State Of Decay

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Then again, there weren’t always Jejehs in the valley, nor even the people of the Caste. Just the woods, the mountains, and the Stickmen.

Delaida took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She was still there. Still in this hell, with the filth all around her. Some of the filth talked.

“Faster, girl.” Irvis said, upping his pace. The locks of the chain clinked in the grey morning.

The forest was dark and dead, and Irvis only made the entire experience worse. Not surprising, really. The dragons ruled here. This had been Diamandis territory since they’d first crossed the mountains. They were remnants of another land, a far-off empire. Supposedly, the dragons had been an important family back there, second to the emperor himself. Their patriarch, Lord Diamandis, his great advisor. It had been good for them. It would have been just as good for the Jejehs and the people of the valley if the Diamandis had just stayed there as well. But things had gone wrong, as you could always expect them to.

So, one of the princes had slain the wrong man or found himself in bed with the wrong princess and the entirety of Lord Diamandis’ family had been exiled, travelling far across the mountains to the Valley, which just so happened to have the Jejeh line already in power. Conflict had ensued, as it always did, for many reasons which Delaida herself had never paid attention to. It had been over a millennium since they’d arrived. Besides, history was for the dead, that was what her father had always said, and Delaida was, for better or worse, his daughter. The living belonged in the present, laying the foundations for their children, who belonged to the future. Unfortunately, the present wasn’t particularly enticing at the moment.

Irvis yanked the chain, forcing Delaida to stumble forward.

“Faster,” he grunted again, watching the forest ahead of them.

Irvis Valion. Irvis the Butcher, the only man of the Caste you’d ever find serving the Diamandis, or any noble for that matter. The oppressed rarely tended to side with the oppressors. These days, you’d only find the people of the Caste far out in the mountains, if they hadn’t already left for the South. There was nothing for them here. The dragons had made sure of that.

Then again, she doubted Irvis much cared. He didn’t strike her as a particularly moral character. Irvis the Butcher, who had slain a dozen men alone during the siege of the Jejeh Naula. Delaida had seen it herself. That was all she had been able to do. She’d watched as he killed all twelve of her guards in front of her, before grabbing her by the arm and bringing her to Aramand. No wonder he worked under the Diamandis. When you had such a talent for killing, anyone would be happy to have you on their side. Even the dragons.

And the stories. Delaida had heard stories of the Diamandis warrior, Irvis Valion, a man of the Caste who fought like a demon. Who fought as if he had no regard for his own life. Or for the lives of others.

It had been one of the servants, she recalled. They’d opened the gates and welcomed hell into the Jejeh Naula, leaving the palace open for men like the Butcher to traipse as they wished, slaughtering anyone in their path.

So yes, there weren’t always dragons in the Valley. But bastard scum? That was a different story. Those had existed since the dawn of time.

And here they were, the princess Delaida Alquine Jejeh and the Butcher Irvis Valion, heading to her early date with the dragons. She’d spent the first day in a state of shock, as she thought of the hundreds of ways Origo Diamandis might wish to execute her. The second she’d spent trying to find ways to flee, all of which had resulted in failure. By this point, Delaida had accepted her fate. Of course, they were still three weeks’ journey from the capital by foot. Anything could happen. But not with the Butcher at her side. So Delaida had accepted her death and found some sort of twisted peace in it. She couldn’t run from Irvis. She couldn’t kill him. All that was left was to try and piss him off.

“Irvis Valion.” Delaida almost sang the name.

He said nothing.

“Irvis the Butcher.” she sneered. “Irvis the traitor. You sold your people out. Tell me, what did it take? How much money? A knighthood? I bet it was. You allied yourself with dragons. You allied yourselves with the oppressors. You sold your people out for a knighthood.”

Irvis spoke without turning back to her, his eyes on the road.

“I’m not a knight.”

This man was stone. He had to be. No reaction, none whatsoever. Looking at him now, you’d hardly imagine he’d beaten her three nights before. You’d hardly imagine that this was the Butcher himself. But that was alright. Delaida knew his kind. She’d seen his lot in the guards of the Jejeh Naula. She’d seen it in her father. These sorts of people who could resist any provocations, any insult, and not a moment later, slaughter an entire family. These were the people whose minds were focused entirely on violence. But even the most disciplined of them had a weak point. Everyone did. So Delaida dug deeper.

"So what?" She asked. "Aramand too busy celebrating the spoils of his victory? Couldn't bring me himself, I suppose. Not when there's feasting to be done. Has to get the one person no-one will miss to do the job for him while the rest of the army gets drunk and spends their money on women and wine."

Irvis didn't turn to face her. No matter what, his mind seemed to always be on the road ahead.

"Aramand trusts me," he replied, his voice not breaking away from its regular monotony. "He knows I can get the job done. He knows I’m willing to do it."

He wasn't falling for the provocation. Delaida dug a little further.

"Makes sense, honestly. Not surprising that a Cheki would be the only one desperate enough to take on a job like this."

Irvis turned round and slapped her in the face. He knew how to hurt someone, that was certain. He made sure to use the back of his hand, covered in armour. The impact sent Delaida to the ground. The chain links snapped tight from the tension and pulled Irvis down alongside her, caking him in mud.

Small victories, the princess thought, as she spat out a tooth. At least her nose wasn't broken, though her face was covered in blood and dirt. Beside her, the Butcher was wiping the mud from his eyes, trying to get a bearing. It had to be hard, wading around as he was in his armour. At least Delaida hoped it was. At last, she’d gotten to him. That stoic demeanour. At last. Something had to give in the bastard’s heart. Or his head at least.

Irvis got to his feet, yanking the chain and motioning for the princess to get up. When she ignored him, he spoke.

"Get up."

Delaida stayed down.

"Get up!" he shouted.

Taking her time, the princess stood up, looking Irvis in the eye.

The Butcher leaned forward till he was less than a foot away from her, lowering his voice as if scared that the trees themselves would listen in.

"You call me that again and I'll break both your arms."

Delaida was silent, at least for the moment. She didn’t doubt that Irvis would do it. Certainly, he didn’t lose anything from it. And besides, she’d gotten what she wanted. The slur had had the desired reaction. The princess felt the blood in her mouth, dribbling down her chin. That was another thing she’d pay Irvis back for, in this life or the next. Though, considering the events of the journey, she honestly wasn’t sure who was suffering more, herself or the Butcher. If there was a Hell, she couldn’t imagine it being worse than him having to bear with her for weeks. Oh, well. At least he didn’t have to worry about certain death awaiting him at the end of his journey. No such luck for Delaida. She wondered where her father was now. If she would ever see him again. Considering where she was headed, she hoped not, for his sake. He’d just missed the siege, riding off three days before the arrival of the troops. The dragons had timed it perfectly, she thought. They’d wanted her since the start, to make a statement. To see how he’d react.

They carried on throughout the day, not stopping for lunch or even for a moment’s pause. Delaida could hardly feel her legs by the end of it, and her wrist was raw from the manacle. The moment Aramand had informed Irvis that he’d be bringing the princess to the capital, the Butcher had chained her to him. “Not even the World Serpent will be able to separate you from me”, he’d told her. At this rate, she’d be dead before even gracing Origo Diamandis’ halls. Such a shame, considering he most likely wanted a public execution at the least. He’d just have to put up with the disappointment.

Night fell and still they carried on walking, Irvis striding forward at that unforgiving pace, yanking the chain every so often to make sure Delaida didn’t slow them down. It was only when she’d given up all hope that they’d sleep that night that he stopped, scanning around him.

“As good a place as any.” Delaida heard him mutter. The Butcher’s tall figure seemed to blend into the darkness of the night. Irvis sat down, pulling the chain to signal that Delaida do the same. No ceremony, no fire, no food. That was it.

She sat still as Irvis turned his back to her. She sat still as he lay down to rest. She sat still as the Butcher closed his eyes and fell asleep. She sat still and she didn’t do anything. She’d tried it on the first night, of course. Tried to reach for his sword and kill him. Tried to grab the keys and run out into the night. He’d punched her in the gut so hard Delaida had spent the rest of the night vomiting blood. So she sat still and tried to dream of better days.

Her dream was vivid, to say the least.

She had to admit that she’d never truly believed in the Stickmen. That was how it worked with everyone, though, she supposed. The Jejeh had always prayed to their ancestors, no matter which household. The people of the Caste had always prayed to the World Serpent, once in the morning, once at night. The Diamandis, when they’d first crossed, had imported their own gods to worship. But slowly and surely, just as surely as they’d existed since the dawn of mankind, the Stickmen had found their way into the various religions of the valley. The Stickmen were the Valley itself. Still, it was easy to be sceptical of something when you’d never seen it yourself.

In her dream, surrounded by hooded figures, it was a little harder to deny the Stickmen. They seemed like an army. No, like one cohesive body, stretching out in every direction as far as the horizon, like some great sea. There was a sound all around her, like some sort of great gale, enveloping her, carrying her, filling her ears till she could take no more.

In the cold of the autumn night, Delaida Alquine woke up sweating. In the silence of the sleeping forest, she woke up screaming. The princess was unsure how long she’d been screaming, till a hand roughly shoved her back down.

“Don’t be afraid of the dark, girl.” Irvis said. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not. “The only thing in the dark—”

There was a pause.

“—is me.”

The notion didn’t set Delaida’s nerves at ease.

They set off early in the morning again, keeping to the forest, far away from civilisation. Irvis was silent and even Delaida didn’t feel like talking. She’d come to the conclusion, as the Butcher had been eager to show her, that riling him wasn’t satisfying enough to justify getting beaten. And the Stickman was on her mind. They said the Stickmen could walk through dreams, and that you only saw them if they meant for you to see them. If that was so, she wondered what the day had in store for them.

It was a perfect morning for strange encounters. The day was still young when they reached the clearing. The sound flew through the trees, filling her ears, just like in her dream. But quieter. Calmer. The Butcher took up a fighting stance, his sword in his hand, unsure of what he was facing. No beast made that sound. No human either. It sounded like some jagged flute. No, not a flute. It sounded like whistling. The Stickman stepped out of the trees, his hood obscuring his face, head bent over as if looking at the ground. The whistling ended as the wind picked up.

There he was, just as in her dream. She could hardly believe it. Stories aside, sightings of the Stickmen were incredibly rare. And no-one had seen them outside the caves. But here he was all the same, covered in that very same fur coat and hood as in the dream.

Delaida’s view of the Stickman was obscured as Irvis stepped between the two of them.

“Old One!” the Butcher shouted. “Why have you sought us?”

The wind had risen up, stirring the dead leaves around them, whipping her hair to and fro.

Irvis turned round, muttering “bastard” under his breth.

“Watch your mouth, Butcher!” Delaida said. “That’s a holy man.”

Irvis ignored her. “Why are you here, Stickman?”

The hooded figure said nothing, stepping forward through the trees, leaving no footsteps. He was five steps from Irvis, then three, then one, until he was by the Butcher’s shoulder. Still Irvis said nothing. His sword remained in its scabbard and his chin was held high, staring straight ahead, as if ready for judgement. But the Stickman said nothing. He just stood, alone, watching the two of them. His entire face was hidden, yet Delaida could sense his eyes on her.

At last, he spoke.

“Too much traffic up north. Unsafe. Stick to the hills and the forest. Stay up on the hill, keep running water to your right. Beware of a band of eight.”

Son of a bitch. A Stickman helping the Butcher was the last thing she needed. The princess tried to keep her composure. This was a holy man, after all. Holy men had to focus on the great plan of the world. The bigger picture. She just hoped the bigger picture didn’t involve her dying anytime soon.

“You.” the Stickman raised one gloved hand to point at her. “Delaida Alquine Jejeh.”

She saw the Butcher reach for his sword. Delaida herself wasn’t surprised. He knew. Of course, he did. That was the business of the Stickmen. Knowing, watching, waiting in the margins.

“Don’t be afraid.” that whispering voice swept past her. Delaida became aware of how cold she felt in the grey morning.

By the time Delaida heard the words, the Stickman was stood by the edge of the clearing. How many moments had passed? Did it matter? Irvis hadn’t noticed it either. It was only when the Stickman turned to leave that the Butcher snapped out of his trance.

“Is that it?” Irvis asked. “Why are you here? How do you know about us?”

So many questions. Didn’t he know it wasn’t right to question a holy man?

“Irvis Valion.” the Stickman turned to him once more. “You are not the only thing in the dark.”

The Butcher’s eyes widened ever so little. Fear? She doubted any living thing on this earth could scare Irvis Valion, but the words of the Stickman had certainly come close. He loosened his grip on the hilt of the sword, stepping back. Irvis Valion, giving ground to another person. The surprises just kept coming.

His point made, the Stickman turned his back, walking away from the clearing.

“So what? You’re just going to disappear into the forest and say no more?”

The Stickman disappeared into the forest and said no more.

“Whose side are you on, Stickman?” Irvis called out, his voice betraying him as the anger crept into his shout, but the woods gave no reply. They didn’t see him again.

The Butcher kept to the Stickman’s warnings. They retreated further up into the hills and the forest, Irvis shying away from all life. They kept running water to their right, down below the hill, the mass of the trees all around them. Smart, she supposed. Good advice from the Stickman. He’d only have to keep an eye on his left. Not that she was particularly happy with the current state of affairs. She needed everything to go to shit if she had a chance at killing him and escaping. And her wishes were soon fulfilled.

They crept up around them, appearing from behind the trees. Irvis saw them first, stopping abruptly. She almost collided with his still form. The Butcher’s sword was in his hand at the sight of the first two in front of him. The princess looked behind her to see another three stepping out from the bushes. Bandits? No, they couldn’t be bandits. That armour was too fine for a thief. Jejeh craftsmanship. These were knights. She looked back to the Butcher, who was slowly stepping back from the trees. The knights were closing in on him, trying to restrict his space. Did they mean to suffocate him? Their best bets were to keep their distance from the Butcher, Delaida thought.

Another two appeared from their left. She saw one of them raise a crossbow as he stepped closer, while the other pulled two daggers from his belt. The princess looked back to Irvis as he raised his sword. His face was impassive, though he was surrounded.

“There you are!” the Butcher’s head snapped to the side at the source of the sound, as the last man, who stood a head taller than all the others, appeared.

A band of eight, just as the Stickman had said. Not that sticking to the hills and the forest or keeping running water on his right had done Irvis any good. A miracle. It had to be. No, not a miracle. Eight men didn’t appear from nowhere to rescue her. This was planned. They knew she was going to pass by this way.

Irvis seemed to echo Delaida’s thinking. “Someone talked.”

“What’s that out there?” one of them exclaimed in mock surprise, pointing at the Butcher and Delaida.

“A princess!” replied another. “And a dead Cheki.”

That was a mistake.

“You know they don’t like that word, Yardin.” The tall man stepped out from the trees. He wore a bright smile on his face, as if to mock Irvis.

“Who are you?” squinted, his eyes on the tall man.

“Balor, loyal knight of the Jejeh household.” he bowed his head ever so slightly towards Delaida. “Milady.”

The view was quickly blocked once again by Irvis’ sword.

Balor raised his arm, and the men began to close in on the Butcher. Balor himself stepped forward, till he stood a foot from Irvis.

Too close, Delaida thought. He was getting too close. He needed to keep that sword up. You couldn’t take any chances with the Butcher.

“Irvis Valion. Am I pronouncing that right? The Butcher. I heard you’ve killed more men than anyone else in the valley. I heard you sieged the Jejeh Naula singlehandedly just days ago.”

Irvis cleaved Balor’s head from his shoulders.

She’d been right. Damn. He might actually have a chance, the princess thought. Seven men to one, in this open space. They were taking him seriously now, no more taunts, no more talk. That said, the Butcher was restricted. He couldn’t move freely, being chained to her, and she wasn’t going anywhere. And a few feet of the chain gave really no space at all.

Delaida noticed the seven circle round them. He was surrounded. Nowhere to run or hide, especially with that crossbow within his sights. So he had to act now.

Irvis leapt forward, aiming for the shooter and Delaida felt his strength. He was moving forward like she weighed nothing at all, pulling her off her feet. It took less than a moment for him to reach the one with the crossbow. One chance, she thought. Once chance for the bolt to take his head off.

The man took his shot and missed. Lucky, thought Delaida. Lucky Irvis, that it had missed his head by an inch. Lucky Irvis, that he was still alive. The second bolt never left the crossbow. The man’s head flew instead, landing squarely at the feet of the Princess. The corpse soon followed. The Butcher was fast. So fast the expression of the face hadn’t even had time to change from that quiet intensity it had had when firing.

The others sprang into action. Two men down, six left. Her chances weren’t looking good, considering the efficiency of Irvis’ work.

She’d seen why he was called the Butcher once before, at the Jejeh Naula, but never in such close proximity. It didn’t help her liberators that she was chained to Irvis. You could see it in their strikes. They were cutting them short. The Butcher, meanwhile, was free to slice in broad strokes. The man Balor had called Yardin had his head sliced from his body along with his left arm. Another two followed him into the afterlife within the moment. She wanted to step in, but Irvis’ sword was swinging in every which way, and the last thing Delaida wanted was to get caught in it. The Butcher sent another man to solve the great mysteries of the afterlife, and, a moment later, graciously allowed his friend to join him, splitting him in two. But even Irvis was human. She heard his breaths deepen as the fight wore on. Moving around in all that armour. It was impressive that he wasn’t already dead, even if he was exhausted. Didn’t particularly matter, though. All he needed was to let his guard down once.

She saw the dagger catch Irvis from behind in the lower back. The Butcher screamed out in pain, the impact of the blow making him drop his sword. The last man wrapped his arm around Irvis’ neck, sliding the knife in again.

“—son of a bitch—”

Irvis clawed at the man’s head as the knife stabbed in again.

“—piece of shit—”

Irvis tried to latch onto something, anything, as the knife caught him once more.

“—kill you, Cheki bastard—”

The Butcher caught him with an elbow to the gut and then nose. Delaida heard the knife slide out as the man stumbled back, cursing him. Too late. He’d given Irvis an opening, and that was all he needed. The Butcher struck him in the face, and Delaida realised just how gently he’d hit her. The man’s teeth littered the ground, followed by what remained of his nose.

The princess saw her miracle vanish in the grey morning.

Irvis snatched his sword off the floor and bent down to finish the job. Delaida wrenched her mind from the screams of the downed man. Irvis had his back to her, and focused as he was, he wouldn’t feel the chain. That gave her a little time. Not a lot, but perhaps just enough. She looked at her feet, at the corpses lined up on the ground. Something. Anything.

The Butcher stood up, leaving his sword in the corpse. Breathing heavily, he turned round, just in time to see Delaida raise the crossbow. It wasn’t much of a chance, but opportunities were made to be taken. And, after all, she had nothing to lose. If miracles failed, you just had to make your own.

“Don’t try it.” Irvis was saying. “Don’t try it.”

She just couldn’t resist. “Go fuck yourself.”

The Butcher was fast, especially in all that armour. She’d seen it at the Jejeh Naula, she’d seen it against Balor. But Irvis lunging towards was a different experience. All she could do was hope that the bolt was faster.

There was no time to react. Delaida saw the bolt punch through his armour as he charged. There was no changing course now. The butcher hit her like a thunderclap, his tackle sending her off her feet. The impact knocked the air out of Delaida’s lungs. The Butcher’s tackle sent them both flying off the beaten path and down the hill. The world seemed to be flying every which way as the princess fell, the leaves and fallen sticks providing no relief at all as they crashed down the slope. She fell for an age. Or perhaps it was only a few moments. Who could tell? The princess saw the ground rise up to greet her.

Delaida gasped. She was winded, but at least nothing major was wrong. The same couldn’t be said for the Butcher. He’d gotten the worst of it. The crossbow bolt had gotten lodged in his chest, right next to the shoulder. He was still breathing, much to her displeasure, but it didn’t look like he’d be going anywhere soon.

“Shit way to die, isn’t it?”

Irvis didn’t respond. Delaida wasn’t even sure if he’d heard her.

“Butcher.” she called out again. “I’m talking to you.”

No reply.

Oh well. Delaida bent down towards him, unable to resist one last taunt. “I’ll be leaving now.”

Irvis Valion coughed.

That bastard. He couldn’t still be alive. She’d seen those bolts punch a hole through armour.

His breath shallow, Irvis looked up at her, coughing up blood every so often onto his breastplate, mixing it with the mud and leaves already on his armour.

“You see this chain, girl?” the Butcher pointed to his right wrist, his face contorted in some form of grin or grimace, or at this point possibly both. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Where’s the key?” she demanded.

Broken, hacking laughter.

“Where’s the key?” Delaida whispered.

Irvis just cackled, his voice cracking ever few moments.

“Where’s the key?” she shouted, and by this point his laughter was reaching the heavens, scattering the birds from their nests as it fled through the forest.

“This key?” her heart began to beat again as he produced it from his belt. “You see this key?”

Delaida stuck her hand out, showing him the keyhole.

“Go to hell, girl.”

With that, the Butcher popped the key into his mouth, swallowing it whole.

“No!” she screamed.

Gone. Gone like the souls of the eight men up there. She was going to die here. She was going to die in the mud, trying to drag his stinking carcass with her to freedom. Perhaps she’d die of starvation. Or fatigue. Irvis didn’t particularly care, it seemed. Slowly, painfully, like a soul that had lingered too long in the world, the Butcher pushed himself off the ground, staggering to his feet, as if crawling out of the fires of hell itself. He moved almost mindlessly, like a dead man, his muscle acting on instinct and reflex. Delaida watched him with some sort of horrified fascination. Irvis Valion, who would keep walking forward even if the whole of the world was holding him back. Irvis Valion, the man who was too filled with rage and hatred to die.

Despite herself, she had to say it. “You can’t be human.”

“That was the idea, girl.” he remarked, stumbling forward. "That's how it works. Toughen up or die young. It's your choice. Not really, though. You die young either way."

The Butcher didn’t make another three steps. Somewhere, past that indomitable wall of grit and determination, reality reached him, and his legs gave out. Irvis collapsed, face down in the ground, his arms outstretched, looking much like a dead man.

Delaida would have loved to make a joke about the irony of it all, the fact that he’d be dying before her, but the truth was she was equally dead. Too heavy to drag, especially in all that armour. They wouldn’t make it past the river, let alone to a town or monastery. The bastard, thought the princess. Eternally moving forward, endlessly fighting, without any apparent pause or break, until she actually needed him to. Goddamn it.

Irvis the Butcher. Irvis who had stormed the Jejeh Naula walls alone. Irvis who had, single-handedly, killed twelve men to protect his leader. Irvis the Butcher. Dead from a crossbow bolt fired by a princess.

Delaida clenched her hands into a fist, turning back towards the still figure and kicking it square in the ribs.

"Fuck you!" she screamed out into the forest for no-one to hear.

Irvis groaned at the kick, and Delaida spat on him in response. Was he dead or dying or just wounded? It didn't make much of a difference, Delaida supposed. She couldn't see any way out of this. The Stickman had abandoned them, and chained as she was to Irvis, she doubted she'd travel far. The princess stood up and peered into the distance. Dead. They were both dead. And it was her fault for shooting him. She was doomed either way. Delaida Alquine Jejeh looked out into the grey sky, then back down at the wounded figure of the Butcher.

What the hell did she do now?