War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  The stranger leaned in close to Arne’s ear. “Whaddya say? Want to teach this two-timing-adulterizer a lesson?”

  Yes…yes I do. The stranger tapped Arne’s shoulder, and a surge of strength brought the sergeant fully to his feet, the fog of his mind clearing in an instant. A fist took him solidly in the left cheek, and he was back on the ground. He tasted dirt on his lips as anger surged within him. He is not worthy of her! Fucking, piece of shit!

  “Ah!” yelled the stranger, “You’ve felled my champion! Nono…shit! I’m very sorry, but I can’t get involved! St-whoa! Stop that!” Feet scuffled somewhere behind Arne. Clothes ruffled as Jon’s punches found nothing but air.

  “Stand still you little shit!”

  Arne stood, rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck. He turned around to witness the stranger dodging Jon’s blows deftly.

  “Look, my friend!” shouted the stranger as he continued to defy natural motion. “He’s trying to kill me! He’s flown into a murderous rage, and I can do naught to stop him! Who is to say he won’t do the same to the one he loves?!”

  “NO!” Arne roared. He sprinted the small distance and tackled Jon in the back. The two fell to the ground in a huff of dust and fists. I’ll not let you harm her! They rolled until Arne found himself atop other and, in a storm of punches and elbows, he landed blow after blow into the other man’s face. Blood splattered on the road below them. Jon reached up and grabbed Arne’s chin with one hand that Arne batted away and pinned to the ground before he drove his forehead into Jon’s nose with a sickening crunch. Jon stilled. Arne did not.

  Arne woke from the nightmare to the sound of a saw chewing wood. For a brief moment he thought himself still at the Rooster, drool on his chin and an empty mug of ale draped in limp fingers. But no, the darkness around him was complete. It was still early morning as the sun was yet to rise, and the street’s lampposts were still some distance from his spot in the alley. The sawing stopped and a harsh ripping followed. Arne looked over.

  The stranger crouched over Jon’s body, his fingers deep into the man’s stomach. He plucked and pulled the entrails, examining bowels, muscles, and organs as one would fruit at a stand. The stranger threw a bean shaped piece of meat over his shoulder and put his elbows on his knees with a look of disappointment. His eyes found Arne’s wide-eyed expression and smiled. The façade was gone. There was no man in a noble’s suit. Only a creature.

  “Well,” said the creature, “we can certainly use some of it I suppose. They just don’t make ‘em like they use to. Gods, I’d kill for a virgin right now. Or three.”

  Arne looked the figure up and down. Fear, sudden and powerful, clouded his thoughts, and the only words he could squeak were incoherent at best. Oh gods…Jon…

  “Oh, don’t worry,” the creature said. “He wasn’t who you think he was. This is just some random fellow who’s only purpose in this story is to fulfill my own dark designs. Boy, you really bashed his face in good, didn’t you? And this poor guy was just trying to get laid! By the way, if this guy really was the guy you were thinking, I very much doubt the pretty lady would have let you go on a wild ride with her fun bits.” The figure leaned to the dead man and wrapped a lock of stringy hair in a knife-like finger. It breathed the scent of the corpse and sighed in pleasure. It wore a mask of thin leather, and for a moment it was displaced, showing the decayed musculature underneath. Arne looked around the alley to the distant lamp, plotting escape, and with only a moment’s hesitation was on his feet. The creature was in front of him before Arne could take more than two steps.

  “Rude,” it said. “After all we’ve been through, you’re just going to run? You’ve just committed murder, my friend.” No…I…I didn’t know… “Not to mention the goddamn witness you let walk out of here! But not to worry! I’m here for you!” It snaked an unnaturally lean arm around Arne’s shoulder, “And uh…that brings me to the bad news. You’re going to have to kill that one too.” It sucked in an apologetic breath.

  Unable to move, Arne meekly opened his mouth to protest. Nononono…I cant!

  “Hey, whoa! I don’t make the rules here, friend! But…if we want to break them…we’ll have to do a little more dirty work.”

  “I can’t…I can’t do that…” Arne finally managed.

  “Oh, honey.” Serrated fingers pinched Arne’s cheeks lightly. “Let’s get the suspense out of the way. I’m not going to tell anyone, unless you don’t do as I say. Because then I just can’t let a murder go unreported. I mean, that wouldn’t be very neighborly of me. Oh, I’m jesting, you caught me!” It raised its arms in an act of surrender. “In fact, I admire your work; you beat the shit outta that guy! Good for you!”

  I didn’t know! Arne’s breath became ragged as panic filled him.

  “Oh, my boy, we are going to have so much fun! But first things first, you must tell me everything you know about that woman. And please, don’t pretend you don’t know exactly who I’m talking about.”

  Arne started, but swallowed his voice. He did know. He nodded.

  “Good,” it said. “Now, before we begin, give me your finger.”

  Arne reflexively curled his hand into a fist. “Why?” he asked softly.

  It leaned forward. “Because I need to make a call.”

  Murder wiped its blades. The cloth, already filthy, did little to bare away the dark blood stains of its knives, their serrated edges clogged with clunks of dead skin and human waste. It paused a moment and wiped its brow with the back of its hand. I usually don’t do this kind of work. The morning was cool but did little for the sweat that streamed off his face; steam practically unfolded from his head and shoulders, as though the Lord of Murder had just walked through fire. A river rolled before the creature, bubbling softly, the only sound in the darkness. The body in front of it, Arne’s first victim, lay in pieces. Each wrapped in linen and tied to stones. Dragging the body here unseen had been easy enough, but the physical effort was slightly unanticipated.

  “Who is this?” the voice came like a giant’s whisper. Murder looked and found the Lord of the Hunt leaning against a tree. Covered in furs, his mask was that of a boar, complete with tusks and golden eyes. Oh joy, he got my message, Murder thought.

  “No one you need concern yourself with,” Murder replied. “Just taking care of a little business.”

  “How have you summoned me? And how are you here? The gates are closed.”

  “Not to the one who has a key. As to the how, it’s not important. I’ve a job for you.” Murder gathered the first of the man’s legs and heaved it into the river with a grunt.

  “I am not at your beck and call.”

  “Clearly,” Murder replied. “Please. Just stand there. I don’t need any help.” It heaved the second leg.

  “Sarcasm is lost on me,” Hunt said, unmoved.

  Murder was breathing hard as it grabbed the torso. “No shit. So, anyway…I think I’ve found our little lost sheep. To which I think He will be very pleased.” Murder could not throw the torso, so it settled for laying the once-broad chest on the riverbank and kicking it into the current with the tip of his big toe.

  “If you’ve already found her…” Hunt started.

  “Well, that’s just the thing. I could see her—at least I thought I could—but then everything went blurry,” interrupted Murder. “Someone is hiding her.”

  Hunt nodded slowly. “I see. How am I to hunt our quarry with nothing to track?”

  Murder drew something and from its tattered cloak and threw it to Hunt before he continued his work. Hunt caught it out of the air and examined it: a man’s forefinger. Murder grabbed the dead man’s head in one hand and a leg in the other and threw them into the river as Hunt took in the scent.

  “Got it off a man who danced with her. Just this night,” Murder confided.

  “Not much to work with, but…yes, Arienaethin is definitely there.”

  Murder sat against a tree wearily, taking deep breaths of the cool morning air. It looke
d up at Hunt with a toothy smile. “So, whaddya say? You up for an old-fashioned hunt…Hunt?”

  The Lord of the Hunt grimaced, looked again at the finger, and nodded.

  8

  The Women’s Council

  Sergeant Arne Baylor stumbled into the mess hall, wearing his uniform from the night before, stained and odorous as it was. He found an empty bench and sat heavily. He put his head in his hands, willing the tears away and feeling very strange indeed. He had killed a man…and a woman. Try as he had, he could not wash the blood from his hands, or remove the bits of bone that did not belong to him from his knuckles. That creature…

  “Sergeant?” Arne jumped. Ham, Hersh, Rom, and Beeter all collapsed around him, each holding a bowl of porridge and some bread. “Not eating today? Watching your figure?”

  Arne ignored the remarks and rubbed his eyes.

  “Ya know, Sarge,” said Ham through bites, “some bread might help that hangover. Bath’s not out of the question neither.”

  “You get some ass last night, Sarge? She wear you out?”

  “Must have been a fit one to have you with your head so near your ass.”

  Laughter. Arne rubbed his eyes harder, trying to drown out their voices.

  “Who was it? Was it Vannah?”

  “Nah it couldn’t have been, she was making doe eyes at Ham all night.”

  “She was not…was she?”

  “Ah yeah. You like ‘em curvy don’t ya? You should take a swing.”

  “I do like ‘em curvy…”

  He could hear it now. The sawing of bones and meat. Please stop. Please make it stop.

  “Was it Jenny? She was mad something fierce at West last night.”

  “I saw her walking off with Will with his hand halfway up her dress.”

  “Fuckin’ hell.”

  “Had some hopes did ya?”

  The woman from the wagon, the witness, struggled against his arm around her neck as the creature applauded…

  “Speaking of West, you see his girl last night? I mean, what the hell? He is not that good looking.”

  “That’s what I said!”

  SHUT THE FUCK UP!

  Arne’s hand trembled as he rubbed the fresh bite in his fingers. He froze when he touched the bandage over a finger that was no longer there, and the pain came rushing back to him. Ohgodsohgodsohgods…

  “I was saying we should all go north and see if we can’t find her sisters.”

  “Now that’s thinking. No wonder you’re the corporal. Did you see the way she danced? Think of the things she could do to you…”

  The cold calculating voice found his thoughts. “Oh, my boy, we are going to have so much fun!”

  The table was silent, and Arne was standing with his hands over his ears.

  “You okay, Sarge?” Rom asked.

  Arne looked over the squad and tried to slow his breathing. He swallowed. “I have to go.” He quickly moved away from them, ignoring the stares from the other tables.

  “Sarge! Are we skipping morning routines? The scary new captain said it wasn’t optional! Sarge!?”

  “Should we follow him?”

  “I really don’t think we should skip routines.”

  “Yeah…but he really don’t look right.”

  “Was he missing a finger?”

  The Council chamber was in the town square opposite the House of Law and the Mayoral Office. The two-story structure was well kept and sported a fair share of greenery and flowers impeccably maintained. A woman’s touch, it certainly had. The first floor was a dedicated waiting area. Potted plants, a small bubbling fountain and lavish furniture were strategically placed to provide a sense of both comfort and propriety. The windows were open, and the wind played with the colorful curtains. The smells of the outdoors had no sway over the floral scents of the indoor garden or the cinnamon tea brewing somewhere beyond Jon’s line of sight.

  It all made him very uncomfortable.

  “Well,” said Ana, “this is a welcome change.”

  “Yeah,” he replied. He had never been to this place before and felt he was at a large tactical disadvantage. A woman he did not recognize descended the intricately carved staircase.

  “Jon West,” she greeted. She wore a humble robe of a low tier noble, but her hands and skin were stained from the farm and the sun. She took his hand in hers and met his eyes. Though weathered, her face told him of a life of laughter, but in her eyes, she concealed a sadness. She smiled now. “I understand you’re married.”

  He understood his reply to this statement was very important. He puffed a small breath. “Am I?”

  Her smile touched her ears. She let go of his hand and turned to Ana, allowing him to release his nervous breath. Ana showed none of the same anxiety as she and the woman touched hands politely.

  “Ana, my name is Maerko. On behalf of Errol’s Fortune, I welcome you.”

  “Thank you,” Ana replied, but there was something in her voice gave Jon pause. “This place is beautiful and most welcoming.”

  “Your accent is wonderful. I must hear more of it.” Maerko turned to Jon. “Jon, they’ve cleared the docket this morning and await upstairs. Run along now. Ana, would you join me for some tea?”

  Jon’s eyes went from the waiting stairs to Ana’s face. She returned his regard with an annoyed expression and gestured for him to do as he was told. Oh boy. He climbed the winding staircase cautiously, having only superficial knowledge of what awaited him above. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Ana and Maerko making their way to a table set for two. He paused long enough to gather his breath and approached the top of the stair.

  Much like below, the room above was full of comfort and light, with comfortable seating and bright décor that harnessed an autumn flair for yellows and reds and oranges. The open windows displayed a view of the town just waking. Tenants of the Four, priests of the once thriving church, laid out bread and water across the steps of their modest home as the poorest of the townsfolk made their daily pilgrimage. Shopkeepers brought goods to their stands, managing carts and a semblance of breakfast with ease. Guardsmen traded shifts, and the remnants of the drunk or hungover weaved their ways home. Two women sat on a sofa directly beneath one such window, while a third prepared tea. All three watched Jon silently with hawkish eyes. He stepped quietly into the center of the room, his gaze gathering details—one in particular: he had never seen these women before. He knew most of the townsfolk in passing, if not with some intimacy. If he did not, he knew their look well enough to know they belonged here. These three hailed from somewhere else, and their beauty was striking.

  The first sat with her arm draped around the back of the couch; hair the color of fire in exquisite braids fell across her shoulders. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes both blue and orange, and her skin a warm brown, smooth enough to suggest the coloration was not from years in the sun. The second, sitting next to the first, had darker skin than any Jon had seen this far north of the Hyperion Range. Her head was shaven, her eyes so brown as to be nearly black. The third was adding honey to her tea; long white hair and violet eyes met his as her thin face spread into a predatory smile. Jon stayed where he was in the middle of the room. The three said nothing as they watched him, and the silence was deafening. These are not the Women’s Council. He moved slowly to the chair opposite the two in the couch, wary that his movements might startle them to violence. When he sat, the white-haired beauty approached, her feet gliding across the floor in a wistful dance, and placed the cup she had been stirring into his hands. Her smile never changed as he accepted the cup. He met her eyes briefly before glancing to the marking on the back of her hand. Aden. She danced away, and he was left holding the cup in perfect stillness as his mind made leaps.

  The Red, the White, the Black.

  Watching, they wait.

  They know your fate.

  The Red, the White, the Black.

  A children’s rhyme. One his own people had shared, and one he had heard the
sung in playful circles in the streets below. Like most rhymes, Jon had never much paid attention nor pondered their meaning, but he did know that this one referred to the Wise. A council of three goddesses, or near the like, that knew all that had ever happened and served the Lord of Fate.

  “You can see the wheels turning.” He looked up to see the Red and the Black regarding him as the White stared out a window. Jon remained silent.

  The Red placed her cup in her lap. “He does seem deep in thought.”

  “Struck by the lightning I should think,” said the White.

  “Is he mute? Were all Natherans as such?” asked the Black.

  “He weighs his options,” the Red replied. “He thinks our intentions malicious.”

  “Are they?” pondered the White.

  As one, they looked at him begging an answer.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

  “A wise answer,” purred the Red with a smile. “No. You needn’t worry; we are not here to harm you nor Arienaethin. But caution would not be imprudent.”

  “Then…why are you here?” he asked.

  The Red spread her hands. “To assess your marriage of course.”

  Jon stared. “Really?”

  “An interesting deception,” remarked the Black. “Smart, even, though perhaps too late.”

  “Perhaps it was always his plan,” added the White.

  The Red bristled. “If that is true, then it is a dangerous gamble. Her thread is already quite frayed.”

  The Black leaned toward Jon. “Can it be remade I wonder?”

  “The last Natheran is an interesting piece to play. This one is long removed from the line, but there is power. It is waiting,” purred the White.

  “Is it enough?” asked the Red.

  The Black picked up her cup. “Time will tell.”

  Context clues led Jon through circles of grand imagination. He knew the legend of his lineage was somehow connected to the gods and their wars, but hearing such aloud from goddesses in casual conversation made him uneasy. He was also fairly certain that the plan they’d mentioned wasn’t referring to his marriage ruse.