by Rose Reid
Dominik gives me a pleading look. Not the kind a child would give to their father before they were punished for their wrong doings; the kind of pleading look that would seem he is not pleading for his life, but for mine.
“Aerietta, before you do anything rash, please consider the situation. There are far greater things at play here than whatever deal you may or may not have made with the king of Evrallon.” Dominik assures me. “You do not know the Darkness that is coming to this land … to all our lands.”
I roll my eyes. “You lost your chance to bargain with me, Dominik.”
Dominik appears either hurt or offended and once again I find myself thinking of him as a child. “Why? Because I kissed —”
“Because you manipulated me!” I say, shoving him back a few steps. “Because you have made me unsure of my assignment, and for the first time ever, I may not kill my target. Now shut your mouth and let me think.”
Dominik shakes his head, jaw working and eyes almost sorrowful. “I cannot allow you to bring me back to Dryden, Etta.” He steps forward, looking me directly in the eye. “There are worse fates than death.”
His words, my words shot back at me, momentarily stun me. What fates does Dominik speak of? Imprisonment in Kinecardine, Solvitoft, or Yldervale?
Before I have the chance to further sort through Dominik’s maze of a statement, he spins and roundhouse kicks me in the head, sending me down into the water. I feel the splash of the cold, the spinning of my own head, and hear the footsteps of retreat as Dominik attempts to flee.
Oh, great, I think, though my thoughts are a whirlwind in a clouded mind.
I get to my hands and knees, keeping my gaze on the water until my head ceases its spinning, then lunge up and take off after Dominik, who has just made it out of the river. I jump over the slippery stones in the stream, avoid the rougher currents, and dart up onto the dry ground, kicking grainy sand up as I go. I try to catch up to Dominik but he’s quick, his strength returning to him. He uses his surroundings to best me, even without the use of his hands.
Dominik steps up onto a boulder and easily spins across another rock that lays in our path. I follow him, vaulting over the same rock, muscles burning from overuse in the hot day, already my senses beginning to numb.
I manage to get close enough to skid along the ground and knock Dominik’s feet out from under him, sending him sprawling in the sand.
Kicking up to my feet, I take after Dominik but he is already in a standing position, prepared to continue our fight. My first punch is deflected and he uses my arm to spin me around, getting me into a headlock. Before he can use his strength to suffocate me, I shove my shoulder into his chest and plant my foot between his, using his momentum to throw him over my head. What I unfortunately forgot is that his hands are still bound, wrapped around my neck, connected by my belt.
I unwillingly flip with him, landing on my back, but Dominik takes the blunt of the hit. I manage to get up before he does, moving until I have landed over him, locking his arms beneath the weight of my legs. Dominik is smart, though, and we have sparred more than once before. I remember all the times we have been in similar situations. He was never good at ground combat, which is why Quay wanted me to train him. It would seem I trained him too well.
He twists his hips and gets me off balance briefly but long enough for him to free his hands and grab me by the back of my neck, pulling me towards him so that he is able to backflip over, reversing our positions. Dark spots cloud my vision and I try to mimic Dominik’s move in an attempt to lithely escape from beneath him. He is wise to my maneuvering and pins me down again.
Sweat prickles his brow and the heat is making it hard for me to breathe. Still, he holds me to the ground with bound hands for less than three seconds. I use my shoulder to throw him off me, bringing my knee up into his stomach and turning him over. Getting to my knees, I swiftly unclasp the belt from his wrists while he is still half doubled over and whip the belt around his neck, threatening his life once again. The stupidity of it all strikes me. I was in this position only two nights ago, prepared then to take his life as well. But Dominik is not as weak as he was then, and despite our lack of food and all around energy, Dominik manages to grab me by my arm, throwing me over his shoulder so that I land on my back in front of him.
The air is pushed from my lungs and I instantly know that Dominik will be able to flee, unbound, if I do not get up quickly. I place my hands behind my shoulders and kip up to my feet, keeping in a low crouch to attack Dominik again but his back is to me when I get up. He watches something around us.
Taking in a steadying breath, I look around the area. My resolve to end Dominik here does not fade but he seems more friend than foe at this point. Standing around us, hunched and snarling with terrible teeth bared, is a pack of bloodthirsty wild dogs.
Wytrian.
Eight of them. Eight carnivorous, ferocious, relentless wytrian against two cutthroat assassins. This should be interesting.
XVI
“I wonder how long they’ll keep me here? Forever, I hope. Until I get cured. I hope they won’t cure me; I vow I won’t be cured. It's a great deal too pleasant to be mad, and I'll stay so.”
— E.D.E.N. Southworth, The Hidden Hand
Named after the mythical beasts of old, the wytrian are malicious, repulsive wild dogs that roam free throughout Adaai and some select areas of the Menca Denu. They are hairless, making life in the Menca Denu and Adaai cool and pleasant for them — apart from the fact that they can find little to eat. The wytrian can go weeks without food and can sustain themselves off the smallest woodland creature for months, but when they find something larger their appetite is insatiable.
I find myself back to back with Dominik. No weapons, no clear route of escape. The wytrian have the high ground, foaming at the mouth as they stand on the rock cliffs above us, one dropping into the shallow waters on its haunches, the stream barely coming up to its shoulders, despite the knee-deep water.
Wonderful.
I breathe carefully, knowing any sudden movement will cause the wytrian to leap from their pedestals. Standing with my back against Dominik’s, I consider the situation. I am back to back with someone I do not trust, eight growling wytrian have found their way to us, and I am without even the smallest dagger. My belt lies at my feet but there is little I can do with it. Use it as a whip, perhaps? It’s too short to do any real damage from a safe distance.
“It’s just like back in Abunuaid,” Dominik whispers, eliciting a snarl from a wytrian that hops from its stand and onto the grainy sand.
“It’s nothing like Abunuaid.” I hiss.
Dominik breathes quietly, elbows inching closer to mine. “Give me your arms.” he quietly commands.
My jaw works. I know his plan and it is certainly a risky one. In Abunuaid we were facing Adaaian guards. It was our last assignment together before Quay sent me out on my solo assassinations. Our tactic in Abunuaid worked well, but that was when we had weapons, a means of escape, and complete trust in each other.
A wytrian lunges my way and my muscles tense. It paws the ground fiercely, barking obnoxiously, foam and saliva dripping from its teeth, landing in the sand. It must sense my will to fight back because its courage falters until another wytrian joins it, barking and growling tyrannically.
I see no way out of this situation. The belt I used to disarm Dominik will be insufficient in taking out even one of these wytrian. The wytrian closest to me gnashes its jaws, barking viciously, snapping its teeth over and over again, either as a warning or because it is so hungry it cannot think straight.
My gaze leaves the wytrian only for a moment, looking at the sides of the gulch, then up further to the top, where I can see the edge of Hook Gulch. We need to get up there, away from the wytrian. At least there we could make it to the village gates of Zahlemia. But the dilemma is actually getting up there.
“Aerietta, you’re going to have to trust me.” he insists.
Through gri
tted teeth I say, “It is a shame I do not.”
Now is certainly not the right time for morals or changing sides.
The dogs growl again, moving eerily closer. I return my attention to the mutts in time to see the first one lunging my way. I reluctantly hook arms with Dominik and use his back to push off, kicking the wytrian that throws itself at me in the jaw. It shrieks, whimpering as it retreats several steps, only to attack again when the others do.
Dominik spins me around and I’m able to kick off the next wytrian, which topples into several others. He releases me and I roll to the ground, picking up my belt as I go. I use the belt to back some of the dogs up while whipping it around the necks of others, giving enough force to my twist that it snaps the neck of some I capture.
I feel teeth sink into my leg and I shout, looking down to see that a dog has viciously clamped its jaw down on my leg. Wincing, I snap the neck of the dog but not before it manages to do more damage to my already-bleeding leg. I have no time to realize what the bite from the wytrian entails.
Another wytrian lunges, paws scraping the ground towards me, and I use my elbow to deflect its jaw before it can gnash at me. It yelps and scrambles to the other wytrian while I briefly examine my leg, hiking the patched dress up to see what damage has been done. Before I can see past the blood on my leg, Dominik shouts a warning and I drop to my shoulder, kicking up at the wytrian that bounds towards me. I hit it square in the chest and it is thrown up into the air only to crash back down to the dirt.
I get to my feet, head becoming light from the blood loss but I am comforted by the amount of blood, knowing an artery was not punctured, but it does not comfort me enough. The bite from a wytrian can and will be fatal if not treated properly. The venom in their fangs paralyzes slowly, over the period of several hours, and then, if not treated soon after, the victim will lapse into oblivion.
The next wytrian that lunges at me is reduced to a pile of hairless creature and Dominik does away with the last wytrian that attempts to take him down. The remaining two seem to get the message and snarl at us, lowering themselves on their haunches before bounding off, towards the river.
I try to catch my breath, my throat dry, sweat stinging the injury on my leg. I hear footsteps behind me but even in my half daze I am sane enough to spin around and knock Dominik to his knees. He grunts and shakes his head in incredulity as I buckle the belt around his wrists. I drag him back to the creek and then step into the water, splashing my wound off. The water burns fiercely and I know why. The venomous bite of the wytrian works its deathly magic already, trickling into my blood stream and contaminating my entire body. There is a medicinal cure for it — Carnahan would have it on hand, I’m sure — but Carnahan is not here, and Lyom is not here to beckon him.
Dominik is too weak from our near-death experience to even attempt an escape so I drop to my knees in the water. I am weak from days without food, losing blood rapidly, and the cold nights of Adaai are freezing me from the inside out.
I remain sitting in the water, the cold rush of the current running over my wounded leg. It is only a matter of time before I begin to feel the effects of the wytrian’s bite. I will soon grow weak and walking will become difficult. Then my muscles will eventually lock up and I will be rendered useless. Dominik will escape soon and by the time he does there will be nothing I can do to stop him.
My breaths are ragged as I try to come up with a feasible plan. Perhaps we can start a larger fire tonight and draw Lyom in. It is only an hour until sunset, plenty of time to gather a fire. I have three hours until total paralyzation, tops. If Lyom has not found us by then … Dominik escapes and I am dead. Suddenly, Lyom’s tent seems very safe and I would give anything to slink back there and collapse onto my uncomfortable bedroll — I would even let Carnahan treat me, so long as he did not remove my shirt to treat any wounds on my back.
I look up at Dominik, who splashes water up onto his face. Does he know what the bite of a wytrian means? If so, he knows he only has to bide his time. I cover my wound with my hand to be sure and begin to come up with a way for me to stay alive. I will not go down this way, and I will certainly not go down running an errand for King Dryden.
Dominik clears his throat, running wet fingers through hair of dark silver. “Did you kill Zenith?”
I blink, surprised by Dominik’s strange question. “No.”
Dominik seems dubious of my response. “I find that hard to believe.” He takes his time speaking, dragging in a breath. I console myself in the knowledge that Dominik is as exhausted as I, and if he intends to attempt an escape, it will be a halfhearted one. “The two of you never had a very good relationship.”
I scowl at him. “I do not kill everyone I don’t like.” I try to sound stern but only sound raspy, my throat dry. I want to drink from the stream, as I have before, but am almost afraid of the water. I seem to have a love-hate relationship with it, knowing that if I do not drink from it I may die but if I do drink from it I may come into contact with a nasty bacteria that kills me. Then again, with the bite of a wytrian, I am dead in a few hours anyway.
“No,” Dominik croaks. “but it is your fallback.” He still appears skeptical. “You left her alive?”
“Yes!” I shout back, my voice scratchy and hardly recognizable. “Why does it matter whether I left her alive or not? What value is she to you?”
“You know her value,” replies Dominik, his voice still easy.
“She is a civilian! She should be nothing.” I hardly know why I am arguing the point. Part of me wonders if I am jealous for Dominik’s affection but I am sure that cannot be true.
“She’s an innocent, Aerietta.” Dominik answers sharply. “You would have been killing an innocent.”
I bark out a harsh laugh. “Zenith was no innocent. And it would not have been the first time I’d killed someone who did not deserve their death.”
“Perhaps not but Quay has always led you to believe they were guilty.” Dominik replies.
No. Quay did not always lead me to believe my assignments were guilty. For the most part, I was handed a picture and a location and I went and killed my target. The rest of the time I picked up a warrant from the contract booths. Never did Quay pull me aside and assure me that my target deserved the death he had coming, never did he try to convince me that death was necessary, because he never needed to.
He knew I would do whatever he asked, would do it without question. I always did. I had blind faith in Quay, was alright with the knowledge that God hated me since the moment I was born, and was resigned to my life and fate. There would have been no reason for Quay to tell me how important a certain assassination was.
Dominik looks up at me, his eyes completely serious, a dark, lucid silver. “You are not that person, Aerietta. I’ve known you since we were both children. You were not born to be Death’s Herald.”
It is his last sentence that makes my attitude plummet. I am in no mood to self reflect or to even feel self pity.
“We need to build a fire for night.” I rasp, trying to get to my feet. I pull the short dress down over my legs to cover my wound and haul Dominik to his feet.
“I will be of little assistance to you, seeing as though you have bound me.”
I roll my eyes at his pathetic attempt to get me to unbuckle the belt. Still weak and disoriented from our fight, we begin to walk down the creek a ways, hoping to put some distance between us and the dead wytrian. By the time the sun begins to set, we have just found a location I believe Lyom will be able to see from the top of the gulch.
This is it. I think. My last hope of getting out of this despicable gulch.
“Gather firewood.” I say, barely recognizing my own voice as it scrapes out of my throat.
Together we round up firewood, placing it in the center of the large area we have decided to camp at. I’m grateful for Dominik’s exhaustion and for his willingness to help. He, at least, has a sense of self-preservation as well, knowing that if neither of us build a
fire tonight, we will both surely catch hypothermia and die in our sleep.
Gathering flint and other stones to spark it against, I try to start the fire we have gathered together. Blood drips from my wound, draining down my leg to my foot where I realize I have lost one of my delicate flats. Not that it was any good, anyway.
Half delirious, I get the fire started and smoke begins to churn into the air. Dominik is just as disoriented, the heat of the day and our lack of clean water getting to us both, but little does he know his captor is suffering from a wytrian bite. When I am certain he is not looking — half dazed and moving into unconsciousness — I peel the hem of my dress back to examine the wound.
I am not a squeamish girl. I have seen things before that no girl should ever be forced to look at and have not flinched but there is something different about looking at yourself, seeing a wound that has been inflicted on you and realizing that you may not make it out alive.
There is enough blood to make me believe I am going to die of blood loss. I try to wipe it away with my hand but only end up smearing it on my dress. I can feel my hands shaking from a combination of exhaustion and the wytrian’s poison leaking into my veins. Biting down on the inside of my mouth, I take the hem of my dress and try to dab the blood away from the wound. Sharp pain makes my vision go temporarily white and my bloody hand flies to my mouth. I bite down on my fist, tasting metallic blood.
I look to my right and see that Dominik is half unconscious, now laying on his side. My blood will draw in the wytrian tonight and though I should not care about Dominik’s wellbeing, I do.
I need Lyom. And I need Lyom now.
Swaying as I get to my feet, I stumble towards the fire that is now roaring, trying to fan the smoke up higher. My legs are weak and I feel as though they are going to give out from beneath me at any moment. I peel my dress back up again, finding blackened flesh beneath. The thought of that being my leg makes my stomach twist into painful knots.
