Chapter IV - Fires Of Hell

Sundown arrived, and night cast its long darkness upon the town. Citizens heard of the warning to the Red Guild, and locked themselves indoors, frightened of the bloody massacre that would arrive. Those pardoned members of the guild had long since fled, leaving Gallowpines behind, never to return, swearing off their evil ways forever, and keeping their words till the day they died. Leaving the unforgiven remainers of the Red Guild, held up in their hall, bathed in pale moonlight. A shadow of a cloaked figure casted it in a shadow, as the town's angel came, as he promised.

Watching the guild from within the town's clock tower, he saw those who left the guild, comply with his demands, leaving those he cannot pardon to their fate. Checking the resolve of the bolted doors, the figure in his ashen cloak, pulled out a squirming copper wire. Through subtle moments of his fingers he could bend every inch of the wire, as if it were a snake hypnotized by its master's tune. Putting it through the seam in the door, the cloaked figure wormed the wire through the door, and manipulated it to undo all the bolts.

After several minutes it undid, and the door swung open, allowing the nighttime angel to roam the Red Guild Hall. The first thing that caught his eye was a portrait hung over the fireplace, it was set in a gold frame, and showed the inner circle of the guild in a glorious light. Familiar faces, even with age, remember who they were, and what they did to him and his family. Tears long dried, where stinging his eyes, as he rose up on his extending legs, and with his long arms grabbed the protrain. Focusing his gaze upon the man who delivered the first and final strike to his father, Iago Santamos was the man he hunted for years.

Ever since he matured into manhood he knew whose life he wanted to end more than anyone else's, the man who first put the hate in his soul. Itchiness covered his fire blackened skin, as he scratched his charred arms. Tonight he intended to avenge his family, and put an end to this hate, hopefully forever. Since that stormy night, hate ate at him, consumed his thoughts, even the happiness of his first weeks of life were tainted by his eroding hatred.

More than anything he wanted to drain that poison from his system, by letting the blood out of all the men in that portrait. One of them he already killed, now it was time for the rest of them. "Burn in Hell." Chêne said, as he threw the portrait into the fire, and watched it blacken and turn to ash within the flames.

***

The remaining members of the Red Guild, feared their fates, they had earned the ire of their fickle god, over indulging their sinful pleasure. Only Iago showed no dismay, because he had been gifted from the Guild Masters of the north, a powerful weapon. It wasn't made in a forge, and it cannot be seen, but it forever resided in the tips of his fingers. A powerful enchantment that allowed him to drain the blood of others, to conjure all consuming flame. The devastating power of Devour , which was a secret held within the guild.

No one but the few chosen was gifted with it, but Iago was an exception, but unknown to his guild underlings, he stole it from his masters. Keeping it secret, just in case he needed to, unlike other heads of the guild, Iago used the guild as a means for gaining power and control over his fellow men. Contempt showed in his one eye, as he saw the other men of the guild, begin to give themselves to cowardice within the darkness. Seeing them as useful as pigs to a butcher, he decided to wait, coiling himself like a cobra waiting to strike.

"What's that? There is something at the door?" squealed one of them, as he ran to the other end of the chamber. Other men followed their fleeing comrade, only a few stayed behind, mostly low rank loyalists, who attempted to block the door with their bodies. Pressing their bodies against the hard wooden door, it still flung open, crushing two of them against the walls. A hair thin wire of metal lashed out, and decapitated one of them as they all fled, but he didn't lose his head right away.

He stood there, gazing at his comrades, as blood started to drip from the widening seam in his neck, then he collapsed onto the ground, and his head rolled towards them. Preventing their escape through the only exit was a darkened figure, his eyes reflected the torchlights of the chamber, and their cowering forms. Only one stood aside from the group, Iago, his hands were clenched so tightly his finger bones creaked audibly. Chêne turned his back on them, and extended his arms till he grasped both ends of the door.

Slamming them shut and tying the handles tightly together with the wire. None of them would escape, those that wronged him would receive no mercy, and the others had their chance for salvation. No longer would they plague the world, perhaps they will make better choices in their next life, Chêne thought to himself. Drawing his blade, a long curved, scimitar with a handguard that sparkled even with little light. Spinning around on his rotating ankles he swiped his sword (which he called Mercy) and sliced open the abdomen of a man who cowardly attacked when his back was turned.

None of them seemed to be wearing armor under their red robes, which made Chêne's, razor-thin, well maintained weapon plenty of blood to spill. A group of them had decided to attack at one, wielding halberds they plundered from the sheriff's armory. Deftly Chêne slid his blade along the blade of the weapons, causing sparks to fly out and diverting the blows. One was attacking too wildly and had Mercy's tip stabbed in his eye. Panicked the half blinded man swung his weapon madly, and embedded his halberd into another's skull. Both were skewered together by the necks, before they knew what happened.

Third of them was a tall man who tried to escape, but was tackled to the ground by the surprisingly heavy assassin, who planted his blade in the other's shoulder. Twisting it with sadistic relish, Chêne whispered one question in his ear, so quiet no one else heard, but so venomously it couldn't be misheard.

"Where is my sister? You took her from our home after burning me, and murdering my papa." Not answering the tall man screamed till he was hoarse, the blade tore into his muscle, and started to drill into his bone.

"Which…" gasped the man, "I've done that alot." Pulling back his hood on his cloak, the tall man looked back and saw the threaded spectre that had been tormenting the guild was a puppet. A marionette, whose lack of flesh had a placid, apathetic expression upon his charred, wooden face. Edges of the face were chipped from the fire, but had been tempered, like a soul damned to burn in Hell. "You!" the tall man exclaimed. The blade twisted again, and Chêne wasn't going to repeat his question.

The other guild members were cowering at the far end, unwilling to help their brother in their villainous organization. Only Iago, who still stood aside from them, had shown no cowardice, blood flowed freely from his eye, and was slowly starting to boil, burning his face. Chêne didn't notice, he was busy torturing the man who burned him alive, and would've enjoyed it, if his heart was absent from his wooden body. Finally the tall man managed to answer the question, when shreds of his bone started coming out of his growing shoulder wound.

"I sold her to a man with no name!" Unsatisfied with that answer, Chêne started sliding the sword downwards, tearing open the man's back, but soon the tall man was dead. Instantly his blood seemed to bubble into an agonizing heat that burst into fire. Jumping back, Chêne watched as the blood red fire consumed the man, and was starting to eat away at his fellows. Blood bursted from their veins, and turned their skin to ash, burning their entirety to ash and cinders, and the roaring fire was pulled towards the large man.

Iago took the fire into his control, manipulating it into large gloves that covered his hands, in hellfire. Broadly he smiled, his face blistered with the heat, blood foamed from his orifices, and seemed to spark in the open air. "Come here tinder and feed my flame." Charging towards Chêne, Iago came a bearish growl and nearly got hold of the agile puppet. Sticking Mercy into the large man's abdomen, resulting in blood gushing out, catching fire in the air, which ran up the blade of his sword. Intense heat overpowered the finely crafted steel, melting his beloved weapon to the hilt.

Tossing it aside, Chêne couldn't risk sentimentality, the guild head, had broken the pact of nature (a long lasting promise with the deities of the elements, and mankind never to misuse the mystical energies for their own purposes.) which turned him into a faute of fire. An embodiment of one of the elements of the world, that has been defiled by a wicked soul.

"Devour." Chêne spoke aloud. Knowing in his years of training and study of many magical forces of the known world. From the northern mountains came the bastardization of all things mystical called devour. Eating one's very lifeforce to then convert it into a soulless, excess of destructive power or extension of life. Forbidden in the valley, only those who walk a path of wickedness know of such deviltry.

"You know, little wooden boy." mocked Iago, who as he spoke had flame came out of his mouth. "You know of what I wield, no sword can slay me, no prayer can save you from feeding my fire." With that the large man tackled Chêne, who was caught off guard by his opponent's speed. Tumbling together, Iago was out maneuvered by Chêne, who used leverage and momentum to land on top of him, but Iago held onto his wooden arms with overpowering strength.

Hands of fire enveloped Chêne's arms, and started to spread around his body, burning his cloak, clothes, and everything he carried with him. Only his bare, charred body remained, and the fire covered him, and crackled as he felt a familiar seething rot dig into his body and irritate his soul.

"You shall die, like you should've all those years ago." cursed Iago, who didn't realize it was his death that was at hand. Doomed the moment he held Chêne close to him, he didn't realize what happened to the wooden man those years ago, when he murdered the craftsman. Fire had not only burned the puppet's body, it made it stronger, heat resistant, and binded in Chêne's very soul the imprint of fire. Blessed by the demigod Lave, all who pass the test of the flame (those who survive intense heat) and were not consumed by the fire.

Pain still ravaged his soul, but Chêne was not eaten away by the gluttonous element, instead it was Iago who was in danger. Having perverted the element of fire, and spurred Lave by mutating his element with devour, he had not gained the same blessing. Feeling the flesh melt from his blackening bones, the large guild master screamed out a horrific cry that turned into a gutterly groan. Pressing his flaming body into Iago, Chêne laid onto the murderer of his father, and stayed there till the fire started to die out. Rising to his feet, the puppet looked upon his retribution. Iago was burned to a blackened skeleton, only his one eye was still in its socket, but had started to ooze from the heat.

Hoping for a contented heart, Chêne was displeased to feel no relief from the burden of hate on his soul. Never had justice seemed so shallow, as when the last perpetrator dies. Nothing was left for him in that place, so Chêne began for the door, feeling the last of the fire that had previously covered him, die out. One spark of flame however rose into the air, and instead of fading, floated to the centre of the chamber to a large basin where a glorious fire once burned. Touching the ashen ground sparked it anew, and grew till it was a gigantic blaze.

Inside the fire was an imp, who jumped towards Chêne.