Location: On the road to Arbola
Timeline: Sixth Age, 46th Year, Autumn
It was time for Emcorae to have his first taste of the “real world.” I only regret that I wasn’t the god who orchestrated it…
Crack!
“Ouch!” yelped Emcorae, dropping the wooden sword he’d been holding as the pain of a false strike radiated up his arm.
Knowing the boy did not suffer anything of significance, El-Janus merely smiled, “That is why I said not to contact the oak tree, but to thrust, just short, as so.” And he took up the youngster’s weapon and slowly demonstrated the technique, before performing it full speed.
The elf’s maneuver was conducted so fast and carried out with such force that the boy cringed at the sight — for it appeared that the tip of the sword was driven into the tree – the very mistake Emcorae had made that had caused him so much pain.
Yet rather than cry out in pain, El-Janus instead remained fixed in place with his sword extended to the tree, as he asked, “You see, my son?”
“I don’t understand.” Emcorae was at a loss. “Why isn’t your arm screaming with pain?” He had no concept of true mastery, of a body so finely tuned that it can stop on a dime. His world was one of clumsy movements and painful consequences.
“Look. Deeper.” The master beckoned Emcorae closer.
It wasn’t until the boy placed his face right next to the tree that he realized that El-Janus’ sword had not contacted the tree, but instead the elf had been able to thrust the sword to within a mere hair’s width of the bark. “But? How did y–“
“RRRAAAWWW!”
The boy, in a moment of pure, glorious terror, melted into the ground. He thought it was a pack of gargoyles, a delightful little fear instilled in him. But what emerged from the woods was far more tangible and, in its own way, just as grotesque: a crowd of angry men, brandishing scythes and clubs, their ill-fitting clothes a testament to their wretched lives of petty thievery.
They were a pathetic lot, a perfect example of what happens when mortals are left to their own devices. One with a rusty knife, another a grotesque giant. They had no idea they were walking into a perfectly laid trap, a lesson for my new student.
“First we robs ya,” the wiry man sneered.
“Then we skins ya,” his obese colleague laughed.
“Then we have funs with ya,” the first one added, his eyes fixed on my little boy.
Certain they’d found easy prey, the robbers were surprised by the swiftness with which El-Janus had not only drawn his rapiletti but had also placed himself between Emcorae and the murderers. It was a fleeting moment of confusion among the attackers before their inevitable doom.
Emcorae, for his part, was on the ground, scrabbling for his pathetic wooden sword. He wanted to be a hero, but he had no idea what that truly meant. He looked up and saw the wooden stake protruding from the wiry man’s throat. My, my, El-Janus doesn’t waste a thing, does he? He had thrown the boy’s training sword, and it had found its mark. The other ten vagabonds, like the mindless insects they were, charged forward.
And then, the beautiful dance began. El-Janus moved with a speed that the boy could not comprehend, a blur of spinning and weaving, while the bandits seemed to be wading through molasses. A gruesome ballet of death, where every twirl of the elf’s blades meant a life extinguished. Many screamed in rage, then in agony, their cries echoing through the silent woods. With a brief spin, a duck, and a double thrust, two more fell. A flick of the wrist, and another three. In a matter of breaths, only a few remained.
The big, blubbery man who had joked about flaying Emcorae was now making his way toward him. His body, a canvas of countless lacerations, a testament to El-Janus’s work, but still he lumbered on, driven by pure rage. Emcorae shrieked in fright, time slowing down as he watched his would-be murderer raise a sword for the killing blow.
But just as the blade reached its zenith, a rapiletti blade from the Mysstro soon poked through the man’s throat and back out, a surgical strike from behind. The man’s blood came gushing forth, the sticky gore cascading all over my little boy, shattering his innocence forever. This wasn’t just a death. It was a baptism in the grim realities of my world, a memory the boy would never escape. That’s the real tragedy here, the loss of that blissful ignorance.
The boy was covered in blood, but what had truly shocked him was the look in the man’s eyes just before he died. It wasn’t the rage he’d expected. It was a sad, lost look, a glimpse into the soul of a man whose failures had driven him to a life of thievery and murder. The boy saw a lost soul dying before his eyes, and it would haunt him. It was goldmine of a vulnerability.
Looking up from the awful sight, the boy saw El-Janus calmly wiping his blades clean with one of the villager’s tunics.
“But how? Why?” Emcorae cried, his own body now going limp as his adrenaline faded.
When the master saw the boy looking at him, the elf’s turned from opaqueness to compassion. “It is the way of the world,” he explained. “Evil exists everywhere and you must prepare to meet it.”
The boy, trembling, asked if the elf had known the men were there, stalking them. “Yes,” came the simple, honest reply.
“When did you know?” Emcorae pressed.
“They have been following us since we left Sylvania.” El-Janus advised.
“What!” Emcorae was shocked to hear that his teacher let this gruesome event occur rather than doing something to avoid the fight. “But, I thought you were a master tracker. Why didn’t you use your skills to escape?”
“Alone it would have been an easy task,” El-Janus said, “but together it did not work out for us.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“There was naught you could have done.”
“You could have given me a sword and—“ But the boy stopped.
“And?” queried El-Janus. “No, my son, you could not have helped. Nor would I have allowed you to. You are not ready.”
The boy slumped, defeated by the truth. He was just a spectator in his own salvation.
They soon rode on, leaving the bloody scene behind. There would be no sleep for the boy, of course. His thoughts were a cacophony of fear and shock. Why did all those men have to die? Is this what it means to be an Azora? Will I be next? All the right questions, but no answers. Only nightmares.
And then, the perfect moment. In his despair, he blurted out, “Well, at least it wasn’t a gargoyle that chased me this time!”
El-Janus immediately stopped both their mounts. The elf’s demeanor changed in an instant. “Of what ancient evil did you just speak?” he asked, his voice deadly serious. “You spoke of a vile creature, using a Pecora term for daemons that few of your kind know about. Where did you hear of this? Was it from Al-Corragio?”
The boy, rattled, began to blubber. El-Janus, ever patient, waited for him to calm down, and then, with more compassion than he should have, pressed on. He told the boy he was not angry, that he only sought to understand. He had not been caught unawares like this in hundreds of years.
And so, Emcorae, trusting this new teacher, began to tell him everything. About his nightmare, the black smoke, and eventually real-life encounter with the demon that had caused his hometown to turn against him. He also told of his grandfather’s tales and his fear.
El-Janus listened. He smiled when the boy finished, “It seems some light has been shed as to why our goddess chose you for this unprecedented opportunity to train along The Way, for clearly you are unlike any other.”
They talked about the gargoyles, their origin, and the history of their kind. The elf told the boy that the History of the Ages purported that Baal-Zebub created the daemons in Illusia to tempt mankind. But then, as a master of mysteries, he added a little tidbit of his own.
“Yet there are some versions of The History, the ones I in fact believe in, purport that it was not Baal-Zebub, but instead his godling Azazel who fostered the baals – the latter god mixing the essences of a Pyrhalli and a Pecora to create a flying, blood-sucking beast of Illusia!”
The boy was confused. He didn’t know these terms. The elf explained that Pyrhalli were Ghorbles, the giant bats. And Pecora? “That is the Amorosi term for ‘mankind.'”
The boy’s mind, already at its breaking point, made the leap. A gargoyle was part bat-demon and part man! He was terrified, jumping to the conclusion that he would be turned into a gargoyle himself. El-Janus, seeing the panic on his face, reassured him. “It is not what you think. Nothing in the knowledge of my peoples points to you being in danger of getting turned into a gargoyle.”
But the damage was done. The boy was at a crossroads, frozen in place, unsure if he could continue. His innocence was gone. His world was now a place of monsters and blades. The elf, sensing his student’s mental flux, tried one more time to push him forward. “Evil will be there,” he said. “Like a weed, Evil takes root wherever the gardener lets it grow. If unchecked, that Evil will take over your life. Therefore, you must be a constant gardener and seek to live a good life every day.” And, as Emcorae looked at him for reassurance, El-Janus added, “Student, I can clearly see there is something about you which is special. If you focus on following The Way you will have nothing to fear.”
A beautiful sentiment. El-Janus believed he was such a gardener, now tending to a young sapling. He had no idea he was just a tool, shaping a blade for me to wield. For I am the true gardener. And this little boy, with his shattered innocence and newfound fears, was soon to become the perfect seed for my grand design.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 