It made sense, therefore, that those without a fear of death would not fear war, and would dominate it instead; those who could ignore everything, and just kill, kill, and kill.
Bertrand the Green-Hooded was one such man, but even he had his limits. He reached them on a bloody battlefield, some seven years ago.
“He’s only human, even if he is a hero. All that armor, no matter how shiny, won’t stop my sword!”
Eberian troops came down upon an isolated Athrian army. Dead bodies streaked the ground, and their blood flowed in rivers of red. Noble, general, and commoner alike lay on the ground. The god of war did not discriminate.
Bertrand too was present on the battlefield. He wore a green-hood, his most distinct piece of apparel. He was mostly unarmored and armed with only a jousting spear, but mowed through men like a cannonball. Where Bertrand moved, men fled in droves. Bertrand did not give chase, he merely located the nearest nobleman or general and took their head.
For Bertrand, the battlefield was the only place where he was treated equally, nay, treated like a god. To tout his stature, he need not concern himself with the common footman, but instead deal with the higher-ranked.
When the occasional brave fool charged at him, Bertrand made sure to clash with his full respect, and he did not think much differently when a man as towering as himself charged at him.
While Bertrand was locked in the duel, the scales of the battlefield shifted weight. With all his allies fiercely mowing down the Athrians, they failed to notice the third army that had appeared on the horizon.
First came the arrows, then the stones, and finally came the horses. They charged, retreated a bit, then charged again, methodically. The Eberian army may well have been ground to dust, like a mortar to the pestle.
There were faults with this approach, too. For starters, the other Athrian army was still isolated. Half the Eberian army still dealt with them, while the other half tried to hold off the cavalry.
Bertrand was horrified. He had gone through many battlefields, and yet even he had never seen something so inhumane. This was no fair battle. The cavalry attacked and retreated, not even allowing the enemy to touch them.
At the head of the cavalrymen, he saw their leader. Covered in blood, meat oil, brain plasma, and vomit, using the corpse of a man far larger than him as a shield. With each stroke of his sword, he claimed ten heads, ended ten lives. He was surely the incarnation of the God of Death.
By the end of the day, almost all the Eberians had been massacred. Only a select group, mostly made up of mercenaries, were even given the right to surrender. Bertrand was among three hundred such men, and was sold off into bonded labor.
While detained, he learned of the ritual of madness... the “Feast of the Holy Flame”. The Athrians had killed off their benefactor, the general who saved them on that very battlefield. He wasn’t just killed however, even more humiliating was the fact that his body was desecrated, humiliated. Not a trace remained after the ritual, he had been all but spirited away.
But Bertrand did not see it as madness. He knew that this was all life was about: death. Civilization formed to run away from death, people killed so that they weren’t the ones to die. Death was just a part of life, therefore Solomon was still alive. The “Feast of the Holy Flame” was the day of divine revelation for him.
Bertrand was only waiting for the God of Death to reappear now.
Bertrand killed the slave master who owned him now fled to the nearest city. He joined the underworld of Athria. He held no patriotism to Eberia, after all. He had only joined the army in search of God, and God he had found. He had no reason to go back.
At some, he had become involved in the slave trade. His intent was to locate Eberian soldiers who had experienced God’s wrath and expand his ‘cult’ with them.
But he still hadn’t encountered God. He’d become a layman criminal, despite his hatred for all things common, and spent his days engaged in crime and alcohol.
Until that night.
“Solo... mon”
In front of him stood the boy.
“So?”
“N-no... I had no control over her kidnapping. My only contacts are present in this building, and they’ve been partying since morning. Everybody else is in the capital.”
“Why?”
“A great slave auction is to be held in the coming days, in the capital. That’s why.”
Slaves were among the most expensive commodities traded in these days, and few people could muster the capital to afford them. In the capital, however, where all the noblemen, merchants, and wealthy gathered, there were plenty of buyers. To encourage regulation and curb black-market trafficking, official markets were held every year in the beginning of winter. They were all attended with gusto.
“Useless.”
The boy's words momentarily stunned Bertrand, but he regathered himself and shouted at the boys turned back.
“P-please wait!”
Before he could leave, Bertrand clung to the boys heels. He didn’t notice Oivan’s utterly befuddled gaze, and he didn’t care. You could only defer in front of the gods.
“I know who it could be!”
“The baron?”
“Yes. But he, too, moves to the capital during the slave market.”
“So... it’s a relative?”
“Yes!”
“Can you do it?”
Bertrand understood the meaning behind his words.
“Heh. Yes, my lord!”
Bertrand marched out and took his retinue with him.
“W-what did you do to him?” Oiva asked.
“Nothing. He’s just a kind man.”
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