Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  “I’m sorry,” Mehta repeated. “I’m… I’m not used to any of this.”

  Tears streamed from Ferne’s eyes again.

  She was just a child. She had no understanding of his world, his choices. She couldn’t comprehend the way he’d lived most of his life.

  But he understood her pain. He’d been stripped of his parents at an even younger age. And he remembered what that had felt like.

  Now he was a grown man, one nearly devoid of compassion, but that part of him was growing. Rulfran had shown compassion to him and saved his life twice. It was too late for Mehta to save him, but he could still save Ferne.

  And he could start right now.

  He reached toward Ferne slowly, gently, and took hold of her hand, and he pulled her forward. She complied, and she wrapped her arms around his blood-caked torso and cried. And though it still felt strange and foreign to him, he embraced her.

  In that moment, it occurred to him that if he truly meant to keep Ferne safe, they couldn’t just escape. The threat of the Xyonates finding him would always chase his footsteps, no matter how far he ran.

  There was only one way to stop them.

  He had to kill them all.

  Chapter Seven

  “We have to go back,” Mehta said.

  Ferne released her grip and looked up at him, her cheeks streaked with tears. “Where?”

  “To your home. To the Temple of Laeri.”

  Ferne’s eyes widened, and Mehta could read the terror in them.

  “I have to face them.”

  “No.” Ferne’s voice took on a whiny tone. It marked the first time something about her had agitated Mehta. “We can just leave.”

  “You can leave. They don’t care about you,” Mehta said. “But they want me dead.”

  “You have to come with me.”

  “Do you have relatives I can take you to? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins?”

  Ferne shook her head and wiped the tears from her face. “The rest of my family lives in Urthia. I’ve never met them. My parents came here before I was born.”

  “What about friends, or parishioners at the temple? Other servants of Laeri?”

  Ferne shook her head again. “I don’t know how to find any of them.”

  “The Xyonates will strike at nightfall. That’s when we—” Mehta stopped. “—when they excel in their craft. Xyonates can see in the dark thanks to an enchantment on our vision. And most people sleep at night, so there’s less resistance. We need to get you somewhere safe before then.”

  “Mehta, no,” Ferne pleaded. “Just come with me. Please? I don’t have anyone anymore. I can’t go on my own.”

  “And I can’t leave until this entire sect of Xyonates is dead,” Mehta snapped.

  Ferne stared at him, hurt in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Mehta said. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

  Ferne didn’t reply. She lowered her gaze and stared at the floor again.

  “I have to do this, Ferne,” Mehta said. “And I need to get you somewhere safe. I can’t be worrying about you at the same time.”

  “You can hide me.” Ferne looked up. “At the temple. There’s plenty of hiding spots there.”

  Mehta shook his head. “It’s too much of a risk.”

  “It’s safer than giving me to someone you don’t know, and it’s safer than leaving me somewhere else by myself,” Ferne countered. “At least this way, I’ll be nearby, and you can check on me if you need to.”

  Mehta weighed her words. She had a point. “Where in the temple would you hide?”

  “There’s at least… ten places I can think of.”

  Hiding her close by would be preferable, Mehta decided, if they could do it in such a way that she wouldn’t or couldn’t be found. And a place like the Temple of Laeri, with more than ten hiding places, could prove useful with regard to dealing with the remainder of the Xyonates.

  “Show me,” Mehta said.

  As the afternoon sun sank toward the horizon, Mehta and Ferne waited in the long shadows of a nearby alley until the last of the parishioners left the Temple of Laeri. Then they headed over to a side entrance that Ferne knew about.

  They hadn’t taken Rulfran’s keys when they’d left the parsonage—Mehta hadn’t considered that he might need them, and keys jingled and clinked together. Not ideal for moving around silently.

  But Ferne had her tricks, and she managed to get inside through a window with a faulty latch. Then she went to the side door and let Mehta inside.

  As he entered, Mehta noticed a marble statue of Laeri perched above the door. She stared down at him with white, inanimate eyes, standing tall on a ledge over the door with her arms outstretched, clothed in white robes with extra fabric draping down from her sleeves.

  A last reminder to parishioners to live holy lives once they left the temple? Mehta couldn’t say for sure.

  Ferne’s brief tour of the temple’s white marble interior reminded Mehta of the Xyonate Sanctum in many ways—replete with nooks and crannies, many with potential for deep shadows come nightfall.

  When she showed Mehta the storeroom on the lower level, his mind whirled with possibilities based on what it contained.

  But they had little time before nightfall. And less time meant he might have to do something more drastic.

  When Ferne led Mehta into the altar room on the second floor, the large, crystalline chandeliers hanging from the lofted ceiling caught his attention first. They formed a singular row that extended from the back of the altar room to the front.

  Each of them had to weigh several hundred pounds. Thick chains suspended them from metal hooks embedded in the ceiling’s whitewashed crossbeams and then trailed down to a series of anchor points mounted on the walls along the right side of the room.

  Mehta studied them as Ferne headed toward the altar. Interesting.

  A series of thick black curtains hung beside the windows spaced at regular intervals along the two side walls. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through them, illuminating the room in orange light.

  Then Ferne showed him a hatch in the floor behind the altar. It opened thanks to a lever that ran along the back of the altar. Mehta marveled at how well it was concealed in the altar’s golden trim—it blended in perfectly.

  Ferne pulled it up, and the hatch popped open.

  “It leads directly down to the street. It’s leftover from when the temple used to do animal sacrifices. My father said the priests used to dump animal guts down it. But Laeri hasn’t demanded animal sacrifices for a long time, Father said.” Ferne frowned and looked down at the floor. Tears pooled in her eyes.

  Mehta crouched in front of her and took her hands in his. “I won’t let them harm you.”

  She shook her head and sniveled. “It’s not that. I’m thinking about my parents.”

  Mehta squeezed her hands. “I can’t bring them back, Ferne, but I’m going to sift the people who sent their killers. I know it isn’t the same as getting your parents back, but you have my word that they’ll pay for what they’ve done.”

  To us both.

  Ferne nodded and wiped her eyes. “I know.”

  “So this chute leads to the street?” Mehta asked.

  Ferne nodded again and sniveled once more. “Yes. I don’t think it’s been used for years, though. Not for that, anyway. One time I got curious and went down it. It popped me back out on the street, and I almost broke my leg. I would have, but I landed on a pile of old rags that someone had left in the alley.”

  Mehta considered its potential. The chute wasn’t wide enough for him to slide through, but Ferne could still fit. If things went poorly, at least she had a reliable means of escape. He pushed the lever down, and the hatch snapped shut.

  “Are you sure they’ll find us?”

  “Without question.”

  “How?”

  Mehta didn’t answer her. Instead, he sized her up one more time. “There’s something I need to show you.”


  Mehta removed one of Creed’s knives from his belt and handed it to Ferne.

  She took it from him, uncertain and tentative.

  “Don’t be afraid of it. It can’t hurt you unless you’re reckless with it.”

  “I’ve used a knife before.”

  “Not one like this. And not for what I’m about to show you.”

  Mehta removed one of his knives from its sheath inside his clothes, one of the original pair he’d used to carve his way out of the Sanctum. It was a simple gray blade made of forged iron. Dark brown wood made up its hilt, but Mehta had long since wrapped and rewrapped the hilt with strips of black fabric several times over.

  It wasn’t anything special, nor was its twin, but it felt familiar in Mehta’s hand. And it was sharp enough to cut to the bone—and even into it.

  He refocused on Ferne. “Given your height, if it comes to it, your options are limited in a fight.”

  He paused, trying to gauge her reaction. Ferne didn’t respond.

  “Striking at the belly is good, but it isn’t often fatal.” Mehta drew his knife through the air across his own gut. “It’s soft and easy to cut into. But those with training know how to defend their bellies, and they expect attacks to that area.

  “So instead, you should strike the inner thigh.” Mehta traced his knife across the inside of his leg to show her. “If you strike hard enough and deep enough, you’ll sever a major artery. The heart does not know how to stop beating, and it will pump blood out of that wound until there is no blood left. It’s even more effective if you can cut both legs.”

  Ferne shuddered. “This is gross. I don’t want to think about this.”

  “But you must.” Mehta’s voice came out firmer than he wanted it to. He tempered his next words. “You must know this. If something should happen and I cannot protect you, you need to know something about fighting.

  “Any drunkard can stab someone, but killing quickly is altogether different. It requires precision, speed, and strength applied simultaneously. Without a plan, we are destined to fail and die.” Mehta considered adding, and I want to live, but he didn’t. “Do you understand?”

  Ferne nodded.

  Mehta pointed to a thick marble pillar that helped to frame the altar. “Pick a side of that pillar to be the inside of a leg. I want you to practice your cuts on it.”

  Mehta showed her a few knife slashes from different angles and told her to practice twenty of each movement. Even though marble was a soft rock, the practice slashes would dull the knife to some degree. He’d show her how to sharpen it once she finished practicing, but in the meantime, he needed to prepare for the Xyonates’ arrival.

  He started by shutting the curtains to all the windows in the altar room except for one, and then he took a closer look at the chandelier anchors.

  The heavy blue-black of nightfall blanketed Sefera within two hours’ time. When darkness fully consumed the city, Mehta ceased his preparations. He didn’t know when the Xyonates would come, and he didn’t want to be caught off-guard, so he stashed Ferne in one of her secret spots and waited at the altar.

  As he sat there, shrouded in the altar’s shadow, his muscles burned from the exertion of his preparations. He hoped the Xyonates wouldn’t show for awhile to give him time to recover. And if they showed up soon, he’d just have to deal with it.

  He glanced up at the large statue of Laeri looming over him and over the altar. She stared across the altar room, her white face turned silvery gray by the moonlight from the lone set of curtains he’d left open.

  Mehta considered praying to Laeri for success. After all, he was in her temple, and he was about to desecrate it with the deaths of several worshippers of Xyon—or maybe just his own.

  Or would their deaths honor her instead? If Laeri hated Xyon, as Elanil had claimed, then perhaps Mehta would be doing her a favor by killing Xyon’s followers. Perhaps the blood of sacrifices would once again flow from Laeri’s altar—or at least very near to it.

  Hours passed, and Mehta’s thirst waxed and waned with each little sound he heard. Yet to his surprise, none of the sounds came from Ferne’s position—at least not that he could tell. She must’ve taken his warnings about remaining perfectly quiet to heart.

  Or she’d fallen asleep. Whatever the case, when the Xyonates arrived, they’d both know it immediately.

  More hours passed, and Mehta continued waiting.

  Then a loud crash announced the Xyonates’ entry into the temple.

  Chapter Eight

  No other sound came, but Mehta’s first trap had sprung. That meant one of the Xyonates was already dead, or at least close to it.

  He’d barricaded all of the entrances and windows except for one way in, the very same side door where Ferne had let him into the temple. It had likely confirmed to the Xyonates that Mehta was inside, but they would’ve figured it out one way or another eventually.

  With a bit of rope and some creativity, Mehta had rigged the marble statue of Laeri above the door to fall after the door opened. Given its weight and size, he figured it would topple slowly enough to catch whichever Xyonate had entered first.

  Mehta hoped it was Elegy, but more likely than not, Ghazal would’ve sent someone else to take the lead. Ghazal wouldn’t squander a Xyonate as valuable as Elegy—at least, not as long as he could control him.

  That first trap was also Mehta’s cue to change his position. He crept away from the altar in silence and into the long shadows of the altar room.

  The moonlight from the single un-curtained window in the altar room divided the room into two roughly equal spaces, both of which offered ample darkness in which he could hide. Now he took his place and stood as still as the statue of Laeri behind the altar, waiting with one of the chandelier chains in his hand.

  For minutes, Mehta remained silent and motionless, inhaling the strong scent of oil from nearby. Soon after, a low creak sounded from one of the altar room doors.

  Mehta watched as a dark figure slipped inside the altar room. Thanks to his enchanted vision, Mehta could see the Xyonate clearly, outlined in faint green light. It was Verse, a young Xyonate who’d recently completed his training.

  Verse advanced forward into the room, skirting along the walls, jabbing each set of curtains with his sword and then moving on to the next.

  Mehta didn’t mind swords—he’d done his fair share of training with them over the years, but he preferred to sift in close quarters. He preferred to feel the life drain from his charges close up.

  Verse slowed as he approached the window with its curtains open and glanced around.

  Mehta reveled in the moment. By leaving only one set of curtains open, he’d knowingly sparked concern and confusion within Verse.

  Why open only one set of curtains?

  Why that set?

  Is he hiding there or somewhere else?

  Do I approach the window or stay out of the light?

  It would’ve driven Mehta mad, trying to assess and determine the reason for opening a single set of curtains in an otherwise dark room. It had certainly stalled Verse’s steps.

  Verse stood just beyond the stream of moonlight, near the center of the altar room, calculating his next move. Meanwhile, Mehta waited. Another few steps and he’d be in position.

  Verse eased forward another step, and moonlight glinted off of his sword.

  Mehta’s thirst heightened. He squeezed the hilt of his knife, careful not to move his other hand. The chain was merely wrapped around the anchor point—a simple metal spike that still held the chandelier’s weight thanks to the tension from Mehta’s grip on the end of the chain.

  Verse took another two steps forward, closer to the light, scanning the room with his enchanted eyes. He held his sword at the ready.

  Clink.

  Mehta had let the chain slip a bit, just enough to interrupt the silence.

  Verse’s head whipped toward the sound, and he approached Mehta’s position quickly.

  Mehta relea
sed his grip on the chain, and it rattled hard and fast and angry. Above Verse’s head, the crystalline chandelier plummeted.

  He noticed it and tried to dive away, but it crashed onto his right leg, pinning it to the floor.

  To his credit as a Xyonate, Verse didn’t cry out at all—not even a grunt. But he’d released his sword upon the chandelier’s impact, and it had clattered about a foot away from his now-outstretched hand.

  Mehta emerged from behind the curtains across from the exposed window and drew his other knife, heading straight toward Verse, who strained against the chandelier to try to reach his sword. Mehta got there first and kicked it away.

  Verse stared up at him, his young face serene.

  Then Mehta sifted him, spilling his blood across the shaft of moonlight from the open window. It glistened, bright red and vibrant, yet calm as it expanded into an ever-growing pool across the white marble floor.

  When Mehta looked up, six more Xyonates stood in the altar room with him. Elegy stood in the center, holding a pair of knives similar to Mehta’s, with the five other Xyonates spread out behind him.

  Mehta had hoped to catch more of them with his traps, but he steeled himself. He recognized each of the remaining Xyonates. If he could get through all of them, the only threat remaining would be—

  “Greetings, Requiem,” a dark voice uttered behind him.

  Mehta turned back, slowly, and positioned himself so he could keep an eye on Elegy and the other five Xyonates.

  Ghazal stood behind the altar. He no longer wore the regal purple robes befitting his status as High Cleric. Instead, he wore black, close-fitting fabric that covered everything but his face, neck, and hands.

  He held the same ceremonial knife in his hand, and he loomed over the altar and the sacrificial lamb that now rested upon it—

  Ferne.

  They’d found her. Mehta cursed.

  She lay facedown on the altar, quivering under Ghazal’s knife but with her head turned toward Mehta and her face etched with terror.