that, the cleaver felt right sitting in her grasp, as though it was always meant to be - as though it were molded to fit her hands and hers alone.

The axe had crushed through one of the teeth running along the blade and bit half an inch into the tight, knotted flesh of the cleaver. Where the axe rent apart flesh Vasilisa saw a creeping grayness spread out from the wound, followed by deep fissures that resembled a growing spider’s web across the blade.

As the warrior struggled to rip his axe free from the cleaver, Vasilisa saw the Apostle’s weapon turn to stone before her eyes, growing lighter and lighter until it felt no heavier than the dueling swords she had trained with in her father’s courtyard.

The jagged stone blade called to her, and Vasilisa gripped the bone handle of the cleaver tighter.

A strange buzz that was not entirely unpleasant radiated from her silenced heart, and then the overwhelming sounds and smells and fear of the desperate battle around her flooded back to the front of Vasilisa’s mind.

She had not realized until now that only a few seconds had passed since the warrior tried to take her head.

The longaxe ripped free from her raised cleaver with a puff of dust, and the warrior prepared to raise his own weapon for a second blow. But his movements were sluggish - slowed by surprise and fear - and the Apostle's cleaver flowed through the air as light as a feather as she brought it around to bear. She did not move too quickly, though as her arms-master Stavr had once said: in the melee, even one second could decide it all.

Vasilisa brought the cleaver whistling down with both hands, and the axeman's whole body jerked violently as the toothed blade crushed and then ripped through the top of his iron helmet. The impact sent a shuddering jolt of pain through her wrists, and Vasilisa tore the cleaver free as she leapt back - bracing for a counter-strike.

But the warrior’s own strike never came. The man’s body swayed uncertainly, as though he were simply dazed. Then the bloodstained longaxe fell from his grip, and he took a single stumbling step forwards before his body surrendered to the earth. The warrior collapsed with a mighty thud, and behind him the rest of the gathered soldiers on the walls looked on with horror at their fallen companion, and then at the massive toothed sword that felled him.

Vasilisa looked down at the dead man, how his solid iron helmet was split completely in two down to the brow where blood spurted from his crushed skull. Her handiwork. The cleaver's handiwork.

All of the greatest weapons have names, rang the voice of her old friend Pyotr. The sword Kladenets - the sword from the gravestone!

The Apostle's weapon deserved no poetic name - no weapon born from hatred and malice deserved such. Still, it had risen to her defense. It had chosen to mold itself to her grasp and save her life - abandoning its former master. She sensed an awareness within the cracked stone blade, and settled on a name for this presence as she tightened her grip around the cleaver's long handle.

Kladenets…Whispered Vasilisa in her mind. The hidden sword, the stolen sword - serve me, now. Help me drive off these demons wearing the skins of men. Split their iron helmets and their skulls by my strength.

The Kladenets gave no reply, but none was needed. The butchery that lay in its future only demanded silence, and service.

“Run.” The warning slipped from Vasilisa's lips, but she spoke in the angry, grating voice of the Apostle - her entire body filled with electrifying power. It's not enough. I need more.

Her body felt light and agile like never before as Vasilisa threw herself forward at the paralyzed soldiers. She realized she was smiling as she raised the cleaver high and took another swipe at the man closest to her. With a loud crack the toothed blade smashed and splintered the soldier's wooden shield - the impact of the blow sending the man tumbling over the parapets with a scream.

“Run!” repeated one of the soldiers, and all those on the walls began to push and shove at each other as they scrambled to descend from the battlements with panicked cries of, “Blood-sorcerer! They have a blood-sorcerer!”

Vasilisa swung the cleaver in front of her, warding the rest of the soldiers further and further back until she stood over the injured mason's apprentice, who was grabbed by one of her companions and dragged to safety. One of the soldiers gathered enough courage to charge her with his spear, only to fall to the ground in agony as a feathered shaft protruded from his chest.

“Vasilisa!” Called Yesugei, and she turned to see everyone else had already retreated from the walls. Marmun and Khavel were carrying the injured Doru across the courtyard, Vratislav stood at the doorway to the pier with his axe in hand, and Rudin seemed to have disappeared altogether during the fight. “We need to leave! We cannot stay here forever!”

Yesugei pointed down at the base of the hill, where the fled cavalrymen were already rallying as Stribor roared at them to press on. From the darkness, a squad of archers emerged wielding long infantry bows.

She nodded to Yesugei, and together they quickly shimmied from the battlements as the first volley of arrows whistled behind them. As they hurried across the courtyard Vasilisa heard the splintering of wood and looked back to see axes tearing through the gate.

A long tongue of flame streaked across the night sky as a torch flew over the walls in the wake of the hail of arrows, landing on the roof of the keep’s stable. The dry thatched roof immediately began to catch fire, and suddenly Vasilisa saw a look of horror come upon Yesugei’s face as he skidded to a stop.

“Kaveh’s horse!”

Yesugei turned and ran the opposite way, leaving Vasilisa in the middle of the courtyard as Vratislav and Khavel shouted for her to leave him; to flee before the soldiers were upon them. Yesugei disappeared into the stables as the hungry flames continued to crawl across the dry thatch, and the entire stable groaned beneath its slowly-collapsing roof.

“My lady! We need to run now!” cried Vratislav as he shooed Marmun and Khavel through the hidden doorway. “Leave him! He can fend for himself!”

Dozens of axe blows rained down upon the old wooden gates to the keep, ripping open a hole large enough for one soldier to squeeze through and over the barricade the peasants had put up the day before.

When the first man through the gates was not greeted by the keep’s defenders, he shouted back to the others who crawled after him. Soon there was a steady trickle of ringing mail and shining helmets pouring through the broken doors - dozens of angry soldiers looking to take their revenge against the peasants that dared to fight back.

Vasilisa stood rooted in place in the middle of the courtyard, Vratislav’s calls falling on deaf ears as she continued to look out at the burning stable. Smoke began to billow out from the windows, and she heard the panicked whinnying of Kaveh’s horse echo from within.

The stable roof began to dip inwards when the doors suddenly exploded open, and Kaveh’s horse burst out into the courtyard in a blind panic. The charging soldiers scattered as Kaveh’s steed galloped towards them, knocking over and trampling those who were too slow to move aside.

Then, Vasilisa saw Yesugei’s crouched silhouette slip out from a side window as the burning roof collapsed completely, sending a bright explosion of sparks and flying debris into the air.

The nomad’s face was covered in soot and sweat, but all he had to say as he ran to catch up with Vasilisa was, “I couldn’t let him die. He still needs to carry his old master back home when I return.”

With that, the two of them disappeared through the doorway followed by Vratislav, who slammed the hidden exit shut and braced a wooden beam against the door before descending the dirt path to the pier.

Around the three of them, all Vasilisa saw were bright orange flames as the raiders’ inferno swept across the rest of the buildings in town. Smoke billowed everywhere, choking and singing her and Yesugei and Vratislav as they ran half-blind along the path towards the docks. Through the raging fire, Vasilisa saw the griffon banner of Gatchisk trailing through the streets - heading for the docks as the soldiers rushed to cut off their escape.

She heard the low blast of a horn sound off in the distance - and for a moment thought it was one of the raiders signaling to their comrades. But when the horn sounded again, she recognized its call and squinted through the smoke to see Nesha signaling as Valishin and Gastya pushed the skiff out into the river, already joined by Marmun and Khavel who laid the injured Doru inside the vessel.

The boat violently rocked as it entered the coursing waters of the Cherech, but it remained afloat - and the peasants immediately piled onto the boat as the flaming tongues of the burning town licked at their backs.

Vasilisa gave a hacking cough as she breathed in a lungful of the choking smoke, and felt Yesugei’s hand clasp hers as he and Vratislav staggered down the streets towards the docks. Over the roar of the flames she heard the calling voices of the peasants and Nesha guiding them through the fires, shouting their names and urging them to hurry, hurry!

Another terrible noise sounded through the roaring of the flames - the great shuddering creak of collapsing wood. Vasilisa turned her gaze up to the skies, and saw one of the tall wooden watchtowers of the town - a great pillar of fire from ground to roof - begin to groan and tilt. Wooden debris and burning thatch showered over the three of them, and then Vasilisa felt a hard shove against her chest that pushed her to the ground as the flaming tower crumbled with a great explosion of sparks and flying embers.

When she opened her eyes, Vasilisa’s heart dropped to her stomach.

The fallen tower lay directly in front of their escape, a great wall of burning wood and fiery horror cutting off their salvation. The terrifying flames seemed to lash out at the three of them, forcing Yesugei and the dazed Vratislav to scramble backwards before the inferno.

Yesugei choked through the smoke, and called to Vasilisa, “I don’t see a way out!”

No way out…

No way out…

The words became an overwhelming mantra in Vasilisa’s mind, and she fought back the urge to curl up into a ball and scream until her lungs gave out. She cast her gaze about the town, her eyes watering from just struggling to keep them open against the blinding smoke, but all she saw were three walls of bright orange fire.

The only escape lay behind them, towards the waiting swords of the soldiers who swarmed out of the keep and down the streets towards them.

She saw the flying banner drawing closer to them, the blue griffon seeming bright red in the light of the inferno. Stribor slowly trotted his horse behind his men, and Vasilisa heard him roaring commands to the soldiers as they charged home towards the three of them.

Yesugei wiped his sweat-covered face, then loosed one arrow into the mob. The feathered shaft stuck firm into a raised kite shield. His second shot brought down an axeman, who crumpled to the ground as the arrow struck him in the chest. Then she saw Yesugei fumble for another arrow, only to find his quiver empty.

The nomad looked at her with terror in his eyes.

Vasilisa did not know what to say. Words of reassurance? A rallying cry? Yesugei was too smart by half to appreciate anything of the sort - so was Vratislav, whose injured leg finally gave out as he collapsed to the ground in exhaustion, unable to even lift his ax.

Vasilisa gripped the Kladenets tight, and stood tall with the licking flames at her back as she waited for the rushing soldiers to get close. Now unafraid of the blood-sorcerer and her cleaver, the soldiers only saw her as a girl, and charged forward in mindless battle-rage.

The first man to get close was a swordsman, who raised his shield high as he approached. Vasilisa swung the cleaver, and the mighty six-foot blade shattered through the shield, sending its wielder flying with a twisted, broken arm.

The next warrior wielded a long halberd, and thrust its sharpened tip out at her face to hold her at bay. Vasilisa nearly impaled herself on the halberd in her rush to strike out at the warrior, but whatever bloodlust took over her mind evaporated as the shining tip of the halberd jabbed in her face.

Someone barked an order, and the single halberd was soon joined by three other gleaming speartips as the soldiers pressed in. Vasilisa swung her cleaver, batting aside one spear, but the other two quickly jerked away before reappearing at her face. She felt herself staggering backwards, ever closer to the flames until the fire and the spear tips were her entire world.

She looked to one side, and saw Vratislav raise his hands for mercy as a soldier wielding a mace loomed over him.

She looked to the other side, and saw Yesugei slashing with a dagger at the soldiers before him like a wild, cornered animal.

Then she looked backwards, past the burning wreck of the tower, and saw Marmun pulling Nesha away from the docks as the boyar’s wife screamed and wept - her desperate cries inaudible over the hellish fires all around.

Fly, Nesha. Fly, Marmun. Everyone, fly. Fly as far as you can, and find peace and hope wherever you land.

She could step backwards no further. She felt the lapping tongues of fire searing her back and her tattered dress, and felt her energy beginning to dwindle as a tide of despair crashed over her spirit.

The Kladenets fell from her grasp.

Then an armored hand wielding a mace swung before her eyes, and Vasilisa’s world exploded into agonizing pain, then darkness.

Nothing but darkness.

ACT 1 END