Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  As his feet pounded the paving stones, Mehta took a breath, pressed his free hand against his wounded side, and stared at the city sprawled out before him. Sefera, the capital of Etrijan, spanned several miles over rolling countryside. Half a million people lived there, making it the third most populous city on the entire continent of Aletia.

  Buildings of countless shapes and sizes lined the city’s hilly streets. Each of them meant something to someone. Each one was a home, a business, a holy place—a sanctum of its own sort for those dwelling inside. Surely one of those buildings could shield him, even if only for a few hours.

  Even at the early hour, the streets bustled with people, most of them bundled in warm furs and heavy cloaks and shawls.

  Mehta wasn’t dressed for the cold—not well enough, anyway. He’d dressed for the commission, and that had meant tight, yet flexible clothing designed for dexterity rather than warmth. And he was covered with blood, some of it his own.

  Vapor puffed out of Mehta’s mouth in short, ragged breaths, and his tongue had gone dry and chalky. Between the cold, the loss of blood, and the fatigue threatening to envelop him from both, Mehta was short on time.

  He needed healing first, then hiding second. And one place in the city excelled in healing above all others.

  The Temple of Laeri, the Goddess of Light.

  He was close. Mehta could make it, too, if he didn’t pass out.

  Footsteps padded behind him, no longer silent like they’d been in the Sanctum, but still hushed, like the pattering of raindrops along the paving stones. Mehta glanced down at his hand and torso, both stained crimson. They were following his blood trail.

  But Mehta refused to get caught in the downpour.

  He inhaled a sharp breath that stabbed his side and broke into a run again.

  Block after block flew by, and Mehta grew wearier with each step. Before long, he could see the temple looming in the distance, but he wouldn’t make it. His energy was sapped, and he was too weak.

  Instead of continuing toward the temple, he veered into another alley, this one narrower but with two outlets aside from the one by which he’d entered. Mehta slowed his progress at a peculiar sight.

  A man in pristine white robes and furs stood halfway down the alley next to a mule and a wooden cart full of sacks. He looked to be around forty years old and had a bulging belly.

  Mehta stopped entirely when a familiar form emerged at the far end of the alley, clad in unmistakable red robes and wielding one short sword in each hand.

  Cleric Lament.

  The sight of him sent Mehta’s vision swirling. The alley spun, and Mehta’s body quaked. He clenched his eyes shut to still the spinning.

  When Mehta opened his eyes, Lament had closed half the distance between them.

  Though he had personally trained Mehta and the other Xyonates in various forms of combat and methods of sifting, Lament no longer accepted commissions because of an old injury he’d sustained while sifting a lord known to be a deadly fighter. Lament had prevailed and sifted the lord, but his injuries had cost him High Cleric Ghazal’s trust.

  It didn’t matter, though. Lament’s capabilities hadn’t waned much over the two decades that he’d instructed Mehta and the others. Mehta had been his finest pupil, but now Lament would reassert why he was the master, especially with Mehta so weakened.

  The man in the white robes backed against the wall and watched as Lament stalked past him, the cart, and the mule. Lament didn’t even look at him.

  Mehta removed his hand from his wounded side, drew his other knife, and awaited his fate. It clung to his palm, still sticky with blood—this time his own.

  With the other Xyonates somewhere behind him, Mehta couldn’t run back. He either had to stand against Lament alone or face the rest of the Xyonates all at once. He chose to face Lament.

  But if Xyon truly meant to claim Mehta today, even after all he’d endured to escape, then at the very least, Lament would sustain a new range of injuries in fulfilling Xyon’s will.

  Mehta’s thirst returned at the thought. He hoped it would be enough to save his life here and now.

  Lament stopped a safe distance from Mehta and appraised him. “I am impressed by your resolve.”

  Mehta didn’t reply. It took all of his energy just to remain standing.

  “But it’s time to commit yourself to Xyon. Surely you have earned a place of the highest honor among his finest warriors by now.” Lament started forward again, his silver blades glinting with gold in the morning sun.

  The temptation to lower his guard ached in Mehta’s arms, but he kept his hands up, as ready as he could be, given his wound.

  Lament drew nearer, inch-by-inch, now well within striking range of Mehta because of the length of his short swords. Mehta, however, could not strike Lament at that range, so he waited for Lament to make the first move.

  Behind Lament, the man in the white moved. Mehta had expected him to flee, but instead, the man hurled something toward Lament.

  A shiny, red sphere exploded against the back of Lament’s head in a shower of white pulp, and he toppled a step forward, stunned. Lament started to turn back, and Mehta saw his opening.

  Mehta lunged forward with his blades extended.

  Lament whirled around to face Mehta, but he was too late.

  Mehta’s blades plunged into Lament’s chest, and they both fell to the alley floor.

  Lament gawked up at Mehta, and his mouth hung open, forming words and trying to gasp, but failing at both. Rage burned in Lament’s eyes, and he released his swords and tried to grip Mehta’s clothes to pull himself up.

  “Give my regards to Xyon,” Mehta rasped.

  Mehta twisted his blades in a sharp, jerking motion.

  Lament lurched, lost his grip, and started clawing at his chest. Mehta had hit his lungs, and Lament gasped for air in total futility.

  Mehta yanked his blades free, and Lament slumped to the ground, rocking and convulsing, his tongue and teeth tainted with bright red blood. Next to Lament’s head lay the scattered remains of a red apple.

  The man in white had thrown an apple at Lament?

  As Mehta tried to rise, his vision cut out, and he toppled to his hands and knees next to Lament. He blinked hard, and his eyesight returned.

  Submit or overcome.

  He looked up in time to see the man in white cautiously approaching him.

  The thirst wasn’t there. He didn’t have the energy to support it. But while Mehta had no desire to sift the man in white, he had no reason to trust him beyond the remnants of an apple lying in an alley.

  “I’m going to help you.” The man in white’s voice sounded as if he’d said it underwater. “I won’t hurt you.”

  Mehta was too weak to argue. His vision darkened again, and this time it stayed dark. Though he fought to overcome, his body didn’t allow him to continue. He slipped into the black void between life and death.

  Chapter Three

  Mehta’s consciousness flickered in and out, accompanied by throbbing pain in his side and on the back of his shoulder.

  It was easier to sleep, but sleeping left him vulnerable. He tried to force his eyelids open, and vivid white light filtered into his vision. It pulsed brighter and brighter until he had to clench his eyes shut to stop it from scarring his sight.

  But in closing his eyes, he lost consciousness again.

  The image of the cratered mountain filled his dreams.

  Mehta awoke in a dark room, gasping.

  His enchanted vision adjusted to the lack of light, and soon he could make out shapes and forms in the shadows. He lay on a soft bed, covered in thick furs and sweating.

  But he was alive.

  As he flung the furs off, pain ignited in his side and his shoulder once again. He grunted—more sound than he usually permitted himself to make, given the Xyonates’ rules, but he wasn’t really a Xyonate anymore.

  Still, practiced silence had countless useful applications, so Mehta ground
his teeth, exhaled a ragged breath, and kept quiet as he slowly sat up.

  The only light in the room crept under a door across from the bed, and it only shone dimly. He tested the floor with his bare feet and felt cool stone as he stood.

  Evidently, whoever had brought him here had taken his boots. Not an advantage, but he’d trained thousands of hours while barefoot, so the disadvantage was nominal.

  He searched himself for his knives. They’d taken those, too, along with whatever weapon had been lodged in the back of his shoulder. Cloth bandages covered the spot now and wrapped under his arm and around his shoulder.

  Another set of bandages constricted his torso, covering his wounded side. It still burned with fresh pain, but it hadn’t killed him yet.

  Without his weapons in this unknown scenario, he couldn’t be assured of an advantage. The wounds to his back and side would put him at a further disadvantage. But injured or not, any worthy Xyonate—or former Xyonate—could sift without the use of weapons if need be. And Mehta would if he had to.

  He scanned the room again, hoping to find a weapon, but aside from the bed, a nightstand, and a bookshelf full of books, the room contained little else. He could’ve snapped a leg off of the nightstand and fashioned it into a makeshift club, but doing so would be a loud endeavor and wouldn’t be worth the risk.

  Instead, he approached the door slowly, both to remain silent and for the sake of his wounds. He ran his fingers up and down the polished wood until he found a metal plate with a keyhole and a doorknob. Was it locked or not?

  For now, it didn’t matter. He needed more information before trying to open it, so he pressed his ear against the door and listened.

  Low voices murmured on the other side, distant and incomprehensible. Mehta made out two for certain, one certainly male and one likely female.

  He waited, listening for several long minutes, expecting to hear footfalls eventually, but he heard nothing but the voices. Whoever had brought him here could be seated, reclining, or otherwise at rest. And if he could exit the room fast enough, he might glean enough of an advantage to overcome them.

  The last time he’d been in a situation like this was when the soldiers wearing the three-headed ram’s sigil had slain his parents and taken him from his home. He’d been just a child, only a few years old, but he remembered every moment of it with perfect clarity.

  He pushed the memories away. He needed to focus on the situation at hand.

  Mehta considered the bandages wrapped around his torso and his shoulder. Were his captors actually saviors? The man in white robes from the alley had both distracted Lament and promised to help Mehta as he fell unconscious, but Mehta remembered little after that.

  Was he in the man’s home? Was he somewhere else? Had the man in fact done something to help him, or had someone else taken him away?

  There was only one way to find out if the door was locked. Mehta curled his fingers around the cool metal knob.

  Light footfalls padded just outside the door, closer and closer. The dim light at the bottom of the door bloomed brighter.

  Mehta recoiled from the door in perfect silence. He positioned himself beyond the door’s hinges and waited with his back flat against the wall. In the darkness, his enhanced vision continued to outline everything in faint green lines.

  The telltale rattling of metal, albeit quiet, filled the silent room, and the door opened with a faint creak. It hadn’t been locked.

  Candlelight illuminated a strip of the room, revealing plain white walls and a matching ceiling. The illuminated strip expanded as the door continued opening, and Mehta tensed, ready to spring at the right moment.

  Then the candle-bearer stepped into the room, and Mehta froze.

  It was a child. A girl, perhaps nine or ten years old, with sandy blonde hair, wearing a white nightgown, and holding a candle.

  She was no threat to him. Whoever had sent her had either taken a terrible gamble or they didn’t know what he was.

  The girl stared at the empty bed, looked around the room, and finally turned toward him.

  Their gazes met across the candlelight.

  Mehta remained perfectly still.

  “Hello,” she said, her voice bright and chipper as if greeting a new friend.

  Mehta didn’t reply, but something stirred inside him. Something dark and terrible.

  His thirst.

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.” Her voice lilted with sincerity and enthusiasm. A silver pendant, just a simple triangle pointing down, hung around her neck from a thin cord of leather. “When Father brought you in this morning, Mother and I feared the worst.”

  Sifting her would be the easiest thing in the world. Within seconds, she could be lying at his feet, her neck broken, and his thirst would be sated.

  Or would it?

  Mehta hesitated.

  She turned toward the open door. “Father? He’s awake.”

  His thirst burgeoned, multiplied by the father’s impending arrival. Everything within him screamed to take the girl, hold her hostage, and leverage her against her father, who would inevitably prove to be more of a threat.

  But Mehta did not move. He was wearing bandages. The people in this place—this house, or whatever it was—had tended to his wounds and taken measures to heal him. Thirst or otherwise, he couldn’t justify sifting allies, especially now that he had so few.

  So he remained still and waited to see what the next few seconds might bring.

  A man stepped into the room. Mehta recognized his shape first—the bulge in his midsection was considerable. He’d noticed it before, in the alley.

  This was the man who’d worn the white robes and furs. The man who’d thrown the apple at the back of Lament’s head, giving Mehta the chance to prevail.

  He had brown hair and light eyes, but Mehta couldn’t make out their exact color in the candlelight. Now closer to him, Mehta guessed him to be in his early to mid-thirties rather than approaching forty.

  “How do you feel?” the man asked.

  Mehta considered his question. How could such a simple question ignite such a wide range of answers in his head?

  He felt pain from his wounds. He felt confusion at how he’d arrived in this place. He felt an ongoing tug within him to sift them both—the thirst. He felt grateful they’d helped him, and he felt lost and abandoned and betrayed by the only family he’d ever really known—the Xyonates.

  Truly a mixture of good and bad, but far more bad than good.

  But Mehta also felt he’d better not let his guard down just yet. The appearance of someone who’d claimed he could help, plus a harmless, pleasant little girl did not ensure safety by any standard.

  So Mehta replied, “Fine.”

  The man nodded slowly as if he somehow understood the range of emotions coursing through Mehta. “Are you hungry?”

  As if on cue, Mehta’s stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

  “How long have I been here?” he asked, still backed against the wall, still ready to sift them both if necessary. “And where am I?”

  “Come with me.” The man gave him a small nod and left the room, leaving the girl in there with Mehta alone again.

  Did they truly not know what he was?

  Xyonates operated in secret, and he’d been led to believe that common folk knew of their existence but thought of them merely as phantoms. But this man had seen Mehta kill Lament in the alley, and he still saw fit to leave his daughter exposed to potential harm.

  It made no sense. It was foolish. Thoughtless.

  The girl smiled at him and extended her hand, palm down. “I’ll help you.”

  Help how? He outweighed her by at least 150 pounds. Even if he didn’t, she was too short to lean on. Maybe she meant to guide him?

  He swallowed. “I’d rather not touch you, if you don’t mind.”

  Mehta didn’t know what might happen if he did. He didn’t want to risk the thirst taking over.

>   The girl shrugged and lowered her hand. “Very well. But it isn’t gentlemanly to refuse the hand of a beautiful lady.”

  Mehta blinked at her.

  “Follow me. We need to catch up with Father.” With that, she turned and left the room as well, taking her candle with her, plunging Mehta into the shadows once again.

  What was happening? Why were these people behaving so strangely?

  Or perhaps he was the one behaving strangely. He’d only had limited interaction with anyone outside of the Sanctum since he’d been a small child, and most of that contact involved sifting. Not exactly a perfect frame of reference for how the rest of the world behaved.

  His stomach growled again.

  If these people were his captors, they would’ve locked his door and sent armed guards—rather than a little girl—into his room. He elected to follow them for now, though he remained vigilant.

  Mehta found the girl waiting for him just outside the door. She waved him forward, and he stepped through cautiously, watching every inch of the room beyond.

  A hearth glowed with a waning fire on the opposite end of the room. Three simple, whitewashed, wooden chairs sat before the hearth, and another sat against a wall adjacent to Mehta’s room. A white fur rug lay in the space between the chairs and the hearth, and a row of bookshelves made up the far left wall.

  Two doors sat at regular intervals along the same wall as Mehta’s room. A third door punctuated the wall beyond the bookshelves at the farthest point in the room from Mehta’s position. To Mehta’s right, a fourth door was set into that wall, and strategically positioned torches accompanied the light given off by the hearth.

  No one else was in the room.

  Atop the mantle over the hearth sat a triangle-shaped icon, pointing down toward its white marble base. In that context, Mehta recognized the symbol—it represented the Goddess of Light, Laeri. That explained why the girl wore the triangle pendant around her neck.

  Had they taken him to the temple?

  “This way,” the girl said.

  Mehta hadn’t seen any nooks or deep shadows in the space he’d seen thus far. No hiding places meant no one could hide in wait for him, so he followed the girl across the room to the third door by the bookshelves, noting how nice the fur rug felt on his bare feet.