by Nero Seal
His wound oozed with hotness, and at some point, despite knowing better, he pulled the knife out of his stomach. The streets that never die stood desolate, just like the soul he never knew he possessed. He’d heard the words depression and apathy before, but he thought that people made them up, they seemed so unrealistic to him. Now he understood how dull and scary life was without desires.
Ozone suffused the air, and Slater felt the cool tongue of a strong breeze on his neck.
“Huh…” He tilted his head, tagging the freshness into his lungs. “That must be how death is. So cold. So lonely. And smells like ozone…”
His mind trailed to Camilla. She didn’t smell like ozone.
Maybe this is how smokeless fire smells in contact with water? Does water kill smokeless fire? Slater took in the stormy sky, his adrenaline dropped and his body shook. He knew he would collapse within half an hour, maybe sooner, if he didn’t treat the wound, yet he didn’t care. Water deluged his eyes and gushed down his neck, and at that moment, all the mosques started the Fajr prayer[25]. It’s sunrise already?
He searched the sky in vain for evidence of the sun.
Huh? Funny, as if the sun died. I hoped to see the color, the same as Master’s eyes. He cocked his head. I guess this is how Iblīs dies. He doesn’t deserve sun, because he’s weak. Will Iblīs be disintegrated now? Is it why it smells like ozone? Is it why Slater is so cold and empty? Is it what happens when Master wins?
His exhausted mind, never finding rest, jumped from one memory to another. He remembered how his attachment to Talha had grown. How he realized that his eyes had been following the powerful frame of his Master not out of boredom, but with curiosity and weird fascination. He’d enjoyed the sounds of Master’s calm voice, his battling expressions when Slater irritated him, and his detailed explanations of things Slater didn’t understand. Meaningless things that made Master look… borderline to weak, yet somehow strong. Captivating.
And the pivoting moment of Slater’s attraction had been the Royal Game.
5 YEARS AGO
CROUCHING ON THE MANSION’S roof, Slater couldn’t keep his fingers from curling in powerless fury. The heat, rising from the tile toasted under the vicious summer sun, assaulted his skin and his unblinking eyes. Yet, he never lowered his gaze, watching his master load his car, ready to leave for the Royal Game.
Talha’s words still echoed in his head, repeating over and over for him not to follow, not to kill, not to leave the house. Giving Slater the final instructions, Talha had warned him that the security was set to guard the perimeter with the permission to shoot Slater if he engaged. Looking Slater in the eye, Talha had asked if he needed to explain what would happen if one of his men died. Slater said nothing, and Master reminded him of the reason the Royal Game had been called, to begin with.
The cellphone chimed. Slater inched forward, fingers gripping the edge of the scorching roof in front of him. Freezing in a gargoyle pose, he turned all ears.
“Oh, Ejder, selamün aleyküm[26]. Where are you?” Talha’s face lit up as he put a C-shaped unstrung bow into the trunk. Slater’s eyes glued to the weapon as his fingers itched to touch it.
He had never seen a Turkish bow in real life, and he couldn’t wait to see what it would be like once ready; to caress the textures of horn, wood, and sinew; to draw a string and feel an arrow vibrate with pressure in his hand. One of the most efficient ‘cold’ weapons ever devised lay mere feet away from him, yet unreachable.
“Ready for some hunting?”
The sound of Talha’s voice hurled him out of his daydreaming, his cheek twitched. So, Slater is an outsider; Slater doesn’t understand; Slater isn’t good enough because Slater is a foreigner, but Ejder can? How is it fair?
“Yes, Ejder. Great, meet me at the farmhouse.”
Slater was loyal. Slater waited. Slater gave Master time, but Master doesn’t want to understand.
“No, Dinçer is taking him.”
Dinçer? He didn’t even have a scratch, yet he is going as well. Slater was in the mosque, like Dinçer. Slater has the right to be there. Slater wants to use the bow! Stupid Master...
Rage urged him to climb down the drainpipe. Snaking out of the bush, he froze behind Talha. So close, he could easily send a needle into the man’s nape, yet Talha never noticed.
So careless… You can’t even see me in the daylight, yet you refuse Iblīs’ protection…
“So long, Kardeşim.” Talha hung up.
“How many Royal Games were there, Master?”
Talha’s body tensed for a brief, dissatisfying moment, before the calm reply sounded, “I’m not sure. This is my second.” Slamming the trunk closed, he spun. “Why?”
Their eyes locked. Being sucked into the liquid amber, Slater thought that maybe Dinçer was right and Master would never accept him, would never treat him like his own, would never rely on him.
Maybe, if Master had no one, things would be different.
“No reason, Master. Have fun!” Raising his hands in surrender, Slater smiled, his anger draining as an idea formed in his head.
For a long moment, Talha examined his face with a furrow between his brows. “No matter what, don’t leave the house.”
“Don’t worry, Master. Slater will be good.” His grin widened, causing Talha’s frown to deepen.
Without saying another word, Talha got into his bulletproof Audi A7 and guided the car to the driveway. The cloud of dust, swirling in the air, grayed Slater’s black combat pants.
The car disappeared behind the gates. Slater squatted and examined the tire print. You wanna have some fun, Master? But what fun is it to chase a harmless victim? Why don’t we change the rules?
His finger glided over the tire texture before he got to his feet and raced toward the fence.
No one stopped him.
SLATER’S BLACK, DUAL SPORTS motorcycle caught up with Talha’s car in half an hour. The backpack heavy on his shoulders, Slater slowed down, and for the next three hours, he had to stop every now and then to grab some sugary treats, equipment, and allow a bigger distance, so his bike wouldn’t rub in Talha’s face.
Tracking down Talha became easier when he took a country road. In the dry dirt, Slater’s eyes picked up his tire print as if it was luminescent. By the time he arrived at the farmhouse that bordered both, the forest and the clear field, many expensive cars were parked on the driveway.
Leaving his motorcycle in the forest, Slater camouflaged it with a green and brown military cover and tree branches, then stole toward the farmhouse.
Horses had already been saddled and stood outside. Their soft huffing and neighs of anticipation joined the low buzzing of the summer field and the smell of mown grass and manure.
Lurking in the shadows, he crept up to one. Stronger than the others, it was probably prepared for someone heavy. Its dun coat glazed with pink in the setting sun, which only accented the white star mark on its forehead.
The horse’s ears twitched as it pawed the ground, but Slater, catching the reins, patted its nose. Calming down, the animal let him closer.
“Easy,” Slater hissed, stroking the horse’s side before he slipped his palm under the girth and grabbed the saddle buckle. Pushing the throwing needle out of the loop, he shoved it between the metal parts and used it as a lever. With a decent effort, the tongue and layer broke off, releasing the belt. Fiddling with it, he reassembled the whole thing so it appeared whole again.
Swallowing the sweet taste of victory, he drifted into the foliage, waiting. People inside the house drank and ate; the glee in the air so potent it made him sick. Through the windows, he caught the glimpses of Talha too. With his hair messy and changed into a long-sleeve black shirt with epaulets and black cargo pants, he looked younger. For some reason, his confident look rubbed Slater the wrong way. He shrunk back into the woods.
The sun hovered above the forest. Slater had grown tired of waiting when men littered the small farmyard. He recognized most of them, but s
ome new faces wore gloomy, dark expressions. Watching them move, Slater suspected that they were related to those who died in the shootout. Simple-mannered, they lacked that predatory aura Talha’s men possessed.
A few people carried bows, but most of them seemed terribly underequipped for a three-day-long hunt. Slater wondered if the main equipment was stored in the hunting lodge. He regretted not checking. Ruining a few bows sounded fun. Too bad it was too late now.
Attaching saddlebags, Talha’s men checked the horses, before mounting them. Blindfolded and with his hands cuffed in front of him, Salik was forced onto the spare horse that was bound to the gray one Dinçer rode. Güvenç strode to the beige horse with the white marking. Slater grinned. He was right about that horse, and he suspected that the black Arabian stallion waited for Talha.
When Master left the house, Slater counted the men.
“Eighteen little mafia boys went out to hunt…” Mood lifting, Slater murmured under his breath as he watched Güvenç tug the horse toward the wooden fence to mount it. Using the lower bar for support, Güvenç shoved his foot in the stirrup, huffed, and threw his leg over the horseback. The buckle fell apart. The saddle slipped, and Güvenç’s back flopped across the wooden fence. The top bar snapped in two under his weight; he tumbled onto the ground, his bushy head resting in manure.
Someone cackled, someone dismounted and rushed toward him. Güvenç sat up, gasped, palmed the spot on his lower back, and fell back onto the ground.
Satisfied, Slater grinned and jogged toward the forest, leaving the commotion behind.
“One broke his back, and then there were seventeen.”
Slater didn’t need to keep his eyes on them. They made so much noise and left so many trails that even a blind person couldn’t lose them. Slater wasn’t blind.
Even though Slater didn’t ride a horse, he didn’t have a problem keeping up. The forest was dense enough to allow him to walk close to his Master yet stay hidden in the foliage. Riding the black Arabian stallion, Talha led the group down a narrow path. Not frequently used, it overgrew with weeds, and Talha had to shield his face with his arm from stray twigs.
The sun ducked behind the horizon when the group reached the hunting lodge. The large, two-story building resembled a small fortress with stone and wooden cladding and vertical arrow slits that were shielded from inside. Golden light streamed out of wide windows, welcoming the travelers. Each window had a metal rolling shutter above.
By the sole look of the house, Slater knew the hunt won’t begin here. Located in an open space, it provided a hunted person the opportunity to set traps or trail back the way they’d come. Slater winced, realizing that he had to spend a whole night in the forest, full of mosquitoes, spiders, snakes, and centipedes; his good mood dispersed.
A few locals left the building. Greetings exchanged, they took care of horses, as the travelers disappeared indoors.
Through the windows, Slater saw Talha going upstairs. The second floor lit up with golden light. Slater craved to go inside and stay in the same room. It was his place, his right. It was the part of the deal his master refused to keep.
A sting to his neck got him going. Though horseflies disappeared with dusk, mosquitoes never stopped their feast.
By the time Slater completed a circle around the lodge, most windows blacked out. The atmosphere calmed down, and after exploring the vicinity, Slater extracted a linen sac out of his backpack and went snake-hunting.
A WHITE, TIGHT SHIRT RIPPED around Talha’s biceps; he stood in front of his people, glorified with the morning sun. At that moment, he didn’t look like a mafia boss. He didn’t look like someone Slater would want to call Master at all. Young, too young, Talha held a quiver of black arrows in his hand. His voice too loud in the morning serenity as he explained the rules.
“Salik will be given two hours headstart before the chase begins. While we wait, you are welcome to use the archery targets to refresh your skills.” With the quiver, Talha pointed toward the archery stands lined up against the house. “Before the hunt begins, you will pick colors for your arrows. Each arrow hitting Salik’s body will bring you ten thousand Euros. Please remember, that any lost arrow is a potential weapon for Salik. You aren’t allowed to use firearms, but in close combat, you can use knives. If you separate from the group supervised by one of the juries and manage to wound Salik, you are obligated to use a signal gun to summon a juror to confirm the shot. I repeat, you aren’t allowed to aim at vital organs. To receive the reward, you must summon a juror. You aren’t allowed to pull the arrow out of the wound until a member of the jury arrives.
“Rüzgar, Abdullah, Ismail, Burak, and Deniz are the jury. Please, step forward.” Five men separated from the crowd. “They are here to keep the hunt fair for everyone.”
Slater stopped listening, watching Dinçer saddle two horses. While Talha explained the remaining rules, Dinçer brought Salik to the yard, then thrust him up on one animal. Taking the remaining horse, they galloped west, disappearing in the woods.
Slater’s chest heated with anticipation, he hooked the hissing sack with a long stick and rushed after the horses.
ONE HOUR LATER, when Dinçer abandoned the kneeling Salik in the middle of a small forest glade, Slater glanced at the sun. It froze between the forest and zenith, and Slater thought that it must be around ten AM.
Following Dinçer’s instruction, Salik counted to sixty before he removed his blindfold. His upper lip curled as he squinted at his surroundings, at the sky, then down at his khaki pants. Getting to his feet, he rushed west.
Entering the glade, Slater hummed as he examined the tracks. Trampled down grass was quickly recovering, suggesting that the trail would disappear within twenty minutes. Following Salik, he jogged to the outskirt where grass thinned out and discovered a clear footprint. Without thinking, he stepped over the print and pressed. Removing his foot, he squatted. The sole of his boot, a fraction bigger than Salik’s, crushed the original print, but his experienced eye picked up the outlines of two feet. Still, it was better than nothing.
“Let’s make the odds even, shall we, Master?” Stomping as hard as he could, Slater rushed in the opposite direction. Reaching the stream, he followed it down for a mile, before returning to the glade to start over again, but this time going north.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Slater returned to the glade, happy with the result. About a dozen trails led from here in every direction; and he hoped that his efforts were enough to confuse Talha’s people, at least for an hour. Picking up Salik’s footprints, Slater followed him step by step, making sure he reprinted the trail with the texture of his military boots.
NEXT TIME HE SAW a small group of Talha’s people, the sun had traveled over the sky for another twenty degrees. Five men. Slater recognized their faces, but he couldn’t remember their names. At any other time, the group wouldn’t catch his interest as Talha wasn’t in it, but the horses trotted through the forest following Salik’s trail. According to Slater’s estimation, if they kept going, they would catch up with Salik within twenty minutes.
The familiar throbbing sensation settled in his fingertips, urging him to touch the comforting coolness of a knife. He could already imagine the beauty of the scene with so much blood in it that the green moss would turn red. He could stick their heads on spikes, draw some meaningless symbols on the ground, maybe even fill their stomachs with snakes, to add to the picture. His head filled with imaginary screams of terror, sending a rush of endorphins down his spine. His fingers curled and a warm throwing needle fell into the crook of his palm.
The seconds ticked, yet he didn’t throw the needle.
‘Do I need to explain what would happen if one of my men dies?’ the ice of Talha’s words cooled him down. Reluctantly, Slater inserted the needle into the sheath and clicked his tongue.
“Nah-nah-nah, not so fast. I can’t kill you yet, but… What fun would it be if the game is this easy?” Fetching a simple Y-shaped stick out of hi
s backpack, he picked a stone, aimed, and struck the leading stallion under the tail. The horse reared, kicked the second-in-chain horse in the muzzle, before throwing the rider off and galloping away. Slater hoped that the noise created would be enough to reach Salik and speed him up or, at least, make him more careful.
Messing with tracks, he kept breaking branches and leaving misleading footprints in obvious places, making Talha’s people bump into each other over and over.
At some point, he spotted a wasp hive which he cut off a tree along with the branch. Earning a few stings, he carefully mined the buzzing ‘bomb’ on a path of one group before retreating.
A poor horse, stomping on it, freed the angry swarm. Even from seventy feet away he could see the black swarm rushing from one man to another, cocooning the riders and the horses. Chin resting on his fists, Slater observed the panic evolve into bedlam, and people galloping in every direction. Losing his interest in the deserted scene, Slater jogged into the woods.
DESPITE HIS EFFORTS, stupid Salik was a hair's breadth of being captured at least twice during the day. The idiot made too much mess and was too loud. Slater considered killing him, but his curiosity to see a real, one on one hunt overpowered. Whenever the distance between Salik and the hunters reduced, Slater had to drag attention to himself. It was troublesome, tiring.
By the end of the first day, the number of people capable of continuing the hunt shrunk to thirteen. Night fell, merging the groups for camping, and once again, despite his efforts, they picked up Salik’s trail. Such a huge group was complicated to approach. Slater caught himself thinking that murdering them would be easier now when they were all snuggled around the fire.
Splitting them without causing serious damage was troublesome, but Slater still wavered. Despite the irritation Talha caused, there was something about the man that attracted him. Slater wasn’t sure if it was his patience, or the way he took care of people around him, or something else. Whatever it was, it didn’t let him break the last link.
