Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  Mehta’s aim was intentional. The dagger severed the tendon beneath Mantra’s knee, yielding a spurt of blood.

  Then, no longer held in place by the tendon, the muscles in Mantra’s thigh rolled up into a thick bulge. He dropped to the floor, shrieking and groping at his ruined leg.

  Mantra was no longer a threat. Even if he somehow managed to survive, he’d never walk again.

  But the pain in Mehta’s side reignited. Instead of finishing Mantra off, Mehta staggered back against the wall, trying to stanch the fire pulsing in his torso.

  Hymn made it to Mantra first. She crouched down beside him and pulled his head up against her side. Though Mehta couldn’t hear her because of Mantra’s gasps, he made out the words on her lips, “I commit you, Mantra, to Xyon’s realm.”

  Then she eased her knife into the side of Mantra’s neck, and his moans silenced. When she removed it, blood streamed out of the wound and pooled on the floor beneath him. He died within seconds.

  Elanil and Ferne gasped.

  One down, three to go.

  And Mehta couldn’t even breathe without it hurting.

  Hymn let Mantra’s head slump to the floor. Then she stood and stalked toward Rulfran, Elanil, and Ferne while Creed and Fable approached Mehta from opposite angles.

  Rulfran drew Elanil and Ferne behind him, shielding them with his body as Hymn approached. White light glowed from his palms, but Mehta knew he wouldn’t stand even a shadow of a chance against Hymn’s prowess.

  If Mehta threw his dagger, he might be able to hit or even sift Hymn, but doing so would leave him vulnerable to fatal blows from Creed and Fable. And he’d never be able to sift them in time to save Rulfran’s family.

  Rulfran pointed his palms at Hymn, and they flared brighter. A blast of light knocked Hymn across the kitchen and into the far wall.

  Creed and Fable seized the opportunity to attack Mehta—Creed high, and Fable low. Coordinated. Deadly.

  But Mehta had expected that, and as he dove over Fable’s attack, he used his dagger to deflect Creed’s slash at his chest. Mehta rolled to his feet, ready to defend another blow from Creed or Fable, but he found himself face-to-face with Hymn instead.

  She stabbed at him, and he batted her forearm away with his own. But she followed the stab with a spinning kick that caught Mehta on the side of his head, leveling him to the floor.

  Stunned, Mehta rolled to his back in time to see Hymn raise her knife for a final blow.

  Then Rulfran’s body slammed into Hymn, tackling her to the floor. He’d saved Mehta, but he’d doomed himself in the process.

  As Mehta recovered to his feet, Hymn twisted free and drove her knives into Rulfran’s sides repeatedly. Crimson stained his white tunic, and he rolled off of her, gasping and moaning.

  Elanil shrieked and covered Ferne’s eyes.

  Mehta lashed his dagger at Hymn, but she rolled under it, away from Rulfran. Then she stood next to Creed and Fable.

  Rulfran was as good as dead. It was just a matter of time.

  But perhaps Mehta could still save Elanil and Ferne. They were innocent in all of this. He would do everything he could to help them escape. He steeled himself against the pain in his side and stepped forward, ready to fight.

  Rulfran’s hand grabbed his ankle.

  Mehta chanced a look down.

  Through strained, ragged breaths, Rulfran said, “Don’t waste this.”

  Brilliant white light flared from Rulfran’s hand, and the pain in Mehta’s side dwindled until it no longer hurt at all.

  Rulfran had healed him.

  Rulfran’s grip faltered, and his body slackened.

  But Mehta was alive, uninjured, and energized with renewed vigor.

  His thirst sparked to life, and he channeled it into his dagger.

  The Xyonates came at him like a maelstrom. Mehta dodged blows, batted away attacks, and returned brutal counterstrikes that rent the flesh on the Xyonates’ arms and legs. But he’d failed to inflict any debilitating or fatal blows on them.

  Worse yet, he’d ended up in the middle of the Xyonates, surrounded. Hymn stood behind Mehta, and Creed and Fable stood before him. They were spaced apart just enough to prevent him from slipping between them, and their positioning still pulled his attention in two directions.

  No matter. He was the best, and his thirst needed quenching. He would cut them down all at once or one by one—however they came at him, that’s how they would die.

  As Mehta engaged the Xyonates, he noticed Elanil creeping toward the kitchen door along the wall, pulling Ferne behind her. Their bravery gave him purpose—he had to distract the Xyonates long enough so they could escape.

  But while Mehta dueled with Creed and Fable, Hymn stepped away from the fracas. She raised her knife over her shoulder, her gaze fixed upon Ferne and Elanil.

  Thanks to Creed and Fable’s positioning, Mehta would never reach Hymn in time to stop her throw. Everything within him cried out, and it burst from his mouth in a desperate shout.

  Elanil’s head turned.

  Hymn hurled her knife. It careened through the air, turning end-over-end, straight at Ferne.

  Chapter Six

  Elanil stepped in front of Ferne, shielding her, and the knife thudded into her chest. She dropped to the floor with shock etched onto her face.

  Ferne gasped, then screamed.

  Creed attacked with a quick slash at Mehta’s gut, but Mehta backed away, careful not to double over and offer his face as a target for Creed’s follow-up swipe.

  Hymn stalked toward Ferne, menace emanating from her cold, dark eyes.

  Mehta had to stop her.

  Fable attacked next, and Mehta intercepted his swing, grabbed Fable’s arm, and used his momentum to smash Fable’s forehead into the kitchen’s stone wall. Then he whirled Fable around, using him as a human shield as Creed lunged forward.

  The blade plunged into Fable’s gut, stopping it from reaching Mehta. Fable gasped and flinched, and he dropped his remaining dagger to the floor.

  The sight of Fable’s blood intensified Mehta’s thirst.

  Beyond Creed and Fable, Hymn stepped closer to Ferne.

  Creed hesitated, then he drove the knife deeper into Fable’s stomach, trying to puncture through the other side to get to Mehta. Fable grunted and grasped at Creed’s wrist.

  But Mehta shoved Fable forward into Creed and stepped to the side. He lined up his throw, a clear shot, and whipped the dagger at Hymn.

  It lodged in her back, and she toppled forward, landing at Ferne’s feet.

  Ferne shrieked.

  Mehta’s thirst screamed for more.

  Creed pushed Fable to the side as Mehta crouched down to pick up Fable’s other dagger. Fable fell to the floor, clutching his wounded, bleeding stomach, submitting to the pain.

  Creed hurtled toward Mehta, his knife poised to strike. Mehta extended his dagger and dropped backward, focused on its wobbling tip as he fell. He had the reach advantage, and as Creed approached, Mehta adjusted the dagger’s point so it pierced into Creed’s chest just above his heart.

  Blood erupted from the wound. Mehta had hit Creed’s aorta.

  They dropped to the floor together, but Creed was already dead, and his blood quickly joined that of Mantra’s and Fable’s.

  Mehta shoved Creed’s body aside and stood. He jerked the dagger from Creed’s chest, and more blood pulsed out of the wound. His thirst reveled in the victory, but it still refused to subside.

  Fable looked up at Mehta, still clutching his wounded gut. He uttered, “Sift me, Requiem. Send me to Xyon. Give me what I have always desired.”

  Mehta had to sift Fable, but he hated that doing so somehow gave Fable what he wanted.

  “I’ll sift you,” Mehta said, “but you’ll perish as a failure. I still yet live.”

  Fable’s smug countenance darkened, and he died by his own dagger.

  Mehta hurried over to Hymn and Ferne. Ferne sat there, crouched against the wall near the kitchen
door, staring down at Hymn with wide eyes.

  Hymn squirmed and writhed and reached, but she couldn’t get the dagger out of her back.

  Mehta stood over them both. He considered telling Ferne to look away, but she had already seen worse than what he was about to do.

  He planted his foot on Hymn’s upper back, pinned her to the floor, and drove his dagger into the base of her skull. Her writhing stopped immediately, and Mehta’s thirst delighted in her death.

  Mehta looked down at Ferne. His thirst wanted her, too, but he denied the impulse with every fiber of his being. He had to, or it would have overcome him, and Ferne would’ve joined the Xyonates in death next.

  “We must leave now,” he said to her.

  Ferne pointed to Elanil, who moaned.

  Mehta rushed over to her. One look told him that Hymn’s aim had been true. Elanil would soon die. Blood seeped from the knife wound in her chest and had pooled underneath her.

  “You… bastard…” she rasped. “This is… your fault.”

  “I know.” With total sincerity, Mehta uttered, “I’m sorry.”

  “Save your… apologies,” she wheezed. “You destroyed… my family. Go… to hell… with your evil… god.”

  Then Elanil went silent, and her breathing stopped. Her eyes turned to glass, and she went limp.

  Ferne burst into tears.

  Mehta crouched in front of Ferne and placed his hands on her shoulders. “We must go. More will be coming.”

  Ferne continued weeping, hopeless.

  Mehta shook her, and his voice hardened. “Ferne.”

  She stopped crying and looked up at him with terror in her eyes. It sickened Mehta’s stomach. He hated being harsh with her, especially after what she’d just experienced, but he knew of no other way to get her attention.

  “Please,” Mehta said, his voice softer. “We have to leave. It’s not safe here anymore.”

  Ferne gulped and shuddered.

  “I won’t hurt you.” Even as Mehta said it, his thirst swelled, but he forced it away.

  Ferne nodded slightly, but doubt lingered in her eyes. “Alright.”

  “I swear to you that I won’t hurt you, nor will I allow any harm to come to you,” Mehta said. “You have my word.”

  Ferne nodded again, and she stood.

  He didn’t know where they would go, but perhaps if they could escape Sefera after nightfall then they could head toward the cratered mountain of Mehta’s memories. Perhaps they’d be safe there.

  Mehta collected a few supplies, some money, and some of the weapons strewn across Ferne’s kitchen. He recovered his own knives from Rulfran’s room and stuffed all of it into a pack. Then he fled the Temple of Laeri with Ferne in tow.

  Thanks to the Xyonates’ blood covering most of Mehta’s body, staying at an inn or a boarding house wasn’t an option. Walking into a place in such a state would invite far too much negative attention, perhaps including the city guard. The last thing Mehta needed was more trouble.

  Instead, about a mile from the Temple of Laeri, Mehta found them an abandoned, run-down shanty wedged between two larger buildings. Holes pocked its roof, and the weathered gray boards that made up its walls creaked when the wind blew, but it would have to do.

  He sat Ferne down. “How are you?”

  “I’m sad,” she replied, her face downcast.

  Mehta took her hands in his. He didn’t know why he did it, but it seemed appropriate at that moment. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked up at him, and fresh tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m scared.”

  Before Mehta could respond, Ferne lurched forward, wrapped her arms around his torso, and buried her face in his chest, sobbing.

  Mehta stiffened at first, then he relaxed. He embraced her, uncertain and unsure what he was supposed to do next. They sat there, in the darkness of the shanty, unmoving for several minutes.

  Ferne finally released him, sniveling. She brushed the tears from her cheek and wiped her runny nose on her forearm. “What do we do now?”

  “For now, we wait.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.” Mehta sighed and sat on a rickety stepstool. The shanty groaned against a gust of wind. “Sefera is no longer safe for me. Or you.”

  “I miss Mother and Father.” Ferne lowered her head.

  The thirst awakened within Mehta. He could sift the girl that night in her sleep, and she would join her parents in a better place.

  Or he could sift her now and spare her any further torment.

  He gripped the hilt of one of his knives, now tucked in its sheath inside his clothes.

  Sifting her would satisfy his thirst…

  But only for a short while. It would inevitably return, stronger than before, as it always did. It was relentless.

  “What’s wrong?” Ferne stared up at his face, oblivious to his dark thoughts.

  The thirst burgeoned in his chest and spread into his arms, but he forced himself to release his grip on his knife. He clasped his hands together instead. “Nothing.”

  Ferne shook her head. “Something’s wrong. I can tell. Are we in trouble? Do we need to leave?”

  “No. We’re safe here.” Relatively.

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  The thirst threatened to consume him. Sifting Ferne would be the easiest thing he’d ever done. She was small. Defenseless. Unsuspecting. A simple, quick death.

  But Mehta couldn’t do it. He refused to do it. Nothing gave him the right to sift her, to cut her innocent life short.

  Yet the thirst refused to leave him alone. It threatened to overpower him and force the deed nonetheless.

  His hands began to shake.

  “What’s wrong?” Ferne repeated.

  “I…” Mehta started. If he could get her to flee, then he wouldn’t have the chance to kill her. “I desire to sift you.”

  Ferne blinked at him. “What?”

  “To kill you. It’s overwhelming me,” Mehta continued. “You should go.”

  Ferne recoiled. “Why would you want to kill me? You just saved me from those people.”

  “I can’t explain it.” Mehta thought about standing, but he didn’t want to scare Ferne after what he’d just said. An armed assassin towering over a little girl? Not a reassuring image. So instead he backed the stool against one of the walls and sat as far away from her as the shanty allowed.

  Ferne watched him the whole time. “Maybe I can help you.”

  Mehta shook his head. “You can’t help me. No one can.”

  “Let me try?” Ferne took a tentative step toward him. “I like helping people.”

  The thirst throbbed within him. “No. It’s too dangerous for you to be near me right now. You should leave.”

  “At least try something for me?” Ferne pressed.

  Mehta sighed, more concerned for her than frustrated. “Ferne, I—”

  “Please?”

  His jaw clenched. “Fine. Try what?”

  “Close your eyes. Make your hands into fists.”

  “What will that do?”

  “Just try it.”

  Mehta obliged her.

  “Now push this feeling away in your mind. Put it in a crate and close it up. Wrap it in chains, and lock them.”

  Mehta opened one eye and squinted at her.

  “No peeking!” Ferne pointed at him.

  “Sorry.” Mehta closed his eye again. He visualized his thirst as a roiling, angry mass of darkness, and he forced it into a crate in his mind. He shut the crate, chained it up, and secured it with an imaginary lock.

  “Have you done it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Now banish that feeling to the back of your head. Put it in a closet and close the door on it.”

  His eyes still shut, Mehta did as she instructed. The sensation of the thirst still oppressed him, and he doubted any of this would work.

  “We’re going to say a prayer to Laeri. She’ll help us with the rest.”

 
Now Mehta doubted it even more. Why would the Goddess of Light help a former Xyonate with anything?

  “Just repeat what I say.” Ferne’s voice drew closer to him, and he felt her pry his hands open, slip something pointy in his right palm, and then she pushed his hands back together.

  He stole another peek and saw her kneeling in front of him. The leather cord of her necklace reached between them, and Mehta held the triangular pendant—Laeri’s symbol—in his hands. Ferne cupped his knuckles with her petite palms.

  “Laeri, Goddess of Light,” Ferne began, and Mehta repeated, “may your blessings be upon us, and may your favor shine upon our steps. Bless us with mercy and justice, and cover us with your protection, both within and without.

  “Help us to control our minds and our bodies. Give us the strength to resist temptation, and let us shine your light into the darkness everywhere. By your grace, we ask these things.”

  As Mehta repeated the last words of Ferne’s prayer, he opened his eyes and looked at her. Against all reason and logic, he’d hoped it would remove his thirst entirely.

  It hadn’t.

  But the thirst wasn’t ruling him, either.

  Ferne’s words had ushered Mehta’s thirst into the dark recesses of his mind where it lingered, still there but no longer at the forefront. No longer running rampant through his veins, threatening to overtake him entirely. He had subdued it, whether by Laeri’s divine intervention, by his own doing, or because of any number of other causes or reasons.

  Whatever it was, something had changed. Something had made a difference.

  “How do you feel?” Ferne asked.

  “Better,” Mehta admitted. “Thank you.”

  “Father used to do that with me,” she said, her voice lined with sadness. “Whenever I’d get frustrated, or too excited, or sad. He’d help me calm down.”

  “I’m sorry, Ferne,” Mehta said again.

  “I know.” She looked at him with tears in her eyes. “Can I… am I allowed to hug you again?”

  Mehta stiffened. “I—”

  “It’s alright.” Ferne sat and hugged her knees to her chest instead.