Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  From across the large tavern room, she shouted back to him, "Anything you want, sweetie. The same?"

  "Yes, unless you have something stronger, my dear," he shouted back to her.

  "Are you sure you can handle that?" she returned as she walked over to him.

  Looking up to her, he had to admit that the effects of the ales he had been consuming were well on their way to producing his desired state. She was beautiful, even without the effects of his liquor induced, hazy consciousness. She was of above average physical attractiveness, mainly because of her well-developed bosom; but what she had that he wanted was a complete ignorance of who had was, or rather, had been. She offered him no reminder of his former self and because of that, no reminder of the crippling loss he had suffered only a few short weeks ago. Seeing him staring at her corseted assisted breasts, and seemingly lost in them, she cleared her throat and asked, "Will you be wanting something stronger then?"

  Her voice caught him off guard and sprung his eyes to meet hers. Perhaps it was the projection of his desires, but he saw something of innocence in them, though if he had been more mentally lucid, he would have admitted that regardless of what she was projecting, a woman of her age and profession would be far from it. But reality for him was not in what was real, it was in the ale skewed perception of what he desired. And right now, he desired another drink. "No, I will save that for later when you are free, love. But for now, another of your darkest ales!" he said with emphasis.

  "Right away, hun!" she said with equal exuberance. He watched her walk toward the barkeep who had already begun pouring his next ale. He watched her hips swing lightly from side to side and he took no precautions in his indulgence of their gentle sway. Again, had he been less influenced by his ale, he would have seen her demure smile as she looked back at him. But such subtleties were currently outside of his mental capacities. And because of that, his focus from his own self-pity and lack of identity had been replaced by that which would temporarily dissolve it, her.

  She returned with his ale shortly, and because it was only mid-day, the business was not enough to preoccupy her from his rather insistent attentions. As clumsy as his liquid induced speech had become, he was nevertheless able to woo her attentions thoroughly. After all, one does not live lifetimes beyond the normal man without retaining the ability to speak and flatter women even while intoxicated. She smiled in response to his attentions enticing him to grow bolder in his flirtations, which in turn, influenced her flirtations to grow as well. By the end of his fourth or sixth mug, she was actually sitting on his lap listening to him blunder on about magic, and books, and God, and all sorts of stories, none of which he was able to keep straight. But that did not matter to her. She had seen every mundane man approach her with every sort of clumsy attempt at wit. And in all truth, she was bored by them. But here, sitting at her table, was a man of such fantastic stories, albeit thoroughly disjointed, that she became enthralled by the fantastical nature of his tales. Tales that she was almost unable to believe except for the conviction with which he spoke. The one-time Grand Wizard did not notice it, but she sat with him well past the normal duration of her shift.

  When the sun was setting, and he had consumed yet another pint of the seductive ale, he was completely open to the most overt suggestions and totally unable to process anything beyond his most basal desires. Such as it was, he was beyond considering whether he actually desired the intricacies that made her, her and transferred the simplicity of desire to the woman in front of him. She was no stranger to men, and certainly not to those only traveling through with their overt flirtations and single-minded intentions. Over the years she had become an expert at leading them on without ending in the manner of their suggestions. She was tipped, and tipped well for what she did, but what she did was contained to the tavern walls and never extended beyond. Because of that, she had become intimately aware of how similar all men were at the base of their identities. Regardless of their profession or service or upbringing, men were all the same and easily influenced by the same things. And she made use of those things, specifically those supported by her rather flattering corset.

  But he was different. She could not say why, but he was. He did not speak of business or money or influence, and certainly not of power. Rather he spoke of knowledge, he spoke of passions, and he spoke of loss. The later of the three was not overtly indicated but was certainly alluded to. And she found consistency with his loss in his eyes whenever she would probe deeper into his stories. She could see he was in the middle of an internal struggle, a war of sorts, one that he was losing, but one that he would never give up fighting no matter how much of a losing battle it would become. Yet, between the periods of barely held in check tears, there were moments of the most lightened eyes she had ever seen.

  Passion, he spoke of passion. The true kind that cannot be falsified. The passion that runs deep in a man's heart into the reaches of his soul. And it was that passion drawing her closer to him. Because if her life lacked anything, it was authentic passion. She was not young by any account, and as such had her definition of life's importance changed from her once youthful ideals. She had always worked in taverns and inns and grew to appreciate their mundane consistencies, but here was a man who unraveled all of them. For nothing he spoke of could ever be considered mundane, because there is nothing mundane regarding true passion. She was soon swept away into his grandiose stories and persona and right into his embrace and kiss. She belonged to no one, except for this one night. Tonight, she was his.

  Intellos had never been much of a dreamer when he slept. The reality of living lifetimes has a way of muting the subconscious mind's insurgence into one's perception of reality, even while sleeping. But when he did dream, they were horribly vivid, often times causing him to momentarily question the reality of what he just experienced. So, when he found himself lying awake in bed listening to raised voices and the sounds of battle, he almost disregarded his senses as part of another elaborate dream. Truly, he might have completely ignored it had it not been for the warmth of the woman's body lying curled up in his arms. Her weight on his shoulder and the way her slumbering breath lazily tickled his thumb allowed him to understand that he was not dreaming at all. Hence, she was not the only thing real in this moment, so too, were the sounds of battle.

  He sprung out of bed and dashed to the open window. Peering down through the glassless opening, he saw two people, a man and a woman, defending the inn against several human figures. But in his assessment of who was whom, he saw that those attempting to gain entrance into the tavern were not quite consistent with his understanding of mortal movement. Instantly, he made the decision to aid the two defending the tavern by grabbing at his talent. But it did not grab back. Perhaps it was his still slightly foggy mind, or perhaps his night with this woman distracted him from reality; but, regardless of the reason, he did not remember the awfulness of being without his power. And the only thing grabbing him in return was a feeling of helplessness. It appears several lifetimes of habitual repetition could not be broken in a matter of three weeks. Mindfully, he was able to prevent such instinctive action, but in the heat of the moment, when split seconds could and would determine the fates of those he had decided to assist, he yet lacked the awareness sufficient enough to fully prevent his reliance on what had been his identity for a time longer than memory.

  As such, it stung. When he was unable to feel the torrents of power come responding to his call, as if an immortal wasp stung his soul, he felt instantly drained and disheartened, void of any of the life he exhibited last night. He slumped to the ground, his legs unable to support the awful weight, helpless in his attempt to aid those he resolved to aid, with his back against the window's lower wall.

  "What are you doing?" exclaimed a female voice. He looked up to see the barmaid rush to the window with a vase in hand, viciously hurling it through the opening. After she saw it land harmlessly on the ground, exploding its contents, she turned to him and asked, "How
can you just sit there?"

  "How can I not?" he shouted back, too absolved into his own self-pity to see any other response.

  "Do something!" she commanded. "Help me!" she shouted. "Help them!" she pleaded.

  There was something utterly visceral in her voice; an urgency he had not heard for a very long time. With wizards, and all things important enough to draw their attention, there was prolonged deliberation either within the wizard's singular mind or within a cooperative discussion as each involved wizard’s opinion was collected and used to determine the appropriate course of action. However, he found that when the burden of wielding his talent was removed, and he was presented with her level of desperation, the only response allowable was one equally visceral and equally desperate. So, with an urgency surprising him, he stood up, grabbed the closest thing to him that had weight, and joined her in her attempt to aide those defending the inn. But where she failed, he succeeded. As it happened, his aim had been uniquely honed over the years and years of casting physically directed spells so much so that he successfully bludgeoned one of the invaders just before it delivered a death blow to the female defending the inn, rendering it motionless.

  She instinctive looked up, as anyone would when saved by a flying chair from the heavens delivering them from the teeth of death, and nodded. Intellos felt a slight feeling of familiarity but did not have the time to dwell upon it as the male defender was currently fending off three invaders, but losing ground. He had only seconds, and had to think quickly.

  He looked around the room and saw the candle they had lit last night. Although it had almost burnt fully out, he grabbed it and dashed across the room remembering the open bottle of liquor he and the barmaid consumed last night. Wasting no time and ignoring her protests, he used his knife to tear a small strip of cloth from her night gown. He lit the make shift, cloth wick, stuck it in the half full bottle of liquor, and hurled it with vicious urgency beyond the two warriors. It landed with pin point precision exploding in a violent fireball momentarily cutting off the invading reinforcements.

  Both defenders and attackers staggered from the sound and the impact of the small explosion. However, as they were both experienced in battles with rudimentary artillery, no doubt having faced it before, the man and woman did not hesitate to press their advantage. Aided by Intellos’s make shift firebomb, they used their opening to effortlessly regroup and work as a fluid team to cut down the remaining four attackers in quick succession. Once the invaders were dispatched, they did not hesitate and retreated inside the inn before any reinforcements were able to advance.

  Seeing them safely inside, Intellos grabbed the barmaid’s hand as he dashed out of the room and down the stairs. She had no choice but to follow him as his grasp reflected the strength of his conversation the night before. She was held, and while her mind verbally protested with some generic screams and insistences, in her heart, she felt an almost surreal solace with his insistence that she stay close to him in this time of danger.

  "What is your name?" Intellos asked as they almost plummeted into a combined heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  "What?" she asked, not fully understanding why he thought this question would matter in this moment.

  "What is your name? I do not know it yet," he asked again, this time stopping to look at her. But when she paused, still trapped by her bewilderment, he cradled her face with both hands and kissed her hard. When he pulled away, he asked again, "What is your name?"

  "Lupara, my name is Lupara," she said in disbelief.

  They had only a moment to lock eyes as both the man and woman who only moments ago had been busy defending the inn, rushed in almost colliding with them. "Are there any defensible positions?" asked the man looking to Intellos.

  "I do not know," he answered looking to Lupara for guidance. She paused with her response, obviously not used to the directness necessary in the heat of battle.

  The woman, dark in her leather armor and darker with her raven hair, grabbed Lupara's arm and asked again, "Where can we defend your inn. We do not have much time"

  "The kitchen," she said. "We can defend ourselves there. Follow me." This time it was she who was gripping Intellos’s hand pulling him to follow. The man and woman were quick to follow.

  After a quick twist and turn, they pushed through a heavy door into the kitchen. It was the man who spoke first, "Yes, this will work nicely. Now, if the rest of your guests are not roused, I suggest you do so now. It will require every hand we have to defend your inn and our lives."

  “But they are not warriors,” stated Lupara in protest, “They are mostly merchants who have come for the trade show. There are some families as well.”

  “Even so,” said the woman, “we will need them.”

  “How can you ask them to fight when they cannot? I saw you outside. Both of you would have lost your lives had we not helped. And now you want those untrained in battle to fight alongside you?” she challenged.

  “How can we not?” retorted the woman.

  “We have not the time for this!” said the man, frustration lacing his words. “Di, go upstairs and wake everyone. Have those who cannot fight take shelter in the cellar,” he said. Turning to Lupara, he added, “I assume this inn has a cellar?”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered.

  “Good. Now go and wake everyone. We do not have any more time to waste,” he said as he surveyed the kitchen. The woman he referred to as Di looked to Lupara for directions to the stairs.

  “Go back out the door we came through, make a left turn and you will see the stairs at the end of the hall,” she said. Without hesitation, the woman warrior darted through the exit, her footfalls accelerating as she bounded to wake the inhabitants.

  “Who are you?” asked Lupara as she instinctively looked around the kitchen.

  “Who am I?” repeated the man. “That is quite a complex question, one we do not have time for. Do you have any cooking oil stored here?”

  “How do I,” she said, but then looked to Intellos and back to the man, “How do we know you are really here to help us?”

  “I do not think they mean us harm, Lupara,” interjected Intellos. They both glanced toward the ceiling when they heard the first of the footfalls from the wakening guests.

  “Perhaps you should go with Di,” said the man looking at Lupara. “A friendly face will do well to settle the minds of your guests.”

  She looked to Intellos who put his hand on her face and said, “It will be ok. I will be ok. Please, go with her to help your guests. They will need to see you to believe her.” Lupara silently nodded and returned his gesture by kissing him firmly. After a second, she turned and sprinted toward the stairs. Both men watched her leave waiting for her to be out of earshot.

  “What are we really up against?” asked Intellos.

  “What do you mean?” asked the man.

  “Come now, that was no rabble of raiders we saw you and your woman battling. They were coordinated and precise. Not to mentioned skilled. I may not know much, but I know they were not natural. Of that, I am sure,” he said.

  “You are right. They are not natural. If they were, we would have had no problem dismissing the few we fought. But their movements were just different enough to give them the advantage, one that I fear we would not have been able to overcome without your assistance. For that, we owe you our lives,” said the man as he put his hand on Intellos’s shoulder.

  “I only did what anyone would have done. But let us not worry about that debt now. How many more can we expect to face?” he asked. They both looked up again when more and more footfalls could be heard as well as the faint sounds of language, rushed and harsh.

  “At least one hundred. They are organized and efficient. We have been following them for several days hoping they would lead us to our friends,” he said.

  “One hundred?” interrupted Intellos. “That is no raiding party indeed, but a force set upon a mission.”

  “Yes, we both agreed
on that when we first crossed paths with them,” said the man.

  “Where did they come from?” asked Intellos.

  The man was about to answer, but when both he and Intellos heard the sounds of the first of the tavern’s patrons descending the stairs, he held his silence and instead motioned toward the steps. Intellos quickly understood their discussion would have to be postponed for later, until they were alone. Having been in a position of the highest level of leadership in the realm, he understood the necessity of maintaining a sort of ignorance among those he led. There were those who were meant to make decisions, and those who were not. And those who were not were often times ill-equipped to deal with the knowledge of grave situations. So, it became a necessity to withhold information for the betterment of the situation. He wished it was not so, but it was. Soon after, more and more of the patrons had gathered in the kitchen. When both the woman called Di, and Lupara entered the kitchen and indicated that all were present, the man addressed them.

  “I do not have time to explain anything right now. But this inn is under attack, and the town will soon be next,” at the mention of attack, the gathered people started looking around, some eyes tearing up in fear. Understandably so, the commotion took the strong voice of the man to quell, “Good people!” he continued, “Listen to me! Yes, we are under attack, but all is not lost. If we can hold them off until the city guard arrives, we should all live. But for that to happen, I will need you all to do as I say.”

  “Why should we listen to you?” asked a man from the crowd of thirty people.

  “Because he has my trust,” answered Lupara. “And all of you know I do not give that away freely. We have already seen him defending this inn this night. So, listen and listen well unless any of you have any experience in battle?” she let the question hang in the rebuked silence. “No? I thought not. Very well, continue,” she said.

  “We do not have much time. If you cannot fight, you will wait in the cellar until the guards come. If you can fight and have arms, retrieve them from your rooms and meet us back here quickly.”