Curse of the Red Evil

by Zel Spasov

  The only reason he’d lived through that day was the mercy of his assailants. Or their cruelty. They’d left him alive, thinking he wouldn’t dare to stand in their way again. What they hadn’t predicted was that the experience would strengthen his confidence and determination to succeed instead.

  Up ahead, the corridor turned left. Around the corner, two guards were speaking. Monsieur Gèroux approached the spot slowly to listen in on their conversation.

  “Did you hear what happened today?” asked the first guard.

  “No, what?”

  “The queen captured Cayden Starosta. It turned out he was hiding in The Simmering Cauldron. She arrested him as he was drinking his beer. Can you imagine? At last, the traitor will be hanged.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I'm serious,” said the first watchman. “They are going to execute him tomorrow at dawn before we march to Agapea. To raise the spirit of the troops, you know. But they’re keeping it quiet for now, so don’t tell anyone.”

  “How do you know, then?”

  “My aunt was cleaning the bedrooms and heard the queen talking about it. I’m telling you again, keep your mouth shut.”

  “Where are they holding him now?”

  “In the dungeons, of course, together with two of his accomplices—a rabbit and a sloth. They’re keeping them in the cells at the bottom of the western wing, just after Big Nino.”

  “This is incredibly specific information you’re giving me,” said the second watchman. “What if they escape or someone breaks them out? I've heard that the Sloth is a frightening foe.”

  “Well, they don’t call me ‘Specific Steve’ for nothing. They’ve tied them up good, so there’s no chance of escape. And if someone wants to enter the dungeon, they need to know the password, and it changes every day. Today, it’s ‘rotten watermelons.’”

  “Again, this is very useful and detailed knowledge. If anyone was listening right now, they would know enough to free the prisoners.”

  “That's right,” Steve agreed. “Can you imagine what kind of idiots we would be if we’d just given our secrets away to the enemy? Ha, ha, ha. That would be so unlucky. I wouldn’t worry about it, though—even if someone did manage to get into the dungeon, it would be very difficult for them to release the prisoners. Only Nino has the keys, and he's built like a boulder.”

  “And even if someone sneaked past Nino,” said the second guard, “twenty guards would be waiting for them in the prison, and another hundred as backup in case the alarm goes off. If it was me, I would steal a guard’s uniform from this room here that we’re guarding.”

  “I see you’ve thought a lot about how to sneak into the dungeon.”

  “I had some free time.”

  “Anyway,” said Steve, “it doesn’t matter. The only way anyone would know about this is if they were listening in on our conversation. What are the chances of that happening?” Laughter followed his words.

  There was an awkward silence for a moment. Steve spoke again. “Say, what did they call you again?”

  “‘Lucky Lars.’”

  “Because you're very lucky?”

  “No, it's meant to be ironic because of my incredibly bad luck.”

  “Oh, no,” said the first guard, but it was too late.

  Bernard came out of his hiding spot with his sword in hand. In two single, uninterrupted motions, he punched Lucky Lars behind the ear, then hit Specific Steve in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, knocking them both unconscious. The headhunter hid their bodies inside the room they were guarding.

  He tried on several of the uniforms stashed in there until he found the right size for him. The attire consisted of a blue velvet tunic with the emblem of Queen Mira embroidered on the chest—a white hawk with its wings spread wide, holding a snake in its talons. Bernard put a metal breastplate, couters, and pauldrons over the tunic. On his waist he tied the standard guard’s scabbard, replacing the sword in it with his own. Monsieur Gèroux would never part with his weapon, which was the last thing left to him by his father.

  After the wolf made sure that the coast was clear, he headed for the dungeon. His armor chinked at every step.

  A faraway noise echoed between the walls of the castle. The sound was quiet but powerful, like a waterfall in the distance. Down the corridor, from an open door, light poured into the gloom of the hallway. As Bernard approached the light, the noise grew louder. The tremendous buzz and the clinking of utensils suggested a canteen behind the door. The soldiers stationed at the palace were having dinner. If he could slip past them, everything would be fine. So far, his luck had worked surprisingly well. Too well. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so lucky. Ah, yes, he thought. The time he’d fallen on the gang of bandits who were trying to ambush him and he had knocked them out. A cold chill ran down his spine as he recalled the subsequent assault of the rivaling gang of headhunters.

  Bernard believed that there was an equilibrium in the world. For every rich person, there was a beggar to balance the scales; for every moment of happiness, a moment of sadness. Every good thing that happened was followed by a calamity. Every time Lady Luck was on his side, there had to be a time when she wasn’t. Whenever he’d been as lucky as he was now, the consequences were usually terrible.

  If his experiences so far were an indicator, then his kismet was about to turn any moment now...

  “Why are you hanging out here? You'll miss dinner!”

  The words were followed by a slap on his back. A soldier with a rough face appeared on his right.

  “I haven’t seen you before,” said a second soldier with a scowl from his other side. “Pfft, rookie,” he added and walked into the hall.

  “Come on, rookie, get in quickly,” the first one said to him. His hand was still on Monsieur Gèroux's back.

  The wolf entered the enormous dining room.

  The brightly lit area was filled with long, wooden tables. A single one could fit a hundred soldiers. Bernard tried counting them but gave up when he reached twenty. Large steel chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Cooks with white hats pushed carts with food between the tables, dispensing it among the soldiers with metallic ladles. The meal itself didn’t look very appetizing—it was a colorless mush with a tiny piece of bread.

  The soldier led the wolf to one of the nearby tables and made him sit down, then sat on his right. On Bernard’s left was the other guard, who he’d encountered in the hallway. They didn’t say a word. The wolf's stomach was tied in a knot, and his heart was trying to escape through his throat. If he survived this encounter, he would worship the gods for the rest of his life.

  “When did they recruit you?” asked the soldier sitting on his left.

  “Today,” said the headhunter.

  “A newcomer, eh?” the soldier said. “You can’t wait to get your hands on some dirty Agapeans, can you?”

  “No, I can’t,” Bernard said through clenched teeth.

  “We'll slaughter every last one of those traitors,” said the one on the right. “The women and children too.”

  The wolf's blood started to boil. He could barely hold in his anger. Had they identified him? Maybe they were just toying with him, waiting for him to lose his cool and kill him when he revealed his identity.

  “The women we won’t kill right away,” the soldier on the left said with an evil grin. “First, we’ll have some fun with them.”

  The headhunter rolled his fists into balls of fury. His eyes were fixed on the mercenary.

  “We’ll let their families watch while we do it.”

  Monsieur Gèroux’s heart raced. The Presence in him started creeping to his limbs, taking over his body little by little. Bernard felt It was hurt and furious at the same time. An overwhelming hatred of all Windhaveners took hold of him. He concentrated on the scabbard hanging from his belt, so he would be ready to pull out his sword when it was time to kill the soldier on the left.

  “It seems our friend is getting ex
cited,” the mercenary said after seeing the wolf’s clenched fists. “This war is getting to you, isn’t it? What, you think I’m being too extreme? Do you think the Agapean whores deserve better treatment?”

  Bernard shivered, trying to contain the rage flowing through his body. He could cut the soldier’s throat in less than a second. Perhaps he would drop another one or two Windhaveners before the rest of them piled up on him. If they didn’t kill him then, they would execute him later, anyway. It was suicide.

  “What are you gonna do, buddy?” said the soldier. “Are you gonna attack me now?”

  The wolf's hand twitched. He reached for his sword...

  The cook dumped a bowl of mash and a piece of bread in front of him and his neighbors.

  “Enjoy,” the chef said in a sour voice.

  “Ha, look at how riled up the rookie got!” the Windhavener on the left said. “I'm kidding, wolfie. Don’t take yourself so seriously, or you might lose that head of yours.”

  While the soldiers ate, Monsieur Gèroux was overcome with fury. His own anger was reinforced by the foreign feelings of hatred in him. The wolf imagined the consequences of an assault on Agapea—the countless dead, the wailing of the dying, the weeping of the living... And somewhere in this nightmarish landscape, the bodies of Anna and the cubs, bleeding, the life in them extinguished. The idea made him shiver. By sheer force of will, he shoved his feelings back from where they had come.

  The hunter forced himself to grab the spoon and scoop the stew with it. He ordered his muscles to bring the spoon close to his mouth. Years of experience in the profession helped him regain his composure. He had come too close to his prey to allow himself to fail.

  This was a close call. However, it wasn’t time to relax just yet—the danger hadn’t passed. He inhaled the rest of the stew, muttered a “Goodbye,” and headed for the exit.

  He hadn’t taken two steps when the soldier who’d been sitting on his right stopped him with the words, “Where are you going, rookie?”

  “I'm on duty; I have to go back to my job,” lied Monsieur Gèroux.

  “Where are you stationed?” the soldier asked.

  Bernard swallowed. One wrong answer now could spell his death.

  “On the west tower,” he said.

  The Windhavener frowned. The wolf couldn’t tell whether the soldier believed him or if he’d just given himself away.

  “Who's your commanding officer?” he asked. “I may know him.”

  “Captain Samuel, I think he was called,” said Bernard. “I don’t remember names too well.”

  The soldier who’d been sitting on his left laughed.

  “Samuel?! That alcoholic has become a captain?! I have to see it with my own eyes to believe it!”

  “Yes, it's hard to believe,” his friend said quietly. “We won’t hold you any longer, rookie. You'd better hurry so you’re not late.”

  Bernard nodded and headed for the door. He could almost taste the freedom when the soldier who’d been sitting on his right said, “Just one more thing, rookie.”

  He rose from his seat and took a step toward the wolf. “That sword.” He pointed at the hilt of Bernard's blade. “It's not standard equipment.”

  “Yes,” the wolf said. “It was my father’s.”

  “It doesn’t matter, even if it was your grandmother’s,” the guard said. “Every soldier is obliged to carry the standard sword. There are no exceptions. It’s one of the first things they teach you.”

  “Apparently, I missed it,” said Monsieur Gèroux, and took a step back. He could see in the eyes of the Windhavener that his identity had been revealed. He put a hand on the hilt of his weapon.

  “Where did you come from?” the soldier asked. “Who sent you here, Agapean—”

  His words were drowned in the blood gushing from his neck. Bernard had drawn his weapon so quickly, he’d cut his throat before the soldier could react. His friend lunged at the headhunter with a blade in hand, but the wolf was much faster. He dodged the blow and swung his sword, cutting the tendon behind the soldier's knee. He grabbed his opponent’s hair, pulled his head back, and pierced him through the chest. Blood poured out on the ground like a dark-red fountain.

  Bernard turned around to meet the next wave of attackers. The soldiers in the dining room, who’d already recovered from the initial shock, pulled out their weapons and aimed them at the wolf.

  He opened the box where he’d closed the anger and the hatred and released them, letting them fill him up. The Presence in his mind roared in ecstasy as red mist covered his vision. A hellish thirst for blood he’d never experienced before overtook him. The Presence gave him unparalleled power and speed, allowing him to move faster than ever before. Its thirst for blood threatened to drown him, coming in waves, washing over him, then withdrawing, just to hit him again.

  He spat on the ground. If he was going to die, so be it. He was going to take as many Windhaveners with him as possible. The more enemies he slew, the greater the chance of Anna and the cubs surviving. And that was a cause worth dying for.

  “Come on, you cowards, what are you waiting for?!” he shouted.

  The soldiers surrounded him, cutting off his escape route. If he tried to flee, they would cut him down.

  The fury in him overflowed. He gave out a battle cry and lunged at his attackers, ready to slay everyone standing in his way. He killed three soldiers before they could launch a counterattack. The guards tried to cut him down, but he was too deft. His sword was a flash, too fast for the mortal eye to track. His enemies fell one after the other. Soon, a dozen corpses were lying on the floor.

  The soldiers stepped back and regrouped. They came at him with a coordinated attack. Bernard managed to block or evade the first few blows, but received several scratches on his hands and legs. His opponents were too many and were coming from all directions. They attacked again and immediately pulled away, tightening the circle around him. The wolf growled, turning in all directions. A small puddle of his own blood had gathered at his feet.

  “Cowards!” he shouted. “None of you dare to stand up against me alone!”

  The circle narrowed again. The headhunter swung his weapon wildly, killing a few more soldiers and receiving deep cuts in his arms and legs in return. He could no longer stand upright and fell to his knees. Still holding the sword in his hand, he grunted at the attackers. The circle became even tighter.

  Monsieur Gèroux closed his eyes, recalling Anna's image in his mind. He saw her face, looked into her loving eyes. He heard her begging him not to leave, to stay with her and the cubs. Why didn’t you listen to her...?

  He opened his eyes. A soldier in front of him had raised his weapon for a final blow. Bernard stabbed him in the stomach under the metal breastplate before he could strike him. The Windhavener fell to the ground, but the next attacker took his place. The headhunter couldn’t stop him.

  Suddenly, the soldiers surrounding Bernard flew in all directions...

  ***

  General Varvara Venari hurried down a dark corridor. The castle was dead quiet. The soldiers and the servants were eating in the dining hall, which meant she could walk untroubled. Right now, however, she was anything but calm.

  When Cayden's death sentence had been pronounced, Varvara’s failure to stop the upcoming war and prevent countless deaths had become a fact. Yet there was still hope.

  When she learned that Cayden had appeared in Agapea, she had known that his coming wasn’t coincidental. He was the missing part of her plan, the player who could tip the scales.

  Varvara remembered the day when Cayden Starosta had disappeared. Preparations for the Festival of Nine Moons were being carried out. It would be the first celebration after Cayden and Mira's marriage, and it promised to be the biggest one in a hundred years. Merchants carrying exotic drinks and food, artists, and ordinary people who wanted to celebrate with the royal couple gathered from near and far. On the first day of the festival, the sky was clear, the sun reflecting off t
he gleaming armor of the city guard. Varvara had been planning the festivities. There was a lot to do—the merchants' stalls had to be set up, places for the musicians had to be designated, she had to make sure that the pubs and the inns had enough ale, and so on. So absorbed had she been with the preparations for the feast that she hadn't noticed the dark clouds hanging over the city. The sun had disappeared, and lightning had flashed in the sky.

  It wasn’t a simple storm. Something was wrong in the castle. Some dark and sinister Presence touched the hearts of Agapeans that day. Varvara gathered a group of guards and headed for the palace, but it was too late. The Red Evil spread its tentacles, swallowing the city. There was no sign of Cayden.

  Mira, she, and a few thousand Agapeans had escaped by boats along the River Toska to Windhaven. They had witnessed the fall of their city. Like a giant sea monster swallowing a mighty ship, the Evil had enveloped the city walls and devoured Agapea. The screams of thousands of innocent creatures had filled the night, then faded. There was no one to help. Varvara had lost her loved ones. Her mother, her father, her brothers and sisters... They were dead because she’d failed to detect the coming threat. It was her responsibility to protect Agapea from such threats. She carried this guilt even to this day.

  Cayden could fix what had happened on that fateful day. Breaking him out from the prison in Agapea hadn’t gone smoothly. Nevertheless, Charles and the Sloth’s mission had been a success.

  The Sloth was a powerful weapon with no allegiance to any cause. He always did what he wanted. In this case, Varvara had been lucky that their goals were the same. Together with the Rabbit, they had been entrusted with the task of bringing Cayden to Windhaven. Varvara had hoped that he would be able to dissuade Mira from going to war with Agapea. Cayden was Varvara's last chance to break the walls the queen had built around her.

  She’d hired a smuggler to sneak the group into Windhaven, after which she had planned to meet them to discuss their next move. The plan had worked well until they’d arrived in the city. The queen’s network of informants had detected Cayden, informing Mira of his whereabouts. She had met him and had returned even more determined to go to war. Varvara didn’t know what was said between them, but her friend had crossed a point from which there was no return.