Tainted Blood Anthology

by Jeff Gunzel

  A tear rolled down from the corner of her eye. Suddenly, her lids snapped open. Red eyes rolled into focus, fixing their glare on Xavier. Her lower jaw dropped open as her mouth produced sound without her lips ever touching. “Where were you when I needed you most? You promised you would always protect me.” Her forehead creased as dark veins rose up all around her face. As if crying tears made of ink, her eyes suddenly turned black. “I trusted you!” Her hissing voice seemed to shake the ground.

  Xavier sat up with a jolt, his heart slamming against the inside of his chest. Covered with cold sweat, his body trembled uncontrollably. What did I just see? Was it all really just a horrible dream? Although not sure why, he glanced at his arm and flexed his fingers. Everything seemed normal enough. What exactly was he expecting to see?

  He wasn't thinking straight. That horrible dream had shaken him right to his core. And what was he was doing out here anyway?

  He threw himself back onto the soft ground and stared up at the sky. His clothes were little more than rags and his head pounded as if he been drinking for a week straight. “What is going on?” he mumbled to himself, rubbing his temples while trying to think. Where was he? What had he been trying to— “Viola!” he cried out, sitting up quickly. His head swam and he thought he might throw up, but that was the least of his concerns. He was starting to remember. He had gone up into the mountains to pursue Viola. She was in trouble. But when he got there...

  He remembered that creature, Orm’rak. It was the same one from his dream. He was trying to hurt her and...and... Dream? No, he was remembering what happened. That had to be it. He went to rescue her and...and...he failed! That thing must have killed her. She was counting on him. He traveled halfway across the realm to save her, and failed to keep his oath. She was dead because of him! It was his fault. He might as well have killed her himself!

  Xavier wailed, throwing himself back onto the grass. He failed! He had come so close, yet couldn’t pull her from the jaws of death. A step too slow, a second too late, it had proved to be the difference between holding her in his arms and laying her to rest for the last time. It was all his fault. He didn’t deserve her! He didn’t deserve anyone.

  Laying in the morning sun, he wept like never before. It was the deepest sadness he had ever felt. How could he have failed to save the person who meant more to him than anyone else in the world? What if she had never met him? Would she still be alive? These questions would most likely torment him the rest of his days.

  Still weeping hours later, his sadness slowly became anger and self-loathing. Shamed by his failure, his mind plunged into a dark place. What good was he to anyone? This failure was unforgivable. Owen would eventually find himself a competent apprentice, one he could actually count on. But as far as Xavier was concerned, exile was the only option left.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whimpered, finally sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “You deserved so much better. If there were any justice in the world, it would have been me instead of you.”

  Gathering himself, the broken warrior rose to his feet. Standing was no easy task. With some of the emotional numbness wearing off, he could now feel the numerous wounds all over his body. Glancing down at his tattered clothing, he could see blood stains both fresh and old. He looked back over his shoulder and saw the mountains far off in the distance. The range was at least fifty miles away. Again, he couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten this far away. But it didn’t matter how he got here, nor did it matter where he was going. All he knew was that his friends were better off without him. He was cursed. Better to be cursed alone than to drag them down with him.

  Dragging his feet with no real destination in mind, his thoughts began to drift. But time and time again they drifted back to Viola. He remembered the first time he showed her the set of exotic plants called lartrous vines.

  “It’s beautiful,” she gasped, barely able to speak.

  “There’s more,” said Xavier, reaching inside his inner pocket. He pulled out a small device that looked to be several small bamboo shoots strung together. He brought the crude little instrument up to his lips and blew lightly, producing a single drawn-out note. Reacting to the tone, the clear pods leaned to the right as the flowing water took on a fluorescent, bluish hue. Their flowing tentacles danced and waved about as if they were enjoying the sound.

  Viola squealed with delight, then quickly clasped a hand over her mouth, concerned she might disrupt the magic with her voice. Xavier blew on a second pipe, producing a higher-pitched sound. The clear mushroom caps quivered briefly before leaning to the left, the flowing water now changing to a light yellow color. Even the air smelled different, changing from a flowery scent to a tangy, lemony fragrance.

  She had been so innocent. Even the simplest of nature’s beauties could keep her spellbound. She never took things for granted the way other people did. It was part of what made her special. It was one of the many reasons he loved her.

  Passing an alleyway, she threw her shoulder against Xavier’s chest, sending them both stumbling into the dark corridor. Throwing herself against his chest, she pinned his shoulders to the wall, her face only an inch away from his. Just like the storybooks she had read as a youth, she brushed her lips against his. At first he just stood there, his lips stiff and unresponsive. She began wondering if she was doing it right.

  But a second later his hands were roaming her body, his soft lips fitting perfectly with hers. Feeling his tongue brushing softly against hers, she melted into his arms. She wasn’t thinking anymore. Lost in the moment of passion, her whole body felt like it was on fire.

  He could still remember their first kiss, clumsy, awkward...beautiful. The memory was all he had now, and he would cherish it always. Believing he had already cried as many tears as possible, Xavier was surprised to find that he was wrong. Wiping his eyes with the torn ribbons of fabric that were once his sleeves, he marched on. He needed to try and forget about her. It would be easier to forget I’m on fire.

  Hours later, he dragged himself up over the top of a hill only to see a small town off in the distance. “Dawsbury?” he mumbled, recognizing the street patterns, as well as the shapes of some of the taller structures. It had been many years since he and Owen had come this way, but he was reasonably certain of where he was now. But this was just impossible. Dawsbury was around eighty miles from the mountain range. How could he have possibly gotten this far, and without any memory of his travel no less?

  No matter. The only thing driving him now was the thought of a bottle of strong liquor. He had not forgotten his problem, he just didn’t care anymore. Why should he? No one was counting on him for anything, so there was no longer any reason for him to stay sober. With a little more urgency than before, he broke into a light jog. His head still hurt and the thought of a hot meal and a real bed sounded almost as good as a stiff drink. Almost...

  As he drew near the main entrance, the road grew thick with wagons and people. Blending in was easy enough; no one even seemed to notice he was there. The two watchmen near the entrance didn't seem to be taking their jobs too seriously, glancing up from their conversations only now and then to see who was entering. A local traders’ town by reputation, there usually wasn’t much trouble to be concerned about here in Dawsbury.

  It wasn't until he got past the gate when Xavier began to notice all the folk staring. With his clothes torn to ribbons, blood stains up and down his front, he stood out far more than he had hoped too. But that wasn't going to stop him. At worst, he would simply get his drink from the first tavern he saw and be on his way if necessary. After only a short time, Xavier was able to disregard all the gawking. He didn't care what anyone thought. As long as it didn’t lead to his getting thrown out of town or arrested, there wasn't much to be concerned with. Let them stare, it wasn’t like it was going to make his life any worse.

  Everywhere he went, he heard the calls of street merchants pushing their wares. The smells of fresh baked bread and slow-cooked meats was maki
ng his mouth water. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten anything. A sign hanging over a door across the street caught his attention. “The King’s Head,” it read in alternating green and yellow letters. Not giving it a second thought, he worked his way across the street. Despite the road being crowded, he didn’t have to work very hard to pass through. One glance at his bloodstained rags and most folk made an effort to get out of his way.

  Xavier pushed through the swinging doors and looked around the place. It was still early in the day, and there were only a handful of customers here. One looked as though he must have been drinking since early in the morning. The old man swayed in his lone booth, his white beard occasionally dipping into his ale. Grinning, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, he looked happy enough. But the other patrons didn’t seem to share his good nature, staring at the stranger with his tattered, bloodstained clothes.

  Ignoring the hostile glares, Xavier made his way up to the bar. Continuously wiping the same glass for far too long, the barkeep looked him up and down. It wasn’t just his bloody, ripped clothing that caught his eye, it was the arsenal of blades showing through the many rips in his shirt. What kind of man carried so much weaponry? “We don’t need any trouble around here,” he said nervously.

  “Right now, I am the last person in the world who is seeking any trouble, sir,” Xavier said, polite as he could manage. But he sounded exactly like he felt, exhausted.

  “Y...you’re going to have to leave. We don’t serve your kind around here.”

  “Then I won’t stay,” Xavier growled, unable to mask his mounting irritation. “I’ll take a bottle of whisky off your hands and be on my way.” Already he envisioned himself sitting up on a nearby rooftop, drinking himself into a stupor. It sounded just fine to him. But as he reached for his coin purse, his heart sank. Gone. After walking all this way and he hadn’t even thought to check for it. He suddenly felt very foolish.

  “I’m not going to ask you again,” said the barkeep, recognizing that look he had seen so many times before over the years. This man was broke. “If I have to call the guard...”

  “Please...” Xavier mumbled, fearing he might just break down and cry. The worst day of his life was only getting worse by the minute. “There must be a way we can work this out.”

  “One...” the barkeep began to count.

  “I’m a performer,” Xavier blurted out, desperately trying to work his last bargaining chip. “I could provide a bit of entertain for your patrons.”

  “Two...”

  Xavier stepped back. Of course the man didn’t believe a word he was saying, and why should he? Here comes this stranger, covered in wounds and dressed in bloody rags, suddenly claiming to be some kind of entertainer because he can’t find his coin purse. With nothing to lose and desperate for a hot meal, there was only one thing left to do.

  “Hey!” the barkeep protested as Xavier leaped up over the bar. He stumbled away from the show of aggression, certain he was being attacked. But instead, Xavier snatched a number of bottles and glasses from behind the bar and threw them up in the air. The commotion had drawn the attention of everyone in the bar. Just before the items crashed all over the bar top, Xavier’s hands worked in blinding circles to snatch each one and keep their momentum going.

  A collective gasp filled the bar as the items began twirling in two separate circles, glasses in one hand, bottles in the other. The feat was a remarkable show of dexterity and balance given the size and weight difference between the awkward objects. After keeping the two circles moving for a good thirty seconds, he tossed them all up in the air again and clapped his hands three times.

  As they came down haphazardly, he snatched each one again with little more than an inch to spare before they crashed on the bar top. This time, he had the items mixed, juggling them all in a wide, sweeping circle. Patrons began to clap and cheer, having never seen anything quite like it before. Even the old drunk was banging the top of his table, thoroughly enjoying the show. Throughout the act, occasionally Xavier would catch a bottle or glass behind his back, then flip it back up over his shoulder without missing a beat.

  Again, Xavier sent them all up at once. He spun around twice, then proceeded to race down the length of the bar as they fell. Bottle, glass, bottle, glass...he caught each alternating item in sequence, setting them up across the bar top. They even appeared to be spaced out perfectly. Everyone cheered. Even the barkeep couldn’t help but smile as he offered a few token claps of his own. But cheers soon turned into hushed whispers and pointing.

  “Hey,” the barkeep said, snapping his fingers at a girl near the rear entrance. She rushed into action and took Xavier by the shoulders to lead him away. “Fix him up and try and find him some clothes. Our new performer can’t be seen looking like that.” A little confused, Xavier looked down and realized that several of his wounds had opened up. Red spots were appearing all over his already bloody clothes.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing,” the dark-haired barmaid said. “I’m going to fix you right up. Yes I am.” Despite his ghastly appearance, she flashed him a warm smile. “By the way, my name is Lindsey. What’s yours?”

  Chapter 2

  Misery and gloom hung over the city like a dark shadow. Nothing could have prepared the people of Shadowfen for this latest attack. Even now the townsfolk hid in their homes, afraid to go out into the streets of their own city. But it was just as well, the whole city was on lockdown until they could somehow sort through this nightmare. Although most of the cleanup had been completed, it wasn’t strange to find the occasional severed hand or ear in an alley being nibbled on by rats.

  With its people now living in constant fear, Shadowfen would never be the same. How could the townsfolk ever place faith in their king after this latest catastrophe? It would be years before things returned to normal, possibly even a generation or two. In truth, so much had changed that they barely even recognized the world they lived in.

  Near the front gate, a handful of children crowded around a wooden post. Gazing up at the crucified creature, they mumbled curses under their breath, privately voicing their disdain for this symbol of evil. The tarrin’s body had been strung up in the sun for days now. With her face twisted and bloated, flies buzzing all around her head, Thatra was completely unrecognizable.

  “Twisted demon goat,” grunted one of the boys before throwing a stone at the corpse. It missed wide of the mark and went tumbling over the top of her shoulder. The boy threw another, this time hitting the dead tarrin square in the face. The body was so dry that the stone tore her skin like paper, leaving behind a deep, bloodless gash. But when he tried to pick up another stone, the boy standing next to him stayed his hand. He looked over in dismay, then glared down at the hand, keeping his aggression in check.

  “She’s one of the demons that brought them here,” he reasoned, as if that were reason enough to keep throwing stones. “Tell me you don’t feel sorry for this monster. Now let go of my hand.”

  “And how can we be so certain?” the second boy asked, shaking his head slowly. “No one really knows if that’s true.” He gazed up at her, a look of doubt in his eyes. “She may have been innocent for all we know.” A voice he would never forget echoed in the back of his mind. Although the memory was still fresh, it felt as if he’d first heard the old man’s words one hundred years ago. I do not hold you responsible for what others have put in your head. I forgive you. Remember my words, lad, and know they are sincere. With a sad look in his eye, he glanced back at the other boy. “Besides, it’s not like there is any more we can do to her. Just leave her alone and go home. I have a feeling she will be the least of our troubles.”

  *

  King Milo watched impatiently as the clerics moved around the table. Stepping around the large body beneath the white sheet, one cleric tapped the ribcage several times, then bent over and pressed his ear to his chest. Then the red-robed cleric moved around to the other side of the table, repeating the bizarre procedure seve
ral more times. Each time he leaned up, shaking his head as if disappointed by the results. The other clerics didn’t appear to be any more confident than he was. They whispered to themselves, the occasional eye flicker directed towards the king.

  “Well?” The king finally said, breaking the silence. “I can only assume you are not looking for a heartbeat,” he grunted, doing nothing to mask his mounting irritation. He didn't have time for this. Diovok had died at the hands of that damn mystic. Liam would pay for that one way or another. But all was not lost, not yet anyway. It was still possible that his clerics could bring him back. But that window of opportunity was closing by the day. If it was going to be done, it needed to be done soon. “If you are done playing games with his corpse, perhaps you now have a better understanding of his condition? Can you help him or not?”

  “It is too early to say, my Lord,” said the cleric who had been tapping Diovok's chest. “One’s life force can be a fickle thing indeed. There are many factors to consider before we can even make an attempt. For instance, the longer the body has been dead, the less chance we have of returning its life force.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” the king growled.

  “It is not so s-simple, my L-Lord,” the cleric stammered, his fidgeting fingers groping around his waist. “For one thing, your shaman was not...er..not.”

  “Human,” Milo casually finished.

  “Um...right. The physical laws involved in resurrection change dramatically between species. If we go about it the wrong way, it is possible that we may lose him permanently.”

  “Yet if you continue to stall, you will ensure that fate!”

  The cleric sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the king’s unbending glare. “Yes, My Lord. We fully understand your concern. But there is yet another piece to this puzzle.” The cleric hesitated. He, along with everyone else in the city, was well aware of the king’s unpredictable temper. Delivering such a long string of bad news to the king was never a good idea, especially if keeping one’s head was a priority. “Despite the cause of death, the body has no wounds. It is fully intact.”