125. Show of mercy

At first, Ophelia looked on with fear when she saw the mages prepare the barrage. She saw the dome spell break almost immediately under the rain of magic. She knew Sam was strong—he had always seemed like a strange, unbeatable existence. But she was no longer a child looking up to a parent. The fact that power could be overcome with numbers was well known to her.

Feeling Q’Shar’s paw on her hand, she looked down, only to notice she was squeezing the rapier’s handle so hard her knuckles were turning white. In that split second, she glanced away and saw that the cat was also anxious, but she didn’t have time to ponder it as she returned her gaze to the battlefield.

Another barrage, accompanied by a magical arrow, was heading for her now-unprotected teacher. As the spells were almost on target, he… disappeared—only to appear between the men with shields and the archer. The moment his silhouette materialised, a wave of death magic exploded from Sam. In a split second, three of the four men were dead. He then used the grasping spell to hold down his last victim, and before the rest regrouped, he lodged the Hook into the archer’s skull.

The three remaining second-circle mages came to a screeching halt, almost tripping over their own legs at the sight of a soul being ripped from a body. Then Sam spoke, only deepening their fear.

Up to this point, it was a fight. Until then, it could be called a proper battle. But after that, it devolved into something much more primal.

Sam fired all of the stored spells from his staff, and she saw a Cutting Storm alongside three Pierce spells shred three first-circle fighters in the middle. The remaining second-tiers tried to coordinate an attack, but to their surprise, Sam closed the distance, dodging a hastily released arrow from the back line.

The swordsman stabbed at Sam. It was a shaky stab lacking conviction—Myhur had told her so much about that. But it was still a stab made by a warrior against a wizard. It looked like it would connect. Instead of dodging, Sam just swung the Hook. Terror showed in the man’s eyes as he stopped his attack mid-swing, tripping over his own feet to avoid being hit by the artefact.

“No!” screamed someone from the audience. “Press on with the attack!” he shouted, giving orders, but it was way too late.

Sam rotated, chaining the swing into an elbow to the temple, and then slammed the Hook into the man’s body around the ribs. Ophelia could hear a wail of pain as her teacher twisted the artefact, hooking it around the ribs and then using it as a gruesome, makeshift handle to move the man, turning him into a human shield against the oncoming barrage from the back line. It turned out to be an unnecessary precaution—the people at the back didn’t have enough experience. Afraid of hitting their own, they almost all missed.

What followed wasn’t a battle. Sam swung the Hook like a wild man using a torch to scare off predators. Every time he presented it, the enemy would make a mistake trying not to get too close to the weapon. It was only once the last second-circle mage fell to the ground, dead, that Ophelia noticed what it was—a simple and cruel show of strength.

Without second-circle mages to pose any proper threat, Sam was like a wolf among children. He stopped casting complex spells—he simply approached them, slowly, deliberately, and dealt death. Any spell they tried to cast was easily broken. Sam’s magic control dwarfed that of others at the same level. Against terrified first-tier mages, it wasn't even a contest. Ophelia watched as he approached a shaking mage who tried to cast some sort of shield and, after breaking it for the third time in a row, simply slit the man’s throat using the Hook, only to kill the gunman with his own gun next.

She realised why she wouldn’t be part of the fight. He could probably kill them before they hurt her—he was fast enough. But that wasn’t it. This was supposed to be a show of dominance, a simple display that told all that the Alhazred clan was the same one that had dominated ancient politics—cruel and powerful.

She might be able to fight, but she wouldn’t be able to show the cruelty required. She heard the cries of nobles as their family members died, and she found a void where compassion would be. They had sent them to their deaths over a political struggle. This was the world she lived in. She accepted that. She felt for them, but the sensation didn’t weigh down her heart.

Sam fired a Cutting Storm point-blank into a man begging for his life, the second son of the Riswalt family, shredding him to pieces. The only one left was a girl. She was no older than twenty, previously standing as far to the side as possible next to the guy who had tried to give Sam a speech at the beginning. Now she was sitting on the ground, trembling, eyes filled with fear as Sam approached her.

Ophelia had to give it to her—she did try to keep some composure as she gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, waiting for death. She didn’t beg, to which Sam lightly nodded, acknowledging her courage, setting her apart from the last five idiots. Instead, he simply cut her hand.

Ophelia saw Sam’s tattoos surface on his skin as he smeared her blood over them. It took a while to cast whatever it was, as Sam stood over her like a grim reaper, unsure of the judgement he was supposed to bring.

Once done with whatever spell it was, he walked into the middle, where the speaking platform had stood, and spread his hands as if to embrace the audience as he addressed the gathered people.

“My dear fellow mages,” he said. “Today, I was forced to take so many lives, and they truly—TRULY—weigh on my soul.” Ophelia started to wonder if it was even possible to sound less sincere. “As such, due to my soft, hurting heart, I decided to use my right as the one who called the grudge, and as long as the other side acknowledges my victory, I will let go of my anger. This day and this gathering will be remembered for ages to come. So when the future generations learn of their past, let us make sure they do not read of blood and slaughter. Let this day be one without any more unnecessary death—let them remember my…” A smile akin to that of a piranha slid across his face. “Mercy.”

He looked over all the gathered, letting his words hang in the air. “I wish to end the duel before only one man remains, on the condition that my victory is officially recognised.”

The reactions across the hall were different. Sam’s friends and the closest clans they belonged to went immediately into a standing ovation. The rest of the third chamber soon joined them, many wearing cruel smiles directed toward the other sides of the political spectrum.

The religious groups had mixed reactions, while the nobles were a mixture of fear, shock, sadness, and anger.

Ophelia looked to the sides. Everyone around her was standing; she realised she was part of it. She was part of the Alhazred clan, apprentice to the man who had just massacred over a dozen people to the ovation of the third chamber. She stood up and joined, making sure she clapped the loudest.

It took a while for the room to settle down, but once the clapping died down, another noise took its place. Swear words and threats started flying between people on opposing sides—not only from one area of the audience to another, but also within factions. It took three chimes of the strange bell for the room to go quiet. Ophelia saw that the Riswalts were arguing with one of the families, waving their hands and shouting at each other.

“What’s there to hesitate about?” she asked.

“It’s not that simple,” Q’Shar whispered. “I knew the idiot understood politics. His mind is sharp, but he doesn’t use it when he’s not interested,” he grumbled.

Ophelia looked back at the arena.

“It’s about the curse, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The cat nodded. “In the past, it wouldn’t have mattered, but here it’s different. There was never a situation where you could cast a curse mid-battle so powerful it couldn’t be unravelled afterwards, so it’s a grey area of the law. He showed his third circle power, so there’s a good chance that whatever he just cast won’t be counter-cursed easily—or at all. The girl’s family might need him to lift it. The curse was cast legally in a duel, and his actions are a show of mercy, so they can’t demand he lift it. The Riswalts have two choices: allow the mercy and—if they can’t unravel the curse—most likely let Sam dictate those two votes, or refuse the mercy, let him kill the girl, and then hope that the girl's family at least won't vote alongside Sam out of spite. Either way, it’s a tough choice.”

It took some more time before the judge started to get impatient, but finally the Riswalts stood up and accepted the mercy, recognising the duel as finished. They then rushed the girl out of the room like an accident victim being rushed to a hospital, even though she looked fine—for now.

Sam strolled back to his seat, looking like he’d just come back from a regular walk rather than killing fourteen people and cursing one.

“So you do get politics!” Q’Shar piped up.

“I mean, it’s not like I don’t understand it,” he said, then looked ahead with slightly narrowed eyes as if gathering his thoughts, before nodding sagely and continuing in a slow, wise voice. “Politics—it's like eating shit. I’m capable of eating shit. Everyone is. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. There are cases when there is some shit to be eaten, and in such cases I prefer professional shit-eaters to do it for me, since they seem to enjoy the process for some reason.” He finished, stroking an invisible beard.

The cat, on the other hand, stared at him with the flattest look Ophelia had seen in her life.

“Thank you, Sam. Thank you for that stunning metaphor. I thank the sands and the fire that you are not a philosopher.”

Ophelia smiled slightly at the exchange. It was so usual, so devoid of the weight of lives taken.

After the ruckus, a break was called to let everyone vent their emotions. The atmosphere in the hall was strange. The members of the third chamber seemed lively, as did some other groups, seemingly not associated with whatever the Riswalts and the church were planning. The other side of the hall was much worse. They looked over at them with gazes filled with hate.

Ophelia saw that the blind woman from the first day was approaching them. Now that she was closer, Ophelia started to feel a vague familiarity. She frowned deeply; she was more and more sure she had seen her somewhere before, but where? She didn’t have much contact with the magic world beyond Sam’s group—before the sabbath at least—so why the feeling? It bothered her. The only other place would be… The realisation struck her like thunder. She didn’t remember much of the ritual, but now, vaguely, as if through fog, she did remember her face—she was one of the people who took part in the ritual with her.

She expected a lot of feelings to rise up inside her—fear, anger, maybe hate—but in the end, she felt something similar to seeing a colleague outside of work. The ritual seemed so far away and the trauma of it had dissipated, and now there weren’t many feelings about the people of that day.

The woman reached them, and they locked eyes.

“We met before, didn’t we?” the woman said.

“I was your ‘guest’ in Norway.”

“Aaaah, sorry about the barn.”

“But not the ritual?”

“Should we be?”

A slight silence hung in the air as they both smiled lightly, a thin thread of understanding forming between them.

“Astrid,” she introduced herself.

“Ophelia.”

“You should have come sooner. You would’ve seen me almost kick your teacher’s ass.”

“‘Almost’ is doing a lot of work here,” Sam said with a smile.

Astrid smiled at that, not arguing, but then her face relaxed back into a mask of seriousness.

“How has the sabbath been for you?” she asked Sam, but her tone was tense, not matching the light question.

“Good?” Sam frowned. “What are you asking?”

“Please do watch out…” she said, but didn’t continue. Sam also didn’t press.

Ophelia waited for Astrid to leave before asking about the strange, mysterious exchange.

“What was that about?”

“Most likely a vision she has trouble interpreting. She saw something bad, but doesn’t know the exact meaning.”

“Why not just tell you the vision?”

“You shouldn’t speak before you’re sure what you were shown. Some visions are warnings meant to be spoken. Others are self-fulfilling prophecies. Like an oracle: you might be told you will die by a golden sword. When you hear that, then a guy with a golden sword appears, so you mess up because you’re afraid, and the oracle becomes self-fulfilling.” Sam said, staring after the woman, his gaze unfocused.

Ophelia wanted to ask more, but during the break, some people used it to approach, not giving them any privacy.

She listened to all the talks. Some people came to congratulate. Others to curry favour. Sadly, it turned out that due to Sam’s general aura, many figured it was his apprentice who was easier to approach. Soon, Ophelia was swarmed by many people she didn’t know or care for, trying to worm their way to Sam through her—many from the noble–unaffiliated faction.

The cat also stayed out of those talks, letting her handle them all. By the end, she was more tired than after a sparring session against Myhur. Constantly looking out for hidden messages, verbal traps, and questions with double meanings took a lot out of her. Once the bell rang, heralding the end of the break, relief washed over her.

After the small break—mainly composed of rejecting the annoying people—they were back in the hall for the rest of the boring legal cases. It took a few more hours, but the judicial proceedings were finally closed.

And the next day, the talks about what to do with the mortal world would finally begin.