Slumrat Rising

Chapter 99: Local Hero

The projection opened with exterior shots of Old Mek’elle. People gathered to leave flowers and signs, hugging fiercely and sobbing freely, watched over by a heavy police presence. The enormous triskelion of Old Mek’elle itself hovered over the stadium and was soundly ignored.

“Shocking scenes this afternoon at Old Mek’elle. First, a double sacrifice on the pitch, then horrific terrorism off it.” There was a cut to the studio. An elegant woman was brightly made up, her hair styled long and free, looked serious as she spoke to the viewers. Next to her was a half-naked man, just under three meters tall, with the head of a long-beaked bird. “Good evening Xandere. I’m Ayana, and with me, as always, is Keeper of the Library of Light Pthot.”

“Greetings and commiserations, people of Xandere. Mourn for your dead. Mourn for the heroes who sacrificed themselves to slake your thirst for blood. But rejoice that you have heroes still.” The voice was dry but perfectly clear. Amazing to think it was coming from such a long beak.

“That’s right, Pthot. It all started today with the long-awaited reconciliation match between-”

“You know all this stuff. We can skip it.” Jember said, tapping the amulet to skip forward.

“... The blood of heroes still wet on the pitch, still dripping from the stone hoop, another tragedy befell fair Xandre. A two-stage terrorist attack on the mourners gathered outside the stadium. Not much has been confirmed about the suicide summoner at this time. We do know that terrible crocodile demons in Hell are consuming his wretched soul as we speak, again and again, until it is converted into nothing more than the feces nourishing the Field of Rushes.”

“Unfortunately, we know even less about the man who foiled the second stage of the attack. These images were taken from our “Imp In The Air” VKA**#CH. Viewer discretion is advised, as they are quite graphic.” Ayana looked deeply into the viewer’s eyes as she said that, in the calm and certain knowledge that nobody was looking away.

The recording was from a long distance, so it was hard to pick out the young man in the long coat. Truth’s eyes found him easily enough. He raised his hands, and he and the people around him vanished in a spray of gore. It was instant and total. One second there were people; the next, shocked mourners were desperately trying to stop the blood from pouring out of torn-open legs or picking bone fragments from their cheeks. There was about a second-long gap between the explosion and panic where there was just stunned confusion.

The blood pulled together and spun up into an oblong disk, floating above the burnt smear that had been the terrorist. It had a rough simplicity to it. It seemed to be some natural product of the world, as though any adornment or obvious spellwork would lessen or cheapen it. Jember paused the scry here.

“Look at the portal. Not a hint of an active spell anywhere. But we know there had to be one, so… where?”

“The young man in the long coat. He could have an entire ritual’s worth of activated talismans sewn into the lining, just waiting for the explosion.” Truth said.

“Nasty. I was thinking some kind of tattoo or scarification on the body.” Jember narrowed his eyes in thought.

“Might be both. Some very big demons came through. Energy had to come from somewhere, and I doubt it was just the murdered fans.” Etenesh gently pressed her palms to her eyes. When she lowered them again, her eyes were sharp and focused. “Keep playing the segment- the Man of the Match is about to appear.”

The portal started releasing fire demons- mostly humanoid but twisted. Monstrous parodies of the human form ruined by torture and burning in uneven heat. Some took the rough form of animals. Other simply blobs of flame. On the bottom of the screen was a bright blur. There was a sharp line of glowing steam charging at the conflagration of emerging demons. Weaving through the flames, somehow parrying them or slapping them away. The blur dove into the midst of them, cutting down everything between it and the portal. With a final explosive chop, the blur exploded the Hell-gate. The image went white, then cut back to the studio.

“We will show you the rest of the footage in a moment, but we thought it was important to explain what you are seeing. That glowing line isn’t a spell effect or a spirit. That is a human, a mage like you and me. Charging directly into the teeth of an invasion from Hell.” Ayana spoke with slow gravity. Her eyes were wide, her voice choked.

“Yes, a human. Piting his fragile mortal shell against the infernal fires. While there is still no agreement on which portion of Hell the demons are from, you will note their flames melting pavement into glass and slag. He suffered. The burns must be agonizing. Lingering. And agonizing.” Pthot shook his great head slowly. Ayana must have been used to the beak swinging around; she paid it no mind. “See now the hero. See how he faces Hell.”

The footage came back. Truth was picking himself up off the pavement. The imp was a long way away, and despite its best efforts, its view was blurry. It wasn’t helped by Truth raising his holy sword up in front of his face. The angelic light bounced off the steam of the freezing cold blade, masking him. Still, the audience could see enough. They could see him bloodied, burnt. Favoring his left side. Against all odds, his round white zeph had stayed on. His blade had never left his hand. He raised it up, squared himself against the remaining demons, and charged.

One man, alone, against dozens of demons. It was surreal. From this angle, it looked suicidal. The feathered snake demon leered at him and counter-charged, hungry. The fight ended much the same way Truth remembered, but somehow, this hit differently. There was a hopeless resolve to the man on the screen. As though he simply couldn’t conceive of retreat. As though there was nothing in the world he would rather do than die fighting demons. It felt wrong. Alien. A lie. He had tried to find the best path for survival, took it, and got lucky. There was nothing heroic about it.

“Incredible. Just incredible. Pthot, you remember the Spell-Blades. Are we looking at a return? Are the Spell-Blades coming back?”

“The hero has much in common with them, certainly. We may deduce many things. For example, did you notice that he cast no spells save through his blade?”

“You are right! He didn’t. He charged into sword range.” Ayana agreed breathlessly.

“Much like the Spell-Blades of old and honored memory. I cannot tell his cultivation from what little footage we have, but I would say he was about as quick and agile as a Level Four, though his superlative reflexes and firm endurance of fire and pain suggest a deep study of some supreme body refinement spell.”

“Sounding more and more like a Spell-Blade, Pthot.”

“There is yet more data to consider first. See his imposing height? And though we cannot tell much from behind, we can get a rough shape of his head. Not very useful by themselves, but observe how he stands, how he smoothly raises his blessed steel up to the level of his eyes? Many schools of swordplay have the same stance, but consider especially the Desrin brothers-militant in the Aussa highlands.”

“You don’t mean-”

“It is conjecture, of course.” The three-meter tall bird-headed news anchor nodded and offered a palm leaf-sized hand to the audience. “However, the evidence seems strong. The hero is one of the Desrin living in our most northern mountains. Likely one of those militant brethren who harden themselves in those austere heights and then test their Muq in the dead lands beyond our borders. It is no surprise that one born among such ascetics would dedicate his life to the path of the Spell-Blade. It is, however, humbling to see that he kept his oaths. That he is more than a mage with a sword.”

Ayana looked awed. “Imagine dedicating your life to such a path. Forsaking love until you find your destined spouse. Strict avoidance of drugs of any kind. No meat. Hard beds. Strict martial discipline. Dedicating any surplus earned to charity. All so that you are ready to fight without burdens when needed.”

“That’s right, Ayana. Truly it is said- a Spell-Blade is forged anew each moment, by themselves and by God.” The bird head nodded, his long beak only just avoiding punching a hole through the desk.

“We have a live update from Bokol Royal Stadium. Bokol is making an official statement regarding the tragic events at Old Mek’elle.” Ayana quickly said. They cut over to a bull-headed man-shaped spirit the size of an apartment building, holding a burning golden hoop in one hand and a multi-colored flail in the other.

“In all the millennia I have overseen this holy place, I have never been so moved by the tragic sacrifice of our players and the heroic spirit of our fans. I have talked it out with Old Mek’elle, and the clubs will be hosting a joint celebration of the lives and careers of Gionne and Raffe, as well as raising their blood-stained jerseys above the pitch to be enshrined forever within our bounds.” The great being slowly waved the flail across the air in front of him, immediately becoming a murderous hazard to any passing birds.

“I also wish to add my support to the Freedom of the Terraces Old Mek’elle awarded the Honorable Spell-Blade. Let the word go forth- He is forever welcome in my balconies and on my terraces. He shall ever be treated as a home fan. By us and by all who honor our name. The Birdies and Brickies truly are Old Friends in this. Hear and obey the decree of Bokol!” The words bellowed across the stadium, shaking the air over that part of the city. The Imp in the Air was nearly knocked out of the sky by the force of the declaration. They cut back to the studio.

“Reports stream in, like the thousand tributaries flowing to the Hashim River. Stadiums across Holy Siphios are pledging their support. Bahar, Addaaa, Repokshashim, New Gabrere, Gabere West, Kombolcha, Adigrat, Lower Uppsand, yea even those who live in the darkness and the shadow of Moyle, all have announced their support for the awarding of the Freedom of the Terraces to the hero.” Pthot’s voice rumbled like sandstone blocks rolled over logs. “No matter who he shouts for, anywhere Pitz is played in Siphios, he shall be welcomed as a home fan.”

“You deserve it,” Etenesh said fiercely. Her knuckles were turning white as her fists clenched. “You absolutely deserve it.”

Pthot was briefly haloed by a golden light. “Word has come. Old Me’kelle has released the following- “The young hero did not wish to stay for his applause, so I shall respect his privacy. However, I think it is important for the people of Siphios to see this.”

A picture came up over the scry ball. It was Truth, the scarf wrapped over his face. Only his eyes were visible under his Zeph. Beaten, and burnt, with blood sprayed over half his body and holes in his clothes showing that the blood was his. He held the long blade of One Who Speaks With The Tongue of God before him, still stained with demonic blood and ash, as the holy light burned away the uncleanliness, and the freezing metal turned humid air into fog. The light caught his eyes. They were still, hard, resolved. He had a job to do, and it wasn’t done yet.

“God be praised,” Etenesh murmured.

“Amen.” Jember agreed.

“We are getting a report from High Chirchin. For those of you who haven’t heard of High Chirchin, it is the only Division Three stadium in the Aussa Highlands. Our local reporter has the story.” Ayana cut over.

A spreading tree, struck by lightning but still vital, towered over the reporter. Towered, in this case, was relative, at a mere five meters.

“I do not know which hero of the North this man is. Truthfully, he could be the child of so many families on our terraces. Look at his eyes, the shape of his hands, his sheer height and physique. I do not know his name, but I know he is one of us.”

The tree spirit addressed the camera directly. “Hero, I know you are on errantry. Your journey will take you ever farther from home. You walk the wastes, the jungles, the streets, wherever the forces of Hell and Hellish people gather. Accompanied only by your blade. But never forget that you have a home here in the mountains. Here, with your people.” The spirit paused to let that sink in.

“On the day you permit yourself to rest. On the day you come home, lay down your blade, kneel before your wife, and let her blessings shower upon you. On the day you sit beneath our branches once more. You will truly know that you are welcome here in your home. That you have never left our hearts. For you never truly left us. Go with the blessings of the Highlands, young Spell-Blade. Your home is with you.”

Truth ripped the arm off the sofa.