Victor opened his eyes.

  The bloody rain had stopped pouring down, early morning, making way for the sounds of crying. Mostly from all the children, but also the eldest, high priest Olur, was kneeling at the scene of the duel. His eyes hurt from all the tears, but also the loss of sleep that night, which he got none at all. ”It is happening. God, it really is. Help us.”

  Victor tried to sit up. He felt no pain, but the muscles would not obey.

  By the three hells, this is bad.

  The healer of the village stood at his side. He scratched his head. ”By law I am obliged to help the wounded, no matter how bad things may look. However, when it came to you, I thought from the start you would be lost and damned. To my surprise, only the latter is true.”

  ”Healer. Why can’t I move? I figured I lost the damned duel.” Victor laughed nervously. Eyes were tearing up from the pain still, as they peered down his mangled body. They analyzed the wound where the horn pierced through him. In its place now was a kind of metal. It was welded and fused with his body. ”Well well, spit in my boots and call me a goblin.” He said with a quiet voice. ”What is your name? I can’t call you ”healer””.

  ”Hintaro, my Lord.”

  ”Hintaro, I thank you! For better,” Julius looked again at the damage. ”or for worse. You saved my life. I will never forget your name.”

  ”You humble me lord. I am here to serve. I do my best still to make you whole again, so that you may rise tall, Lord Julius. You bravely faced that half god, upholding the honor of our village. You have my salute, and respect.” Hintaro bent the knee.

  ”Come on, I am no longer your Lord. You all deserve better than a cripple like me.” Julius rubbed his right eye as the sand inside the lid reminded him of his opponent again. ”Hintaro. I,” he said, feeling a sad nostalgia surge through him. ”just want to be remembered as the fighter I always was, you know?” Biting the inside of his lip prevented the sobbing from swelling out of him. ”I can’t take this! I need to move around!”

  ”Lord Julius. I may have uplifting news for you. And some bad aswell.” Hintaro said, glancing over his shoulder towards the door. He focused again on Julius. ”I’ll start with the bad news myself, then let a special guest explain the good news. We’ll have you moved outside for that. See, he’s too big to fit through the doorway, my Lord.” He looked to the side, half smiling, half giggling.

  Julius felt a great pain thump him, jolting at his brain. ”On second thought, I think I need maybe just a tiny bit more rest. I-”

  ”But, my Lord, our-”

  ”Enough! With the ”Lord this” and ”Lord that” My head is caving in, just thinking!” Julius said with a suddenly threatening tone, head squirming side to side, over and over again.

  ”Yes Lord. I mean Victor. I mean Julius. Lord Julius! I’m sorry. I will notify our guest.” Hintaro said, voice shaking. ”I hope he agrees to sleeping in the barn.” He whispered, already halfway to the door.

  Victor realized, through his aching dome and butchered body, he recognised the voice. Abasi Orn… What could that shithead want from me? I should be dead because of him. Victor worked in his head around the possibilities. Why did Orn come to our small village, in the middle of nowhere? It made no sense… It made even less sense trying to figure out anything at all, when his body was going through this hell.

  He knew he would lose. No one beats a minotaur in a duel. But he thought he would die – not turn into such a horrid immobile lump.

  Who knew what the minotaur wanted from him? Why, indeed, talk to a man you aimed to kill the day before? No one in the village had a single clue as to why a beast of godlike power would come and challenge the local champion duelist. Was he bored? Surely Orn had an agenda. But what could it be? Damned animal.

  Victor fell asleep to the throbbing of his head, which actually put the pain in his shoulder and chest to shame.

  *

  The day after started out much the same as it ended. In agony. Not another soul in the room, there was only pain – reminding him it was still haunting his whole world.

  ”Ngaah! Could someone please come chop my quaking head off!?” He spat out the words in total frustration. ”I’d do it myself if not for the fact I am still paralyzed, neck down.” The negative thoughts just piled up. I wonder if I could ask for some poison for breakfast, Julius thought, amused by his own cynicism. He struggled a smile, which rurned to a frown, filled with regret.

  His fever grew yet again, and he fell into a long dream. The night came, but not his doctor.

  *

  A noise echoed in the corridor. His eyes opened, mind followed suit after a moment. What is happening down there? He thought, as he heard screaming and metal clanking and glass shattering. I swear, god is doing this to me on purpose. Julius tried to put his mind to sleep again, head still throbbing painful as ever, as the noise paused.

  Another glass shattered! ”What in the name of the almighty is… gah!” He tried to make himself heard, but failed. Though he managed to make his head hurt even more, which was a small miracle in itself. Victor just wanted to scream at this point, but that was – of course – impossible. A deeply rooted rage just boiled underneath his skin. Damn! I’ve been such a fool, all my shitting life! He sighed deeply, feeling hopeless. My pride… It got me nowhere. Fucking nowhere, he thought, looking at his mangled torso and groaned.

  Down the corridor screaming seemed to increase in volume. Who else was ravaged by the minotaur? Victor rolled his eyes, twice. He sighed. It felt ok, in that moment. He tried to breathe deeper.

  ”Alright Victor. Lord Stupid Victor of the Vomit Kingdom, Julius the Shitstormer. It’s about time we get off the leprosy-horse,” he told himself, as something seemed to just click amidst the self pity. ”My stupid hurting brain will have to get used to hurting real quick, because I am sick of being this negative pile of minced mino-turds.”

  For a quick second focus shifted to the hallway of echoes, teeth pressed together. ”If I ever get better, I will kill whoever is in that damn room. I don’t care if it’s the damned king. I’ll laugh doing it,” he hissed.

  Bang!

  The front door? Careful steps.

  Bang!

  Another set of feet sounded off. Both pairs were now running.

  ”In there!” A woman’s voice.

  Her companion entered one of the rooms. He grunted as he did, and the screaming stopped.

  ”You good in there?!” she said.

  ”Don’t worry.” The man’s raspy voice replied. ”I didn’t expect the floor to be full of glass, is all.”

  Victor did not recognize these folks, or their accent, as members of the small hamlet.

  ”You’re not kidding, are you?” said the woman. ”Shit, you’re bleeding right through your shoe!”

  Victor felt chills in his neck, but in a good way. Did God stop playing games to grant him passage to hell? What a relief! Not a moment too soon either. His right cheek plastered on a smile. He had just come to terms with his… situation. This, however, was even better. Unable to kill himself, this had to do. His head suffered as he chuckled at his chain of thoughts.

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  The woman reached the door of his room first. Then passed it.

  ”Blasted amateur!” Victor hoarked in pain at the assailant. He spat out a blob of puss and blood. His position in the sick-bed was not ideal for spitting, so it landed on his chest.

  Didn’t think my wound could look worse, but here we are, he thought.

  He looked over at the door to his room again, counting the steps approaching.

  ”Wait! Ana!” the man shouted, far behind his partner. He reached the door to Victor’s room.

  Victor saw a masked head turning, through the barred window. The man stood silent for a while, except for his exhausted panting.

  Poor little bandit. ”Hey! You there!” Victor set off explosions in his head, trying his best to be heard.

  The man continued limping along the hallway.

  Bastard! Amateurs, the both of you!

  A single tear filled each eye, mind spiraling in the wrong direction yet again.

  ”Did you hear something?!”

  ”What?!” She called back? ”Would you hurry along?! We don’t have time for this!”

  The man with the mask did not seem to listen, and Victor saw his door swing open wide, to his utter surprise. ”Well well well, what a storm of emotions today has been,” he whispered. Finally. Finally what exactly? Who cared? He had been alone all day, and incapacitated at that. Finally something happened, and he did not care what.

  ”He’s here!” The masked man bellowed desperately, looking back. An awkward silence fell into the infirmary.

  ”Sucks to be you too, eh?” Victor could almost only mouth the words, to avoid harder hits from the sledge in his head. It hit harder, as he felt a surge of adrenaline – which was completely useless in his position.

  ”What?!” A distant answer from the woman.

  ”Oh my. Your lack of initiative disappoint me, boy.” Said Julius. The boy looked to be around the same young age as himself. ”I remember in my day when-”

  Things bonked, twanged and were hewed over. Glass shattered, now in his own room. Clearly the masked man is not deaf, as he just had a conversation with his companion, only a moment ago. Perhaps he just lacks in manners?

  In the wounded duelists own, shut in, fantasy world, he had made himself heard - and quite clearly so. But facts were facts, and they told a tale of a champion now crippled, paralyzed. That much he knew. So why did it feel like pieces were missing from the puzzle?

  The masked man ignored all of Victor’s conversation attempts.

  That was when he found the missing pieces. An empty feeling of clarity.

  I… I can’t… speak… at all. I just thought I did. But Hintaro… Oh no.

  Victor knew there was only two possible scenarios at play.

  1: Hintaro was a figment of his imagination. A coping mechanism his brain cooked up, to push back all the detrimental thoughts, deep in his mind.

  2: Hintaro was actually real – but he deliberately made Victor’s condition worse, taking his voice from him.

  God. Let me keep my eyes. They’re all I have.

  He remembered the flem of spit. It took a moment, gathering courage to look down at it.

  There was nothing there. Only the sight of a battlescarred body few men lived to endure.

  The masked man approached, head on. He stopped and an eerie calm filled the room. Glass crunched under his shoes as the mask was removed. He revealed his true identity. If ”He” was still an accurate description. The skin shifted, dripped off the bandit, like it was melting from some source of warmth. The face was now wet, but not like sweat at all. The skin itself seemed to be its own form of liquid.

  The liquid skin that hit the stone floor in a spattery sound, for the life of his sanity, Victor could not comprehend. Every drop - it turned to blood, as it hit the stone. For what met his vision, from the sick-bed, was an inverted rain. Every drop - several drops would form. A rain of blood had erupted from below. The masked man was no longer a man, but a thing. A dying nightmare. The skin of this thing shifted around the whole body and streamed to the head - if it could still be called a head. The jaw had completely fallen and Victor heard a shattering sound. Then skittering on the floor. He could not see it, but was afraid of what seemed to creep, back and forth, under the bed. Victor started screaming, in his crippled silence.

  The Skycleaver had severed bodies in half before, defending Red Harp, but this was a scene of a buried hellscape. An unspoken curse, imploding his mind. His eyes twitched at the sight. He tried to close them. A jolting pain hacked at his skull from the inside. No jokes this time. He wanted to die. Then the smell hit. Tried to strangle his nose. A feeling of ants, crawling inside. They tugged at his nose hairs.

  ”Don’t look away.” A hissing voice, so faint that he wondered if it was real. ”Arhgnodaash. Ashdooraahm,” the voice continued.

  Rapidly, the rest of the creature’s skin rushed to the head and hailed down. Then it rushed up as blood. It took the shape of a big halo, shifting around in the air. The monstrosity stood up straight, left arm reaching out, moving its fingers gently.

  Victor had been made a lesser man, incapable of logical thinking. Only his eyes worked, and they could not even close. Horror filled his entire world. He forgot about Tanya, of Olur and their plan. A thought lingered on The Book of Darkness. It made him want to shake his head from the body. To run until bone scraped the ground.

  His eyes stared in torture at the broken thing before him. The halo of blood. The thing seemed to cast a spell with its fingers.

  One would expect muscles, bones, anything familiar. The meaty substance that now showed itself moved around. Like an uneven jigsaw puzzle. It all stopped, then moved again, inside the shape of a man that was falling apart. Next came the right arm. It thudded weighty onto the cold floor. Victor could not see, but by the sounds it made, all creepy and sticky and damp, the arm seemed to wriggle around in pain. The creature looked down at it, with its gaping hole for a mouth, then looked at the stump, up by the shoulder. All the while its left arm was completely fixated at the ritualistic movement of its fingers.

  The halo of blood began to shake, developed jagged edges.

  He tried to figure out why things were the way he saw them. He let the thought go. The pain, mental and physical, was too great.

  Bulging, bloodshot eyes, fell from its face! Victor had to gasp for air. They landed with a squelch. Sounded like they jittered away, and he heard tiny screams fading. The head came off next! Cracked like a half boiled egg. He heard a substance he assumed was its brains, crawl out of the skull, making uncanny sounds. He had to scream. Had to. But couldn’t.

  ”Arghoordorath. Grophkarr. Kozkzneirhzul.” The voice came from the floor.

  The rest of the indescribable shape now started to move, like it became unstable. On wobbly legs, it took a step forward, trying to stay upright. The halo of blood seemed to stabilise. The creature toppled over, seemed to trip on its own head with one foot. The other appeared to slip on the substance coming out of it. Upper body folded onto itself. Victor winced, inwardly. It made him sick to the core. The halo of blood descended, beyond his field of view.

  My head, was his only thought that grounded itself in reality, as it pulsated – like a rope, tugged by a rabid dog.

  He closed his eyes. Surprised at having this ability back, deep within himself he searched for his past, some… happy memory - and forced himself to think of orchids. Deep purple ones with white stripes down the stem. His daughter’s favourite. She would boast every other year, showing off a bigger bouqet at their season of blossom. Their rich honey-filled smell made her think of summer.

  Positive resolve surged through him. A vivid picture was painted of his daughter in his mind. How he conjoured this image was a riddle, but he cared not for the answer. A tiny tear built up in the corner of his eye. How quickly a man can convince himself he is dreaming, to enter the real world again.

  Bang!

  Eyelids swung open. Pupils twitched right. Twitched left. Eyes were blinking fast, as if defending themselves, the only way they knew how. The sound came from the room. Must have been behind him. The fear of the unknown scratched the back of his retinas. An almighty knot had been building up in his tired-of-it-all stomach. Or was it his shoulder? Didn’t matter, when everything hurt like hell.

  Crack!

  The wall. A crumble. Sounded like it was blasted open. The noise resonated like grinding metals in his ears. A white cloud came billowing from behind, the smell not far behind. Nothing to write home about. Nothing that helped the knot of anxiety either. It smelled of wet dirt and fish. Oh, my life, he thought, wishing he could squeeze his nose shut. I hate fish. Almost as much as I hate being unable to kill myself.

  He had lost count, some time ago now, of the number of times he had thought; ”Could this get any worse?”

  Well now I know better. He breathed in and out several times. Not a sound. It made him more scared, if anything. He had grown used to some of the most horrifying pictures a man’s mind could save, way back in the skull, where the memories never, ever left.

  Crash!

  An almighty crumbling shocked the stillness of the room. Heavy steps crossed the gaping hole that let in the sparse sunrays of the outside world. The backdraft breezed his face with cool air.

  Aah! This reminds me. I’m not actually dead yet! A cause for celebration? Well, one must always look on the –

  A tremendous weight slammed the bed! Excitement filled his whole being. Eyes plunged into a blurry speed. This was it. The bed had cracked completely near his head. Feet shot up. And then, he was airborne.

  Of all the holy lands, Victor was speechless – well yes, literally. But had his mouth worked properly, the jaw would have fallen with no words found. He was in the air still! Looking down he saw a massive human arm, palm reaching for his skull.

  Damn it! Thought the flying cripple. Eyes were squinting hard, as he hopelessly tried to peek through the big fingers.

  A ruckus outside, a woman let loose one glass-shattering screach of fear. Another – then silence.

  Victor was levitating still. No doubt this giant man is trying to save me. Though he seems partly immobilized himse –

  The magic wielder closed his palm, all fingers touching. A slow and precise movement rotated the cripple, landing him gently onto the detached mattress on the floor. White smoke billowed, dispersing through the door. The man heaved deep, wiped the sweat off his forehead and left through the hole in the wall. With a net, he flung a huge, green, head over his shoulders.

  From the floor, Julius could see the silhouette of the man. He seemed to cover that hole, almost entirely. Vision blurred severely now. All this movement, although he could not feel it directly, took a toll on his body.

  What now, if not… death? It was the last he could think before his mind gave up and entered quiet darkness. So still. So vast. Peaceful.