The Anari

by Adrianna J Tetnowski

  Already, Ariadna could hear the crunching of boots against stone from the other side of the hedges. The men patrolling the exterior of the manor were on high alert at the moment, considering there came no voices to accompany their steps. Ariadna decided she would wait a little longer, until the footsteps had disappeared, before giving further instructions to the others.

  The others seemed to sense Ariadna’s stillness even in the dark and they too were careful with how loud they breathed, or how quickly they shuffled in their saddles. The assassin had said it could be the end of all of them if this contract (which she refused to talk about) ended badly.

  All the others knew about it was that it involved Mallice Mara, some politician who neither mercenaries knew enough about; thanks to their constant travelling. As for Preeya – she certainly had no clue who this man was but, he would become Ariadna’s latest victim and for that reason alone, she was not too pleased about any of this.

  The assassin urged her horse beneath a weeping willow. Once Atha had stomped her hooves enough times to suggest she was content where she was, Ariadna slipped out of the saddle and geared herself up with a few choice weapons: a thin silver dagger or two, which she tucked away into a concealed breast pocket. She had removed the tunic she had put on already and that had gone into one of her saddlebags faster than the others could keep up with.

  None of this was new to Ariadna even if it appeared to be to everyone else. She would not let the others slow her down. The assassin tied her hair back into a bun and retrieved the scarf she had worn when she had first left, covering the bottom half of her face with it, before looping it around her head to conceal her hair completely. Seeing as Ariadna’s hair was silver, it caught in the moonlight just as easily as it did in the sun. She never risked being caught in such a fashion; should a damn mirror be the item of all things to catch her colour in the light of the moon and set her off sparkling. Despite how serious this situation was, Ariadna could not help but laugh at the thought.

  The others watched her work in silence. Neither of them wanted to admit it but, the way she worked intrigued them and when the assassin was ready, it was Troian and Artus who smiled in awe at the sight of the assassin climbing the weeping willow in a few brisk moves.

  Ariadna leapt down from a thick branch hanging across the hedges and like a shadow, she disappeared out of sight in silence to fulfil her contract.

  Once he was certain that Ariadna was out of earshot, Troian leaned forward in his saddle and braced his arms against the sturdy leather horn at the front. “I don’t know whether I’m impressed or disgusted by how efficient she is at this job. Then again, I suppose I can’t talk but, she takes killing to a whole new level – and I haven’t even seen her in action yet. In all honesty I don’t think I really want to.”

  Troian and Artus had had their fair share of killing. They had never felt guilty about any of the lives they had taken, seeing as they had never belonged to innocent men or women and their children. But something about their latest contract which they had turned down, it had not been to their liking. It was not even the act of kidnapping which disturbed them – seeing as that was a heavy part of their professions. It was the mere thought of taking those girls, perhaps no older than Preeya herself; who looked as though to be sixteen or seventeen years of age, to be slaughtered as part of some sacrifice.

  What the contractors did with any prisoners was no one else’s business. Yet, Kanra’s belief that his demented gods needing a sacrifice was more important than that of a young and innocent girl’s life was just plain wrong. Only the worst of the mercenaries did not mind putting a blade to a woman or child, not if the money was good. It seemed Troian and Artus were just not that kind of mercenary. It did not make them terrible at their professions, it just made them the one thing they had always been before they were mercenaries – it allowed them to stay as human as their tainted consciences could remain.

  If only the same could be said about Ariadna Vikander. A young woman who had already sold her heart and soul to her profession and did not appear to be doing anything to get them back, not any time soon.

  30 –

  Kanra

  It had been two days since Kadira had left Vhorgo, after having delivered the priestess Kanra had been in desperate need of. Since then, there had been no signs or messages from him that the Dictator’s pet was on track searching for the mercenary boy.

  Kanra told himself over and over that he was just being impatient and that, whilst Kadira was excellent at tracking and hunting down prey, even he could not travel at impossible speeds. He needed to rest along the way too. The Dictator repeated that thought in his mind, over and over, as he rolled up the sleeves of his black tunic and began rinsing his hands out in a stone basin. Around him, the sound of prisoners moaning as they hung from the cavern walls; in which Kanra stood silently, echoed throughout the open space in a chilling chorus.

  Somewhere, a woman wept in one of the sturdy prison cells lining the far end of the cavern. Just a breath away from the very island on which Kanra performed his sacrifices.

  “Distretia is not in need of appeasing today.” Kanra called out for all his prisoners to hear. He shook the water from his hands and wiped them dry on an old grey cloth, which he slung over the basin once done with. His boots seemed to send the cavern itself trembling as he turned away from the basin and ran his dark red eyes over the prisoners he kept in his entertainment room. He was always careful when choosing his next pick of the litter; not wanting to choose someone who would squeal easily when he was in the mood for a fighter.

  The last man he had tortured just a few days ago, out of sheer boredom as he waited for Kadira to leave and go about his business, he did not weep or beg for his life as he was cut down from the chains in which he had been hanging from. The man had been there for nearly two weeks now, his skin and flesh still fresh from his only recent arrival. But he had been nothing but skin and bones to begin with, being forced to stay alive on a diet of soured milk fed to him by a dampened cloth on a stick. It had either been the milk or the entire end of the stick going down his throat; the choice had been his.

  Kanra had enjoyed torturing him. He had taken great pleasure in seeing the man attempt to fight him off with those pathetic arms and legs of his flailing around, all whilst Kanra had dragged him to his workbench like he had been nothing but a rag doll. For his bold attempt to escape, Kanra had made sure no flesh was left covered as he peeled the man’s skin off, slowly; to ensure his prisoner felt the full extent of his pain.

  But the day of Distretia was soon upon them and even with the young Priestess now rotting away in a cell of her own, all ready for sacrifice the following day, it was Kadira whom the Dictator was growing most anxious about.

  “I have everything I need for the sacrifice tomorrow. It is my dear pet I’m most worried about,” Kanra began, to a prisoner whom he had found of his liking. He had picked out a hefty man, now growing thinner from his milk diet, and already he had plans for what was to be done with him. “I need my pet to return to me in one piece. Or else, I will not be happy.” Kanra spoke softly to his prisoner as he hauled the bulging man across his workbench, making sure the leather straps around his wrists and ankles were going to be able to restrain him well enough. But there was enough insanity lighting up his eyes for the prisoner to know that Kanra was everything but calm.

  The man let out a choked sob and already he began his attempts to wriggle free from his restraints. “Have mercy, my Lord.” he begged. The man had been strung up long enough to know not to use the word please, for fear of having his tongue removed as punishment.

  Kanra ran his grey hand down his prisoner’s face, once and then twice, shushing him all the while. “There, there. It’s not I you should be asking for mercy from. Only my gods can give mercy as our superiors. We are but specks of dust lining their boots – I work to appease my gods and they offer me mercy in return. They have allowed my land to thrive whilst others slowly but surely suffer.
” Kanra had turned his back from the man throughout his response. When he turned back, he presented a honing steel in one hand and a slim knife in the other.

  The man trembled, his bulging belly rumbling along with him. Kanra gave him credit for not having used the word please even once. Not that the prisoner would have cared to think about such a thing at the moment.

  “I’m in no mood for a sacrifice today and you’ll be glad to know that I am in no position to offer one up on a day other than that of the day of Distretia. You do not fulfil the requirements, anyway; my goddess of death only accepts virgin priestesses.” Kanra tended to go off on a tangent when prepping himself for a session of torture.

  The prisoner, however, took it as an opportunity to stall, to earn himself a few more precious moments of his miserable existence. He ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips, hoping to put moisture back into them. "Why virgin priestesses?” he dared to ask; even though it was a question he did not particularly want answered.

  Kanra retrieved his knife again and scraped it back and forth against the honing steel, sharpening it in front of his next victim without a care about his reaction. He worked with such precision, it was frightening. Back and forth, back and forth he moved the knife. Already, Kanra could taste the man’s blood on his tongue before he had even inflicted a wound on him. “My goddess was offended. By men like you, would you believe it? Distretia had suffered humiliation and assault at the hands of men like you, harsh words and shameful gossip from women. For that she is angry. For that she must be appeased.” he replied.

  The man went to open his mouth again, to ask how Distretia had been assaulted – if she were a goddess. He felt his right leg go cold as Kanra ripped his breeches there, exposing his pale thigh. The man had been left no time to stall any further. Not as the sharp steel of Kanra’s blade met his flesh and pierced his thigh, severing muscle with each slicing motion of the demon Dictator’s knife. The prisoner let out a piercing scream.

  Behind him, Kanra heard the echoes of a couple dozen prisoners screaming and weeping in response. They knew their time would come soon but, Kanra himself was willing to draw out the fun and wait. “This is a little technique called hamstringing. A very creative name, I know but, it serves its purpose. Bringing the knife all the way through the leg, to poke out of the hamstring. Can you feel your leg going numb?” he asked his question with inappropriate glee. Bringing the flat side of the blade up to his lips, Kanra dragged it down his tongue; sucking in some air as he did to make sure no blood escaped him.

  The prisoner could not respond. His body began to spasm as Kanra continued to tear through flesh and muscle. His fingers twitched by his side and saliva gurgled out of his mouth as the demon Dictator worked.

  “My need for virgin priestesses does not concern you.” Kanra said. He turned for the wash basin again and rinsed the blade out, before cleaning his hands of the blood staining them. Kanra believed one mercenary boy knowing the reason behind his desperate need of priestesses was more than enough and he hoped Kadira could silence Troian before word could spread of the things taking place beneath Kanra’s castle.

  The day of Distretia was tomorrow. Kanra had almost everything he needed, now he prayed to his dark gods that those damned mercenaries would return with the rest of the priestesses, and Kadira. He would have to test his patience. There could be no other thoughts plaguing his mind tomorrow, for to let his mind wander from Distretia on her day would offend her greatly. She had spared him all these years – the other gods too – and Kanra continued intending to prolong his reign. A priestess in exchange for a lengthy and prosperous reign was of little to no problem for Kanra. Just as long as word did not leave this cavern about what it was exactly that Distretia was asking of him in return.

  31 –

  Ariadna

  The front door to the manor was out of sight from where Ariadna remained hidden away among the bushes. It was not the back door she was looking for either, nor a window she could budge open like she had at her father’s house. The assassin had done well to scope the layout of the manor and to spy any nooks or crannies in which she could slip past, without having to get too close to the actual building.

  A pair of guards could be heard from the front door, their voices but a murmur from where Ariadna was but, they were loud enough for her to know they were there. They did not sound like they planned to move anytime soon as the sound of slurping and light laughter followed. Guards drinking on the job behind their Lords back always made Ariadna’s missions easier.

  Silent as a shadow, the assassin slipped out of her hiding space and clung to the darkness around the manor house. She pressed her back against the wall and waited for a brief moment as though expecting a guard to come turning around the corner of the house. No one came. Ariadna moved on. There came rustling from a couple bushes ahead. It hid two more guards who had indeed been circling the house.

  Ariadna took their moment of distraction as an opportunity to locate the trapdoor she had had her eye on since arriving. With each rustle of the bush and crunch of gravel under the guards’ boots as they went to investigate, Ariadna matched it up with the sound of her picking at the lock on the trapdoor. Rustle-crunch-click. Rustle-crunch-click. She continued to conceal the sound of her scheming with the now uneasy guards and their movements.

  There came a chorus of laughter, followed by someone silencing the guards. "Just a damn rabbit.” one of the guards announced as, indeed, a little brown rabbit leapt from the bushes and across the patch stretching from the gate of the manor to the very door. “He’ll get caught in one of the rabbit traps soon enough and that’ll be dinner sorted for Lord Mallice tomorrow night.”

  The final bout of laughter from ahead was all that Ariadna needed as the lock on the trapdoor broke open. She caught the heavy lock in her hand, keeping it from clattering against the door, and she rested it amongst the grass now growing tall. Before the guards had even started their rounds on the manor house again, Ariadna had already slipped inside – leaving the door unnoticeably ajar – which the guards completely missed out as they passed by.

  Ariadna knew for a fact that if she had been born a Lady of some grand house, she would have her men’s ears if she ever found out that they relaxed on their jobs as much as Mallice Mara’s men did. That did not concern her so much though. If she could keep her death toll to a minimum tonight, as though to not draw any attention to her presence, that would be ideal.

  The trapdoor lead to a well-kept cellar, with storage for food on one side and miscellaneous supplies far away on the other. An underground hearth stood cold from lack of use; a sign that no one must have been awake for some time now, or else someone would have come down to get a fire going for one reason or another. Manors rarely slept, with only the Masters of the house and their children doing most of the resting.

  Ariadna could hear the padding of feet against wood and the floorboards above the cellar creaking as at least two pairs of feet walked over it. She moved carefully to the far end of the cellar and up a flight of stairs which she guessed, by the looks of it, only the servants seemed to use. Up she went and into the manor itself, silent as a shadow. She wanted to be in and out of this place without any trouble.

  There came the laughter of two men up ahead.

  Ariadna waited for them to pass, taking the disappearance of their shadows from where she was hidden within the passageway as a sign to move. She sped off swiftly; her feet a breath away from the ground with each step she took.

  The guards did not intend to make a reappearance any time soon.

  Around her, the manor was smothered in a settled silence. Ariadna made sure not to disturb it. Using the keys she had swiped from Loren before his death, she formed the map of the manor in her mind again and followed its directions to where she was certain led to Mallice’s bedroom. She began to try different keys for each keyhole she passed. This all seemed too easy. Maybe it was just because Ariadna was that good at her job. She had to be, there was no t
ime for mistakes in a profession like hers.

  A door creaked open up ahead. Ariadna’s head shot up in the direction of the noise and when there came the sound of feet fast approaching, the assassin did not waste any time. She leapt for a marble table stretched out against the wall, on the right hand of the corridor. From there, Ariadna jumped from the table and hoisted herself up among a series of wooden panels keeping the ceiling of the manor upright. She did not falter and when she was in position, her arms and legs stretched out around her; pinned between two wooden roof panels, Ariadna waited for the intruder to show themselves. She had to fight to keep herself from laughing at the ironic thought – seeing as she was the one doing the intruding.

  Finally, someone emerged but, it was not whom Ariadna had been expecting. A young boy of around four years came running down the corridor, his golden curls bouncing as he moved, and underneath one of his arms he had tucked a white teddy made of silk and no doubt stuffed with feathers. Even the Politician’s child reeked of ridiculous luxury, the assassin thought as she held herself from the panels still.

  Shit. Ariadna had completely forgotten about Mallice’s child. A stupid, stupid mistake on her part. One step into that room, which she was certain was his father’s, and that damn child would be screaming the entire house down. Her mind unintentionally went back to what Troian and Artus had told her before – we do not kill women and children.

  Gods damn it, Ariadna thought to herself. She unhooked her feet from their positions on the roof panels and after three mighty kicks; she swung herself into the air; tucked herself in and landed on the floor, with knees bent and her palms pressed firmly against the stone. She was gone, back down the same staircase she had arrived from, before anyone else decided to make an unexpected appearance.