Crownless Consort-Chapter 40 - : Gardner of the Red

Ashburn glanced back towards the blood-stained rock, his grasp around the greathammer tightening. He heard screams ring through the field, drawing his attention.

The bulky Reaper that he had killed previously had already begun to sprout new sinew around the shattered bone, half a skull visible as he tore his remnant flesh away from the rock it had bound itself to. There was a visible churning of blood and tearing of skin as he did so, but he didn't wince as if it hurt, it almost seemed as if he was enthralled by the sensation.

Ashburn was the first to realise it firsthand.

These Reapers simply wouldn't die.

Not without the Visionary's plan.

"To me!"

His elongated shout rippled through the war-torn atmosphere, eclipsing the screams of anguish and the cries of fury that resembled the patronage of war. Even on a smaller scale, this was only a simple battle, and Ashburn intended to play his role in it perfectly.

Hearing his commands, the Priests in yellow rushed to his side, surrounding him as he raised his greathammer high above his head.

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He swung it into a group of red-cloaked Reapers, causing their body parts to crumple inward, severing heads through sheer force and eschewing flesh from bone. His armour no longer seemed black in appearance, he more resembled the Reapers- crimson, covered.

"Kill them! Kill them all!" His gruff, commanding tone washed over the Priests, enthralling their movements as they struck without hesitation, their blades guided by Promised Fate. They were always true, and they struck with ease. While the Priests suffered minor injuries, some falling to the blades of the Reapers, moreso did the Reapers fall to the ground.

Of course, it was inevitable that they rose again. That was what they had anticipated. But Ashburn was going to follow the Visionary's plan at all costs. He wasn't just trusting in Eshent, he was trusting their Lord.

The Rotting Worms piloted by Eshent and Eisel rushed overhead, crashing fiercely into the crowd of crimson, blood staining the grass below.

On the distant hill, the gloam-eyed Reaper who led the red-cloaked killers watched in silence. He contemplated greatly, as if he were watching it like it were a play, although he knew it to be quite real.

That God of Yellow is influencing every aspect of this battle, as the Lord forewarned... but can they win a battle of attrition? What method will they try and use to undermine our Lord's bestowment?

He rubbed the midnight-black beard that had formed atop his chin after his renewal, sighing.

Will I come to a conclusion after experiencing the battle myself?

"I'm going." The figure spoke calmly, not turning to the other figures who stood beside him. "I'm going to fight, myself."

"Gardner, your sword."

"Marres?" The figure, Gardner, turned towards the voice, raising an eyebrow. This was his right-hand man. "You still have it?"

"I've had it in me since I lost the bet..."

Gardner sneered, letting out an impulsive chuckle. "Well, fighting would be pretty hard without my sword... maybe I can borrow the young Master's."

Gardner glanced at Marres before sighing. "Alright, I give up. Give it to me."

Marres approached Gardner, but rather than reach into his jacket or pocket, he simply opened his mouth as wide as he could, almost inhumanly wide. Gardner groaned as he grasped at the side of Marres's head, shoving his hand down Marres's throat without warning. The man twitched and tried to pull away from Gardner, but he persisted in his grasp, and began to fish around in Marres's stomach.

"Ah, I found it..." The familiar blade cut into Gardner's hand, and he grasped at it, quickly pulling it out of Marres's mouth, which he was sure cut up his throat to an extent. But it was nothing they hadn't dealt with before. After all, he had lost the bet. This much was expected.

Gardner grimaced in a disgusted manner as he shook Marres's stomach contents off of his hand, the acid eating away at his flesh, but he paid it no mind.

"Finally, I can eat solid foods again..." Marres groaned and rasped, clutching at his chin as he gagged.

Having spent so much time in Shadowhaunt, the Reapers had turned to making their own fun. Using their Lord's gift in odd ways was their favourite pastime.

What emerged in Gardner's hands was what resembled a cleaver. Much of its rust had been cleared away, the acid of Marres's stomach burning it away, but it was still chipped in many places. In actuality, this was Gardner's sword, and it had simply been worn away to the point that it resembled nothing more than a poorly-treated butcher's knife.

Too much time in Shadowhaunt had passed. It was the natural order of things, that all things must decay.

Marres glanced up at Gardner, sighing. "They're doing fine, will you really go yourself?"

Gardner chuckled.

"I am blood and flesh, but nothing of me is as it was. I have been cut, stabbed, torn apart, and devoured. What was once me is long gone, and I am new. There is not a part of me left that was touched by my mother, loved by my wife, cradled by my children. I am absent of myself, Marres." Gardner ruminated as he dragged his hand along the blade, coating its edge in the blood that spilled from the fresh wound. "Do you... think we were right, to accept our Prince's request?"

His right-hand man, Marres, let out a sigh.

"That God of Yellow, he already has a place in the homes of our compatriots. Maybe not idolised, but they don't hate him as they do others... even those killers enshrouded in the deepest sands don't act to stifle his worship. His Messiah acts freely. And what can our Prince do, go against the freedom to live that he built his entirety upon?"

"We're only here to guard the young Master, Marres. We never needed to go on the offensive, only kill the beasts surrounding the city. We were at a standstill with the Priests, and now we have to fight. Do you think it's a good use of our Lord's time to supervise an unnecessary battle? Do you imagine that because we knew him when he was a mortal man, he is any less a Deity? There is no more heart in Lord Tristinis, Marres. His blood is silver, his essence is incomprehensible. We cannot trouble him excessively."

"His son is here, isn't that enough to trouble himself over?"

Gardner shook his head. "Until the Lord finds a way to free us from this predicament, that is what we have been tasked with. If he didn't anticipate our competence, he wouldn't bother with renewing us. Don't mistake it, Marres. He can't do anything more than this. It's up to us."

The City of Gold, Anor Ligrisia, was once the capital of the Southern Continent, of the arid plains and the vast expanses of sandy seas. But due to the strange peculiarities surrounding the plot of the Fated King, the son of the Red Prince, and his guard, the Reapers, had been transported to Shadowhaunt. This wasn't a plot of their Lord, this was merely an attempt at survival.

"The young Master has been acting strange recently, hasn't he?"

"A Godson does not age like normal children do, how could he expected to act like a normal child would as well?"

"Perhaps..." Marres murmured.

Gardner groaned as he stretched his arms high into the air.

"It's time." Gardner crooned, yawning. He didn't have an inkling of hesitation or fear in his voice, as if it were simply another part of his day. He was ready to depart, to get on with it, to get over it.

"Are you really ready for this?"

The battle had already long-begun. They weren't talking about a first charge, an assault, a clash. They were talking about the arrival of the Reaper's key figure.

Marres continued, worry spreading across his face. "We're all... used to pain. But you seem to jump into it without a second thought, doesn't it bother you?"

Gardner thought for a moment, pondering the topic for what seemed like the first time in his entire life. A faint smile curled up his lips.

"We saw the things that Lord Tristinis had to do to progress his Aspect. How he carved himself, how he fell into those sorts of dreams that begged he never leave... and he was the stronger man, the sort of person who defied the natural shape of the world in order to carve his own. These little things, losing a hand, or having a blade bisect my heart, breaking the bones in my legs or even being freed of my head... it just doesn't seem so important. Besides, he will fawn over us, we shall be renewed no matter what harm is sustained..."

He sheathed his blade, still-bloodied.

"You were right, Marres. This is indeed an excessive matter."