Azomir Recalls

It Does Communicate!

The last guard still grasped the weapon which had pierced his body. His grasp was futile when the weapon impaled him – it was more futile now that the life had escaped his body. Slowly the lifeless, limp shell of the former guard slid down the wall. A bloody smear marked his place against the wall. His face retained the shock of his death.

The archer walked around the body. She only gave it enough attention to ensure that her attack had killed him. Numbly she moved on to the inner chamber. Inside she knew she would find the man responsible for death of everyone she ever cared about. Slowly, carefully, she opened the door.

A tall, Elven man stood with his back to the door. He faced the open window which overlooked the courtyard. From his vantage point he had been able to witness the archer’s slaughter of his guards as she came for him. He was not surprised; for some time he knew she would be coming.

From the special quiver on her back the archer pulled a runic sword. With care she set it into the runic bow she wielded, as one would set an arrow. Her hands were protected by a matching set of magical gloves. These gloves protected her from the strange implements her bow could fire.

Indeed, few of the dead strewn throughout the keep had arrows jutting from their lifeless bodies. Spears, long swords, short swords, a mace… if there was a weapon that was reasonably straight and had a point on the end then somewhere there was a dead guard from whom that weapon likely protruded.

The bow which the archer wielded, Azomir, had been crafted for this one, singular purpose. The weapons which the archer’s order once took oaths to swear against using were now her weapons of vengeance. There would be no forgiveness for this violation of the Cleric way – for there were no more Clerics. The Elf in this room had ensured that. And now vengeance could be had.

“Sora,” the Elf softly said. “Sorazel Rhul.”

The archer hesitated. The Elf knew her name? It didn’t matter. She aimed her deadly artillery at the Elf’s back but did not release. “Turn around,” she said to him. “I want to look you in the eyes as I end you.”

The Elf sighed. He looked back over his shoulder to glance at the Elven woman. “It’s over, Sora. It’s been over for decades now. We ended your treasonous order. Just turn yourself in. I can promise a quick end.”

“Treasonous?” Sora asked, incredulously. “For centuries we served the Empire. You were the ones who turned on us! You killed every man, woman, and child among us. And for what? For staying true to our beliefs?”

“For treason, Sora. Don’t be a child.” He turned away from her and looked back out the window. ”You Clerics offered healing to the Dwarves. You aided the enemy of the Empire, so you were eliminated. The Empire crushes all its enemies. That day, your order proved itself to be an enemy.”

Sora was surprised to feel wetness on her face. Tears streaked through the dirt and blood staining her cheeks. She had thought all her tears had been spent. But the casual way the Duke spoke of the slaughter brought back all those feelings. The memories of training to be a Cleric. Of learning to heal. Of her vows not to shed blood, and to heal those in need.

That was the way of the Clerics. It was above the petty politics of this useless, never-ending war. Elf, Dwarf, it didn’t matter. Anyone in need would be aided. There was a time the Empire knew that. Once, the Empire had respected that. Once, she had respected it. But the day she became the last Cleric was the day she had forsaken their ways. She could not rebuild the order – too much was lost, she was too much the novice still. If she could not carry on their legacy, she would at least avenge.

“Be wary.” Azomir spoke in Sora’s head, snapping her back to reality. The Duke had begun quietly casting a spell. Protective magic, if she guessed the incantation right. There was no more time. With his death her order would be avenged. She had come too far to fail now.

Sorazel Rhul, the last of the Clerics, drew back the bowstring on Azomir. The rune sword held in place by magic and the power of the gloves pointed straight at the back of the Duke. Quietly, reverently, Sora whispered, “Azomir, I forgive you.” She let lose the bowstring and the runesword glowed as it flew towards the Duke.

The runesword tore straight through the Duke’s body and continued out the window, completing its arc and landing in the couryard below. His nearly completed spell of protection died upon his lips as his soul was ripped out of his body with the passage of the sword. The momentum of the attack pulled the body forward and the Duke fell onto the windowsill. Half in the room, half hanging out of the window. Like all the others she killed this day, Sora left his body where it lay.

A vision given to Silent Dream

Azomir made by our own AZ Rune