MYRIAD WORLDS: THE DEMON LORD GILGAMESH

CHAPTER ONE: A Beginning

Neither the heat nor the blooming bruise beside his left eye was enough to deter him as he ducked and side-stepped another punch. His hair flew in the wind as his muscles rippled beneath glistening skin.

His opponents were three large bruisers, faces alight with mischievous smirks. They were the champions for three years in a row and were looking to keep the flawless victories going. Their desire to retain the championship was so fervent that they had already thrown the first punches before the referee officially began the match.

Gilgal raised his left forearm on time to guard his temple against another blow. The hook still staggered him and he backed up to distance himself from his opponents. The crowd of spectators seemed to grow madder with glee, chanting on the top of their voices for more. Some of them even called down unhelpful advice to the fighters, all in a bid to see more brutality.

Gilgal managed a lopsided smile, then winced as the action flexed the muscles around his bruised eye. He wasn’t a very big man, but he was properly fit and well muscled. Around his naked back and chest, were cuts that had been carved onto his skin in the pattern of several tallies, and they’d healed to tell the story of his profession. Other, more serious, but also healed wounds told the story of his trials.

Gilgal ducked again beneath another hook. That was the reckless swing that he’d been waiting for, and he retaliated immediately, shooting out his leg to trip the attacker, while simultaneously delivering a solid jab into the man’s solar plexus. He didn’t pause to congratulate himself though, as the other two brothers were already upon him.

The biggest of the three brothers led with an uppercut and a jab that Gilgal avoided, then deflected off his shoulder as he angled his body before driving his fist through the man’s gut. The fellow was barely down when his brother vaulted over him and landed his weight on Gilgal, sending both of them crashing onto the scorching dirt.

The crowd cried their excitement. A Purger Knight had no business in a fistfight, but Gilgal did it anyway. And he did it spectacularly.

The town of Bronte in Midgol was known for its fishing industry, and the championship fights they hosted every month. The entire town – not exempting the merchants and tourists – attended and money and beer changed hands as the event descended into a frenzied celebration. By agreement, the winner or winners of every match was graced with twenty silver coins and a dinner with the family of the mayor.

Gilgal had been a spectator of more fights than he could count and had finally decided to participate. It was unheard of for a Purger Knight to join in the local activities of the common people, so there’d been resistance to his registration. That resistance had been sorted by coin and fist. Now, the fight had gone on long enough and the people had seen the Purger prove plenty.

The common people were of the mind that Purgers were simply magical swordsmen, but Gilgal’s actions was revealing a different and more relatable side to the demon slaying Knights.

As he crashed to the ground, he quickly raised his elbow and struck his tackler hard against the temple. He scrambled to his feet, drew his right leg back and shot it forward into the tackling brother’s torso. There was a crack and the crowd roared.

A bone shattering hook caught him squarely in the jaw, spinning him around, and would have put any other fighter out of commission. But he wasn’t an ordinary fighter. He held enough presence of mind to duck and weave out of the next flurry of blows before landing a hit on the attacker’s groin. Another uppercut to the jaw knocked out the doubled-up attacker.

Gilgal relaxed his stance and looked around the ring at the three brothers groaning or motionless on the hard ground. He sighed as he also became aware of the silence of the crowd, evident even through the ringing in his ears. He looked up at the spectators and gave them a smile.

The cries and applause started with the town mayor, Woodson of Vrille. The townsfolk joined and the applause drowned out even the words of the mayor. Gilgal listened to the applause as he loosened the medallion he’d tied around his wrist and returned it to its position around his throat, never loosing physical contact with it, even as it grew hotter.

The mayor struggled to his feet and the crowd finally quieted down gradually. “The winner of this month’s championship match, and the current champion of Bronte is the Purger Knight, Gilgamesh of Nur!” the mayor roared and paused as the crowd reacted to his pronouncement with renewed applause. He rubbed his hands together before continuing, “as the new champion, Gilgamesh is awarded twenty silver coins, which would be presented when he joins my family for dinner tonight! To Gilgamesh, the Purger Knight and champion!”

Gilgal saluted the mayor as the crowd resumed their applause, with some of them spilling unto the arena grounds. He quickly followed his escort as they escaped from the arena, with the shouts of the crowd following them.

#

Later that night, Gilgal sat with Hernandez, the Messenger of Bronte, staring up at the starry sky. He was once again clothed in his professional outfit: white long sleeved tunic beneath a red, padded jerkin, with black trousers tucked into brown knee high boots. Silver wrist gauntlets and the silver medallion were inscribed with a pentacle, and completed his uniform.

Hernandez sat beside him on the long bench, slurping half heartedly from his bowl of bland stew, while listening to the revelries of the townsfolk. His hair was grey and he was starting to sport wrinkles. He was dressed casually enough in faded tunic and trousers, with only his medallion and gauntlets identifying him as a Purger. On his exposed forearms were the continuation of the tallies that were hidden by his shirt.

Gilgal’s steel, pentacle-inscribed and enchanted sword was leaning, propped up on the edge of their bench. That sword, and all the others like it, did to metal what hot knife did to butter, hence they rarely made an appearance unless absolutely necessary, and never against Humans. No Purger Knight travelled without them.

“It’s too early to be this cold,” Hernandez muttered as he raised the bowl to his lips again.

“The night or the year?” Gilgal asked, still staring at the stars.

“Both of them, I reckon. It’s not dark enough to be this freezing, and neither is it winter. The world’s just changing too fast.”

“It’s late autumn, Hernandez. The cold is normal. You’re just getting old.”

“And you’re not?”

“I don’t look it, and I don’t feel it,” Gilgal said as he finally looked away from the stars to examine his hands. Hernandez studied the hands too.

“I miss the old days,” Hernandez mumbled and Gilgal nodded.

“Why did you retire as a Knight? I leave for a year and return to see you’re now a Messenger?”

“Well, it’s like you said; I’m getting old. It’s the quiet life for me from now on.”

“You wish,” Gilgal chuckled and looked up at the stars again, mentally drawing a map of the constellations, but placing Rhaido at the center instead of Eudora. “Our profession is not one where you get to relax, but I hope you get all the time you need. You deserve it,” he added.

“We all do.”

The silence between them returned and Hernandez finished his bowl, then began playing with the little droplets of water that he’d condensed from the air. He formed them into two human caricatures in the first move of fencing, then played out the story.

(…)

“That’s cheating. The guard was high enough to protect his head,” Gilgal commented after some time had passed.

Hernandez glanced at Gilgal sharply, then chuckled, letting the two figures deform into a small pool on the bench. “I had no idea that I had an actual Knight paying attention. Which reminds me, how come you never told me you could fist fight? We could have gone a few rounds back then.”

“Ah, that might have been to your disappointment. I only learned some years ago, and I worried I’d be battered thoroughly by the brothers.”

“But you fought them anyway…”

“I needed the money,” Gilgal interrupted.

“Castle pay no longer enough for you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I deduced. Now you’ve got the money, you can afford to winter here.”

“I can, but I need to restock my bags, so it’s the Castle for me this winter,” Gilgal answered.

“Oh. Then when are you leaving?”

Gilgal didn’t have the time to answer before a warm wind washed over him, carrying with it the echo of a familiar voice. The magic of the summon amped him up and he shot to his feet, collecting his swords.

“That’s Jedaz’ voice,” breathed Hernandez who was also on his feet.

“Yes, from Wharfdale. That’s about two days away. Where are the other Knights?” Gilgal asked as he fastened his swords and walked to the post where his horse, Harvey, was tied.

“We are not exactly in the thousands these days, Gilgal.”

“I know, but it’s still strange,” Gilgal replied as he mounted the horse in one move, then reached to pat his cheek affectionately. He sat straight and looked down at Hernandez. “Until we meet again, old man.”

“Through darkness and evil…” Hernandez began, standing straight with his fist over his heart.

“…may the light of Eudora guide my path and the sword of Fondor pass my judgement,” Gilgal completed with his own salute, before grabbing the reins and urging Harvey into a gallop.

“Fleet foot and swift strike, brother,” said Hernandez as he watched the Purger ride out into the darkness.

Two days of sustained carnage before his arrival, Gilgal thought grimly. He hoped there was a Wharfdale left to save.