A quick note from the author: This story, while one of my oldest works, has inspired me to create a larger continuum around the characters, loosely based off the events from this pilot. I have done some outlining for the overarching story and characters, and I have gotten some progress on writing the first chapter(s). That being said, I intend for the series to be less of a novel/novella and more of a web-series featured here on my website, which I will progressively release chapter by chapter after editing and reviews per chapter.

It may take some time bridge the gap between the chapters, I tend to work on multiple things at once, so I’m not going to make any comments on the release schedule as of yet. It is however, to be expected in the near future!

Vessels of Veyrath: Ch. 0 – Butter Knife (Pilot)

(a short story)

With accusing eyes, Mariya wordlessly evaluated the man, then her options. There was something wrong about the situation this time around, but she didn’t need an explanation, she never did. If the man was branded a sinner, then that’s what he was. There was no questioning it.

“Greetings! What brings you here?” he said warmly, innocently. Disarmingly.

Remaining silent, she stood in the doorway, refusing to buy into his little game. Her skin crawled with anticipation. He gave nothing away with movement or expression, but the manner in which he addressed her seemed almost as if he had expected someone to have come.

“Hmm, a quiet one then…” he paused momentarily, “well, what would the inquisition want with me?”

The realization struck her like a dagger to the side. There was no average citizen who could know the movements of the inquisition’s assassins; let alone hold the ability to identify one as unassuming as herself on sight. She reached for her scabbard, drawing and slashing for his throat in a swift and merciless motion.

But the man danced backwards with inhuman speed, sighing as he landed. “Now why did you have to go and do that?” he asked, his words remaining eerily placid.

The living area beyond the doorway didn’t appear to hold anything particularly or obviously threatening, and he wasn’t armed. Yet, an oppressive sense of peril now weighed on the atmosphere of the house.

“Darren Argnierre, you have been found guilty of consorting with daemons. After movements like that, there is no room for doubt.” She declared with unfaltering conviction.

Finally shattering that mask of calm, his eyes narrowed with dark frustration. “I haven’t even done anything…” he said under his breath.

“If you are innocent, surrender your life, and your soul may be spared.” Mariya readied the thin steel swathe of her weapon as she spoke. “Fear not, for all is not lost.”

Darren grabbed a simple butter knife from the table next to him. “Practically insane. You are nothing more than a dog.” He spat out the last word like venom, merely uttering it left a caustic taste in his mouth.

In a grim show of strength, without so much as flinching, he buried the dull blade in his forearm, slicing deeply from elbow to palm as if it had been butter. Blood poured from the horrifically rough gash like a river. Yet, rather than dribble noisily to the floor, it swirled and coagulated unnaturally in his hand. Mariya stepped back, appalled. She’d never seen magic or anything like this. She could only watch as the length of liquid crimson began to form the vague outline of some sinister weapon.

“And now you’ll die like one,” Darren hissed, sounding almost disappointed.

Danger washed over her like the stamping march of a mob. Mariya reflexively slammed the door of house to slow him down, then set her back to the outside wall of the cottage. The moment he emerged onto the street, she would run her sword through his throat.

Darren leapt forward, splintering the wood apart in a flying tackle with his shoulder alone. The door exploded in a hailstorm of wooden chips, ripping away from its hinges. The very tapestry of time seemed to slow, as Mariya stared into his face, contorted in pain and uncontrollable anger.

His eyes were the burning shade of the sun, his pupils slashed to thin slits. Warm and serene just moments before, his expression was now twisted by a savage rage that seemed entirely alien, inexplicable. But her clear glimpse of this madness was short-lived. The moment Darren realized Mariya hadn’t been in his path, his blazing eyes flicked in her direction. A chill like lightning traveled down her spine.

Twisting backwards, Darren revealed the finality of his grisly spectacle; a rippling, jagged longsword of crimson. It swung toward her in a wide, violent arc. Yet, telegraphed just enough that Mariya could duck and vault away from the cottage. Rolling along the ground as she twisted to face her target, she couldn’t help but think she’d been vastly unprepared. After all, it was entirely possible her superiors had no idea what they’d just stumbled upon. With so little information, even having been drilled for years to handle well-trained men, she couldn’t help but feel that perhaps she could not have possibly been prepared.

With blindingly fast movements and such monstrous strength; he’d become anything but human. Those eyes and movements were proof enough that perhaps he himself could be a true daemon. In which case, a much greater threat had been realized. Rumors of daemons meant little to the church, but hard information was investigated. This entire town, the domain would be purged. It might even turn into a crusade. A consortium had arisen, and it would embolden many to do or worship evil. Time was now of the essence. And though having managed to evade his first two attacks on pure instinct, she wasn’t particularly convinced of her ability to continue the mission. Escape seemed like the only clear option.

Darren’s damned gaze continued to follow Mariya after pulverizing his wall to bricks, wood slivers, and dust. Unwilling to wait for her to decide or move, he lunged forward, leading with his blade. Mariya nimbly rolled out of the linear path. Darren’s weapon plowed into the ground behind her, smashing the worn cobble of the street to sand. Making use of his incredible power, Darren twisted about his blade like a pivot, then whipped it back around after fixing his momentum. Mariya watched her life fling before her eyes, as the daemonic swirl of a blade abated the air hardly a hair’s breadth from her face.

Sadly, she saw nothing that made her feel as if she would miss life.

Grueling training. Pig men and incessant abuse. Terrible conditions on long, lonely missions. The blood of innocent women and children on her hands. Their heart-wrenching curses, fears, and pleas in her ears. The sight of the light leaving their eyes in her mind. For a moment, Mariya wished the swing had indeed killed her. But just as quickly, she sharply reminded herself that her purpose in life was to suffer. In the name of God, she would suffer. She would suffer these terrible things, so that someone else would not. So that just a few more lives, a few more souls could be saved. That was her place in life, and she would give it a million times over if she was able.

In that instant, clarity and focus were bestowed unto her like a miracle breaching the clouds from above. This was the gift God had given her. To survive. To kill. To endure. To adapt. She could see it clearly, the lack of discipline in his swings. Under normal circumstances, he would have already lost his life for leaving such wanton openings.

But he wasn’t like the men she’d killed before.

Her mind traveled immediately to the strongest man, the strongest warrior she’d ever killed. He was a thoroughbred military man, an officer in a foreign army. A master tactician and a monster with a blade. He was also a heretic, an openly evil man who made sport and example of killing God’s children. His particularly favorite displays were flayed bodies.

He had proven a villainously clever opponent, making use of anything and everything around him to gain advantage. In his mind, the battlefield itself was a weapon for him to manipulate. It was a long fight, but a single second of distraction had been all that was necessary for Mariya to plunge a well-placed sliver of glass into his throat. To Mariya, perhaps the throat was something of an obsession.

As she floated backwards to the ground, out of Darren’s immediate range, she eyed his jugular, feeling doubt that even a well-placed knife or slash from her saber would do him in. A man that might not die when his throat was cut was not something she’d ever encountered before.

Over and over she evaded him, each time growing more comfortable in dodging his predictable movements. It wasn’t long before she was leading him, deliberately bringing his swings into the ground, drawing his blood with each step, each stroke. His movements were amateurish and seemed almost awkward the more she analyzed him; it was like watching a child throwing a temper tantrum in a rampaging bear’s body. It would have easily been enough for the strongest of knights or mercenaries even. But to the trained eye in a quick and lithe body, he was child’s play. Back and forth they went, dancing until the air of the street had become clouded with sand and pulverized cobblestone.

It was this very moment that Mariya had been waiting for. Under the cover of dust, she darted down the nearest alleyway. As she rounded the building to her left, she flattened herself against the wall. Only moments later the cloud would settle. She slid farther into the town, light and swift on heel, careful not to make sound enough that would give away the direction of her escape.

Through the thinning haze, Darren looked around frantically. Mariya had disappeared, and as to where, he had too many guesses. Tendrils of pain wormed through his tired limbs and brain. Panting heavily, he listened for any sign of her. By now, guards were already on their way. Townspeople had come to gather and gasp at the ballyhoo.

He looked down at the weapon in his hand and began to speak to it.  “Veyrath, where is she?”

A chilling voice, like the breath of the tundra, rolled through Mariya’s mind. “One has not yet tasted…”

Every hair on her body stood on end. An icy terror settled in her veins, sending waves of gooseflesh down her arms and legs. “What is that…?” she whispered, gripped by an emotion unlike anything she had ever felt before.

It was a filthy, unclean feeling. More defiling than the hands or cocks of lustful men. A daemon, a true daemon’s voice had intruded upon the sanctity of her mind, her thoughts. Countless times had she killed for consorting. In none of them had she encountered something like this. It froze her in her tracks. Though she willed to move, to escape, her limbs disobeyed her.

“To make it out of… of that without losing any blood… impressive.” Panting painfully in between words, Darren made his decision, and edged toward the alleyway. “Gonna run off to your… masters, are you? Can’t have that. You’ll just keep coming after me.”

“No matter… One will devour them…”

An unbearable cold washed over Mariya as the voice spoke again. Strength slowly bled from her limbs, leaving behind a mounting sense of dread. If the daemon’s voice alone held such power, she feared what could possibly transpire if such a being acquired more strength, followers, or even allies. Vainly fighting what supernatural force held her still, she quickly stopped, just after realizing that struggling seemed to accelerate her exhaustion. It wouldn’t be long before she lacked the power to stand.

But in the gloom of the alley, hardly a block away, she could make out the glowing crimson of Darren’s eyes. They drank in her presence, sapping her strength.

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone…?” he whispered sadly, shaking Mariya to her very core.

Once more, something didn’t feel quite right. She knew very well the other emotion that edged his voice. For she had heard countless beg and cry, try to reason and bargain. His rage had since evaporated, replaced by something wholly, utterly different. That tangible wavering of the human spirit and will.

He was afraid.

He didn’t want to kill any more than he wanted to be killed. In that way, they were alike. In the blink of an eye, Darren stood less than a meter away from Mariya, his features now in her plain view. Tears streaked his face, anger flashed through his eyes, he fought it, it fought him. In his expressions alone, a war raged. She couldn’t help but wonder what it was like beneath the surface. But as she did, a pit of heat settled in her stomach. Now somehow freed of the daemon’s yoke, she gazed down at the crimson longsword running her through. Blood unnaturally slithered from the wound up the incline of the blade.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry…” Darren muttered, horror flickering through his rage.

Mariya couldn’t be certain herself, what it was that drove her forward then. Perhaps it was compassion, she wondered, or even pity. Could she pity one who had been deceived or misled? Was it her place to forgive one branded a sinner by God? Uncertain of all these things, Mariya took a shaking step forward, spilling even more of her precious lifeblood. Darren’s swirling weapon made a mess of her insides as she went, sending a storm of twirling, phantom razors through her midsection. Even so, she took another, bracing herself against Darren, wrapping her arms around him.

“It’s okay…” she whispered into his ear, in that moment wishing so desperately she could take away his suffering. The effort itself brought blood up her windpipe, which she coughed messily onto his shoulder in great volume. “It’s okay… God will… still…”

But the warmth left her body before she could finish, consumed by Veyrath. Tears flowed freely down Darren’s face. The weapon in his hands dissipated. Even though he’d been eviscerated by her saber more times than he remembered, not a single wound marked his seamless flesh. Sinking to his knees, wracked in choking sobs, Darren embraced Mariya’s smiling corpse. He brushed his face against her night-colored hair, wishing so desperately he could take back many of the things he had done.