Birth and Death
As chief notary Peregiel hands the ceremonial pickaxe to the ferrale Isenfals, the old man's eyes are so clouded that he initially grabs the tool by the wrong end. Following some confusion, the priest eventually does get the handle in his hand. Such a mistake may be considered minor, but since wood and iron are sacred among the attendants, any disruption of the ritual is considered soiled orthopraxy. Still, no one pretends to notice in order to avoid a forced repetition of the procedure. Only the chief notary pales, since the responsibility is his. The consequences also will be.
The high priest raises the tool in both hands. "Mondewald Berden - now your childhood dies!" he shouts and on the first attempt actually manages to hit the wooden doll on the table in front of him with the sharp iron beak. The force of the blow sends waves of pain through his creaking joints, for a moment twisting the the old man’s face. He massages his wrist while the notary Peregiel pries the iron loose and with excessive zeal returns it to the old man's trembling hand.
"Mondewald Berden - now your youth dies!" chants the ferrale, this time putting less force into the blow. The pickaxe does make a mark, but this time without getting stuck in the doll. The iron falls to the side, onto the table. Sighs are heard, bordering on groans. If the tool had ended up on the floor, everyone would have been forced out of the room to start the ritual over.
"Mondewald Berden of Terovia! Stand up to your adulthood!" Isenfals shouts.
With the third blow the pickaxe cuts perfectly into the heart area of the wooden figure where its tip remains seated. Beyond the table, a dark-haired, large man rises from his knees with the call. He is as naked as when he was born the first time, his oiled and tattooed body shining, eyes showing no emotion. The man's calm is not broken for a moment when the ferrale carves him diagonally across the chest so that blood flows, first with sharp steel and then with a pointed wooden stake so that the marks form a cross over the heart.
"I baptize you, Mondewald Berden of Terovia, to completion; with iron from the god Rust; with wood from the goddess Heme; with fire from their fire!" A glowing coal is held sizzling against the man's chest. He still does not move or flinch.
The ferrale turns back to his assistant. Red velvet is unwrapped from an oblong bundle, uncovering a long sword, as old as it is princely. The chief notary places it carefully on the old man's outstretched hands. “Mondewald Berden of Terovia, the council of the priests of Rust grants you as a gift this sword, once wielded by Rintra the Dehander, a sign of the church’s heartfelt gratitude for your past deeds and faith. May the sword of the avenger spur you on to even greater deeds to come, giving joy to the iron god, giving warning to the apostates!”
The naked man accepts the weapon, about which many legends have been woven – none of them peaceful. He pulls the blade a hand’s breadth from its scabbard, finding it gleamingly sharp. In order to better study the runes of the steel, he wets his finger with blood from the ritual wounds and draws it along the side of the blade where characters appear in red sunken relief.
The first spectator to eagerly rush forward wears the most expensive clothes of all those present. “My dear boy! My count! Let me be the first to congratulate you! Let me welcome our newest member to the high council!” The man is not concerned that his jeweled tunic is stained with blood and oil from the newborn body. He owns many more, and he cordially embraces the muscular one, but gently since the sword is between them.
“After all these years, Terovia finally has its rightful master!” the man continues. “I am eager to be informed of your plans for the estates. My last trustees have all been incompetent!”
“You are too kind, Your Grace,” replies the naked one who does not bother to dress despite the fact that two women are present among the witnesses. Instead, he meets the gaze of the eldest.
“Duchess Malva of Gardenville – mother – you honor me by witnessing my inauguration as count! Your participation is an appreciated favor.”
“Formalities govern my presence rather than care,” the woman replies. “Parts of my dowry are still locked up here in Berdenvall. The legal interpreters assure me that the funds will be released more smoothly after I served as a witness to your appointment.” In the mother’s gaze lies her ill-concealed contempt for what her son has become: a simple soldier and hunter of infidels. Never mind that most of the blame lies with Duke Wolfrad Kantamar of Greda, who, against her expressed wishes and advice, has been her son’s guardian throughout his youth. The legacy from her former husband nevertheless shines through the boy’s countenance with disgusting clarity. All affinity and warmth between them has long since vanished.
The other woman in the party, the limbella Mirkenna, is dressed in natural colors. She feels embarrassed from the fumbled ceremony and comes forward expressing greetings of well-being from the priesthood of the goddess. Not without pride, she points out that the hilt of the Dehander sword has been gifted with new wood from the sacred alders of Heme for the handover. The naked, new count studies the hilt and thanks her with a short bow, seemingly still untroubled by his unclothed state.
“I see that neither Grudenstaal nor any representative of the Bringer family are here?”
The chief notary finds himself called to answer, but is silenced by a gesture from the ferrale Isenfals.
“Your colleague, Captain Grudenstaal, was called on an urgent mission at short notice, but he leaves sincere wishes for your rebirth and well-being. He hopes to enjoy your company in the field even now that you have become a high nobleman,” says the old man, adding a smile.“I think Grudenstaal used the word 'tight assed', which the gods naturally forbid me to repeat. As for the princely family, Barganon Bringer informs that he and his consort certainly intend to attend your official appointment at the next new moon.”
Since the newborn count does not answer, the priest continues. “We agreed to keep your initiation within a very limited circle of witnesses in order to keep your position as inquisitor, judge and pathfinder within the Ironbrow order secret. I note with satisfaction that, in order to preserve discretion, you have sent your servants away from the estate for this holy evening.”
“They were not difficult to persuade,” replies Mondewald Berden of Terovia.
The pceremony takes place in the prayer room, the heart of his newly assigned estate of Berdenvall. Along one wall, rusty chains dangle from the ceiling, in honor of the iron god Rust. The links jingle faintly, set in motion by the floor draft. In addition to the naked count, there are six people in the room: the ferrale Isenfals of the Rust Church, accompanied by his lictor from the Order of the Silent; the chief notary Peregiel; Mondewald’s mother, Duchess Malva of Gardenville; his former guardian Duke Wolfrad Kantamar of Greda and the limbella Mirkenna from the holy sisters of Heme. Together they form a very honorable collection of witnesses, albeit limited in number.
“Master Peregiel, hand me the count's cloak!” urges Isenfals, but Mondewald Berden stops the notary.
“We are all born naked and we are all examined naked before the Nightwanderer after we have left this life,” he says. “Concealment suits neither bodies nor truths. Let me therefore remain naked and honest for a while longer.”
A certain discomfort permeates the assembly as whispers indicate discontent. The day may belong to the new count, but who is he to dictate the ceremony before dukes and high priests? It is rumored among the initiated that he interrogates heretics completely naked. Who knows what perversions he forces the condemned to undergo? The ferrale Isenfals finds himself in a position to take command of the situation. He possesses a powerful voice that has not completely lost its authority with age.
“The custom declares that every nobleman appointed to the high council is invited to take a cognomen. What name do you choose, Mondewald Berden of Terovia?”
The naked count takes a few deep breaths as he considers the question.
“From what I understand, a cognomen should attach the bearer to tradition and duty, as well as to his background, disposition and calling. You have already chosen a name for me on all these grounds. I will henceforth call myself Rintra the Dehander – in reverence of the avenger who stepped out of our history with his sword!”
Someone manages to nod in approval. Next the new count draws the Dehander sword and with a quick blow separates the lictor’s head from his body. This guard was the only one besides Mondewald Berden himself who had carried a weapon in the room. Blood fountains from the bodyguard’s twin severed jugular arteries. It splashes over the limbella Mirkenna as his body falls over the cracked wooden doll on the table and then onto the floor. Fittingly, the woman worships the blood goddess Heme.
No one finds words to utter.
“Sit down on the floor!” the killer orders and they obey without thinking, sinking into the pools of warm blood that mixes with someone’s equally warm piss, as the tip of the legendary weapon sweeps in an arc in front of them. The old ferrale slips as his knees buckle.
“My boy, my poor boy…”, the Duke of Greda whispers, but that boy was killed with the wooden doll just minutes earlier.
“You pig! You traitor!” hisses the mother.
The naked man ignores then both.
“As the ferrale pointed out, I am an inquisitor, judge and pathfinder within the Order of the Ironbrows. In these capacities, I intend to administer justice, here and now.”
The high-born on the floor still have trouble concentrating on anything at all, so the count continues.
“For the past two weeks, I have been given access to my father’s estate of Berdenvall, where as you well know we find ourselves,” he says. “Moving through the rooms has awakened memories from my childhood. My father, Mondefort Baerd of Terova, once showed me his secret study. I recently rediscovered the door after searching a couple of days and was also able to remember how it was opened. In that hidden chamber I found my father’s work notes. As you know, he studied the history of the Rust church.”
“He was a heretic!” snarls the ferrale Isenfals. “Your father blasphemed in his delusions and was justly sentenced to exile by divine law!”
“And you were the ones who judged him!” the Count replies. “All of you in this room judged him.” “Didn’t you yourself testify against him yourself during the trial?” Isenfels responds with contempt.
“I was a child!” roars the naked one. “I was a child deceived without even realizing it! You, limbella Mirkenna became my secret friend in the park, disguised as a raven sister so that I would later testify how infidels secretly visited my father’s estate.”
The man regains his calm.
“I have to live with my guilt,” he says. “You, however, will die with yours. Each one of you may, if you so wish, here and now present your case, but do not expect more mercy than you showed my father. And when I have found you all guilty, I still intend to spare one of you as a witness. That favor is all you can hope for. So give me the truth as payment for being the only one!”
“You bastard! Do you think I will crawl in front of my own offspring?” his mother replies. “I dare you to raise your sword against the one who brought you into this world. Sully your soul for the rest of your life and beyond death! Let me show you how noble blood flows in the face of base brutality!”
“Proud words from the one who betrayed my father more than others, lady Malva! Even though you neither passed nor carried out the sentence, you betrayed the one you swore to honor and protect until death. You distanced yourself to save your own position. Was your gain worth the sacrifice of husband and child? Not even an animal would stoop so low.”
The woman stares, but chooses to remain silent.
“And you, Mr. Wolfrad, stepped into my withered life as a poor substitute for the very father you betrayed. Did you aim to wash away your shame with your generosity, only to find that the acid of guilt had etched itself right into to your bones? Do you still sleep poorly at night? If so, be calm, because poor sleep will not bother you anymore. My father entrusted you with his learned findings and you carried them to the council, where everything was mapped and labeled as evidence, until the file had enough weight to warrant a conviction of banishment.”
His skin red as in a venomous lizard, the naked man places the point of his sword against the old ferrale’s shoulder where the old man lies covered in mud on the bare floorboards. The room’s precious carpets have earlier the same day been rolled up and carried away by servants.
“You, lord Isenfals, orchestrated the conspiracy, while your chief notary Peregiel offered to carry out my father’s banishment as he deemed it would help his career. And why was this tragic farce carried out at all?” he continues to them all. “Because my father, Mondefort Baerd of Terova, found evidence in the libraries that the goddess Heme is in fact identical to the Raven Goddess, the hunted and despised one whose followers have long been declared outlaws.”
“That’s a lie! Heme is the wood that was given to man in order to forge tools with iron!” cries the limbella Mirkenna in a dogmatic reflex.
“No, my lady,” the count answers her. “Things are not as you want them to be, just because you refuse to see the truth! When the Rust church many centuries before our time threw the Raven Sisters down the chasm into Ravland, many begged for mercy. Some, like my mother, were of such noble family that they were given the choice of repentance. In order to align themselves with the lords of the land, they became the worst enemies of their former sisters. The church, in turn, found them useful for smoking out the hiding places of the Raven worshippers. Of course, they had to deny the Raven god and in exchange were given their own goddess, much like when a libertine dresses his female servants in white to give them a semblance of decency.
And so Heme arose. My father saw nothing strange in the matter, but simply pointed out a well-documented historical fact. He did not understand how badly that truth stung. So he had to be cleared out of the way, and this is why we stand here today, like distorted images of Heme with blood up to our knees. Such are our circumstances.”
The naked man falls silent and seems to fall into thought. He leans heavily on the Dehander sword, closes his eyes for a moment, as if he is worshipping some god, but hardly the ordained couple of Rust and Heme.
“You made me hate my own father. You said he summoned demons, that he drank the blood of children in their company.”
Tears run through his fingers even though he furiously tries to rub them back into the eyes.
“None of this need have happened, my child!” growls Wolfrad Kantamar. “We all acted for the good of the country!”
“Save your prayers, Duke,” ferrald Isenfald hisses, wiping blood from the fingers on his cloak.
“You have pampered this wretch enough, raising him to be an animal, a beast guided by his impulses and not by responsibility. The title only clothes the man who honors the title.”
The old man’s words jolt the naked man from his thoughts.
“You talk about honor, sire? How do you find it honorable to sacrifice a loyal innocent because he stumbled upon the truth?”
“Your father was as stubborn as he was naive!” the ferrale continues from the floor. “Your father, Mondefort of Terova, refused to understand how reality cannot tolerate certain truths. He did not listen when Duke Wolfrad tried to reason with him. Do you think that the conceited ideas of a single man are more important than the prosperity of our church? On the contrary, all loyal servants must sacrifice their own preferences to prove themselves worthy of the church’s trust. Weakness is the crime – not the necessary cruelties a loyal servant steels himself to commit. Morality must be a tool of the church, never a shackle. The worthy one bears his personal discomfort and shame with pride, confident that he has passed the test and won the battle against his weakness for a higher purpose.” The naked count blinks and turns his head, staring as if he was waking from a dream and only now becoming aware of the blood and of the people in the chamber.
“Do you understand now, dear Berden?” Mr. Wolfrad tries, his voice gentle as if to a child. “Our church, yes our country needs men who can see the higher purpose beyond their own feelings, capable men like you and Grudenstaal! You happened to kill the ferral’s lictor, yes, but just as you forget the necessary wrongs against your father, we want to forget your unseemly outburst of anger. Perhaps the lictor was a spy sent by the raven worshippers? Yes? He tried to kill us all, but you saved us with your sword! People will like that. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” the count replies, slowly as a sleepwalker.
“So what happens now?” asks the limbella Mirkenna.
“Now you die!” the naked man replies, reforcing his grip on the sword.
“I am Rintra the Dehander. I am no longer your child.” He steps among them, his sword sweeping left and right, silencing their voices amidst screams. Then he cuts off their right hands and collects the limbs in a leather sack prepared with coarse salt after they have bled out.
“They will hunt you!” says his mother, the duchess Malva of Gardenville, as her son ties the sack. She is the only one in the room besides the Dehander who is still alive, pale but composed.
“I hope they don’t kill you right away. It would please me to see you suffer.”
“The hunters will have to follow me to Ravenland,” the man replies, finally getting dressed.
“I’m crossing the Iron Lock to find my father.”
“Why did you spare me?” she asks as he leaves.
“Someone has to tell, and neither of us are yet finished with you,” the son replies.
