Deus Necros

“Take your hand off what is mine. Unless, of course, you prefer the convenience of wearing all your rings on a single hand.” The words of the priestess were sharp and direct. They cut through the heat and the market noise the way a needle parts skin, leaving the silence behind them neat and trembling.

“C’mon, you know that I can’t do that. You’re a priestess of the moon, you’re not allowed slaves. So just sell him to me, he has good hygiene well kept and good looks…” The merchant’s breath smelled of sweet wine and roasted spice. He did not look at Ludwig when he spoke. His eyes clung to the priestess as if her consent were a purse already half opened.

The priestess did not even say another word as she looked at Ludwig and simply nodded.

It did not take more than a second. The fingers relaxed, or more like were forced to relax. Steel whispered and was gone. Ludwig’s sword had already left the storage ring, cut upward and was drawn back. The blade’s wake stirred the fringe of a nearby rug and sent a few grains of sand skittering like startled lice. The grip on his sleeve vanished.

Even Ludwig himself was impressed with his new speed, but he did not let it show on his half masked face. The mask’s cupped palms hid the flicker of his eyes. The hand that had presumed ownership dropped in Ludwig’s hand without drama, as if it remembered too late that it belonged to something mortal.

The priestess then made a gesture with her hand, as if asking for something. All that happened while the man had yet to realize that his entire arm was gone. His mouth worked once in polite confusion, the kind a man wears when a joke is told in a language he half understands. Blood had not yet leapt. It held its breath.

Only when Ludwig grabbed the arm and handed it to the mounted priestess did he finally recognize the familiar object. A hand that was adorned in jewelry, for a second greed almost got to him as he wanted to obtain that golden jewelry only for him to realize that it was far too familiar, then understand that it was none other than his left arm. The rings glittered with the idiot calm of coins tipped on a tavern table. The bangles chimed against one another in a sound that would be pleasant if it did not belong to meat.

The wails followed immediately, and with them many guards came rushing down the street to see what happened. The cry climbed and broke into sobs. Someone knocked over a jug of brine and the smell of vinegar rode the heat. A boy dropped a skewer and did not remember to pick it up. The market, which had been a thousand small trades, became one large attention.

The people were shocked to see one of the city’s top merchants wailing and snot filled, in pain and agony as he tried to grab the stub of his missing arm from fully bleeding him out. He pressed at it with his right palm and slid on his own blood. Two of his acquaintances pretended they did not know him. A third began to calculate the price of the rings with his eyes and then corrected his expression when he felt the priestess’s gaze pass across him.

And once the guards came, “CATCH THIS WENCH AND HER PLAYTHING!” the merchant howled. Spit flew and stuck to his beard. He pointed with the empty of himself as if he still believed the hand would obey and be an arrow again.

The guards, the younger ones pointed their weapons without even asking questions at the priestess, while the older ones immediately went to grab their weapons and push them down. Training and long memory moved faster than fear. The older men realized that no matter how much the merchant had bribed the younger guards, pointing one’s weapon at royalty is nothing short than asking to be hung and crucified at the same time under the sun. The older sergeant’s palm cracked against a junior’s wrist, knocking the spear tip into the sand. He shoved another by the collar and spoke a name that reminded the youth who he served.

“Please your holiness!” one of the older guards said as he drove one of the younger one’s heads into the sand, “He’s but a young fool that didn’t recognize you.” His forehead shone with sweat and humility. He did not look up when he spoke. He kept a boot on the back of the prone youth so the boy would not embarrass himself further with movement.

“So you’re saying that if it was someone else who got unjustly treated by this merchant you would have taken them to jail?” Her voice did not rise. It flattened.

“N-no not at all your holiness it is but the rashness of youth.” The guard swallowed and the sound was loud in his own ears. The others stared fixedly at a point on the ground between their sandals.

“That rashness needs to be handled, flog all those that pointed their weapons at me ten times so they don’t do it again. And for everyone here present, you’re all subjects of his majesty, act within your own limitations. You’re taking bribes while you’re already being paid for your work isn’t something that should be tolerated. I shall have a few of my father’s men come and inspect the mess you created here.” She turned to the people that were watching, “You all have rights and are subjects of the throne, if you were to see injustice, then you must report it. That is your obligation to the throne and the kingdom.” The words slid into the market and stayed, like a posted notice that would not be torn down by morning.

She turned to the merchant, “As for this arm, I shall keep it, a reminder that not even a hand adorned in gold can touch what isn’t theirs to touch.” She said as she placed the hand next to her, letting the merchant wail in agony as a few healers tried to desperately stop his bleeding. One muttered a prayer to the Sun and shook powdered bark over the stump. Another packed cloth and pressed until the body decided not to pour itself out. The merchant’s eyes rolled white and then steadied. Pride tried to climb back onto his face and slid off.

The grinding of his teeth was all too clear, as Ludwig was able to see it. It rasped against the inside of the jaw like a file worrying a coin. Seems like the type that won’t let his pride be hurt. Little that he knew that pride means nothing in front of the sharpness of a blade. Pride bleeds the same color and makes the same mess.

Ludwig moved forward and the salamander followed, the people all made way to Ludwig, no one seemed to want to mess with the priestess’s slave, a slave so precious that she went against the strongest merchant in the city for him.

Whispers braided themselves behind their steps. The word chaste tangled with the word slave and made a knot in many mouths. The lantern at Ludwig’s side ticked once, pleased with the illusion that still held.