by Dan Avera
“I am Willyem Blackmane of the Raven Knights,” Will called back. “I left almost two weeks ago to stop a bandit raid in one of your outlying villages, and now I'm back.” He accompanied the speech with a little flourish and a mocking bow, his annoyance at being made to stop in the heat getting the better of him.
The man peered out from under the rim of his helmet, the sarcasm obviously lost on him. “I guess you look like the Blackmane,” he said doubtfully. “Come a little closer.” They did, and he held up his hand when they were ten paces away. “Close enough,” he called imperiously.
“Is it always this tedious to get in here,” Clare muttered under her breath, “or is this guard just exceptionally full of himself?”
“The latter,” Will whispered with a long-suffering sigh.
“Oi!” the guard called, “What're you two talking about over there? I don't like the looks of you—Willyem Blackmane don't travel with a stick. And if you're really him, then how d'you explain the girl and the distinct lack of the rest of your men, eh?” The guard seemed exceptionally pleased with himself.
“First, using big words doesn't make you sound any more intelligent than you actually are,” Will growled, his patience finally crumbling. “Second, she's traveling with me because my men were killed by yaru when we investigated the village and she saved me. I have a walking stick because I was wounded. Now let us through or so help me I'll flay the hide off of you with your own wretched excuse for a sword!”
“That's enough cheek out of you!” the guard shouted. He took a step forward and began to pull his sword from its scabbard. His fellows behind him began to follow his lead.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you,” Clare said, and Grim, silent until then, stepped forward and bared his teeth, his ears laid back against his head. He growled so deeply that Will actually felt it in his bones. The guard stopped dead, the color draining from his face. Grim, whose shoulders easily reached Will's hip, now seemed even larger with his hackles raised.
“We're going through now,” Will said. “I'd tell you what my friend will do to you if you try to stop us again, but...I think you can figure it out.” The guard nodded and, with deliberate exaggeration, sheathed his sword. Grim snarled at the man as they walked by, never breaking eye contact.
“That wasn't one of the Ravens,” Will said with some trepidation as they passed beneath the archway into the city proper. “I hope that doesn't mean Castor has moved on.” They continued on toward the center of the city. Will decided the inn he had stayed at previously would be a good start; perhaps the keeper would have information on Castor's whereabouts. “Will Grim be a problem here?” Will asked, indicating the warhound. He had reverted back to his normal—though admittedly still-unnerving—self, but Grim's menacing aura had not yet disappeared entirely.
“Nah.” Clare ran her hand down Grim's back, and the hound shook himself as though shedding his rage like droplets of water. “He should be fine as long as nobody tries anything stupid. Prado may experience a shortage of limbs if that happens, though.” Will was unsure whether or not to laugh at that.
Where outside there had at least been a weak breeze, the interior of the city was stifling. Will and Clare lowered their hoods and kept to what scant smatterings of shade the buildings provided, though it made little difference. With no wind to offer any reprieve from the baking heat, the city felt like the inside of an oven. The press of people increased the farther into the city they moved, and Will began to feel claustrophobic.
“It feels like a furnace in here,” he groused. “How can all these people be outside?”
Life had to continue, he supposed, even in Prado in the middle of the summer. Grim helped somewhat with the crowds, his imposing presence creating a wake in the flood of people that Will and Clare were able to walk through. Most of the townspeople seemed not to care, however, and judging from their faces Will guessed they were just as miserable as he was.
“...hit another village,” Will heard a woman say, the words catching his attention, and he motioned for Clare to stop. “And that one a week ago...poor Blackmane.”
“I've heard it isn't bandits,” her audience, a girl carrying a load of pottery said. “People say some of the bodies were ripped apart, like it were animals what did it.”
The first scoffed. “Ain't nothing around here that would go around wiping out towns 'sept for bandits, or maybe them desert ruffians. But I don't think they'd be down this far west. No, it's bandits. Definitely bandits.”
A crowd of people suddenly passed in front of Will, and he seized Clare's hand and shouldered through the river of pungent, sweating bodies with her in tow. “Excuse me,” he said to the women on the other side, and they turned toward him.
“What?” said one. “We 'aven't got any money for you, if that's what you're looking for. Begone.” She eyed Grim warily.
Will held up his hand in a gesture of reassurance. “No, no, it's not that. I'm Willyem Blackmane, of the—”
The girl carrying the pottery dropped her load and put her hands to her mouth. The jars smashed against the cobblestone road, scattering sharp fragments of clay across the ground and earning the woman some angry shouts from the people behind Will. “Great Black,” she whispered, “it is you. I remember you—you danced with me at the festival.”
Out of the corner of his eye Will saw Clare raise an eyebrow, and he blushed, thankful that it was hidden for the most part by his scruffy beard. “Ah, right. Erm, anyway,” he stammered, “is Castor still in Prado? I really do need to speak with him.”
“What happened to you?” the first woman said, and then she eyed Clare up and down. “Ah, I see. Keeping this man in line, eh?” She winked at Clare, and now it was the latter's turn to blush. “I know your pain. Been married twenty years and I still have to beat my man.” She turned her gaze to Will. “Don't think I've ever done a number on him quite like that, of course, but whatever it takes, right?”
Clare gaped.
“It isn't bandits,” Will said quickly, ignoring the older woman. “The village we were sent to help had been attacked by yaru, and they came back after we found the bodies. The rest of my men died, and I ended up just barely escaping with my life.” He pointed at Clare with his walking stick. “She saved me.”
The woman and the girl both gawked at him. “How...” said the younger, “How are you...”
“Listen,” Clare said, “we really need to find Castor. Is he still in the city?”
The girl nodded. “I'll take you to him,” she said absently, a strange look on her face, and she led them away through the press of people.
It turned out that Will had been heading in the right direction after all—Castor was still taking up residence in the same inn. When they arrived he was sitting at a table with Katryna, pouring over a map of the surrounding countryside. Will was surprised to see his own lost skullhelm on the table as well, the faceplate rent almost completely in thirds by the yaru's claws. The crudely etched raven had been severed at the wings, and its beak seemed to be screaming in pain rather than rage. “They were killed in here,” Castor was saying, and he stabbed furiously at a section covered in forest—Will assumed it was the birch forest they had been camping in. “We just haven't looked hard enough. We need to keep at it until we find him.”
Will handed the village girl a coin and she left, still looking thoroughly astounded.
“Castor,” Katryna said gently, “everyone was dead. You saw the blood all over the ground. He's gone. You have to let him go.” Will could hear the hurt in her voice, but it was carefully concealed.
“We didn't find his body!” Castor shouted, slamming his fist down on the table hard enough that a goblet tipped over and spilled its contents across the wooden surface. Katryna shrank from his fury, her face a mixture of shock and fear. Will couldn't blame her—he had never seen Castor so angry before. The latter blinked suddenly as though clearing a haze from his vision, a mortified expression on his face, and he stammered, “I-I'm sorr
y. I shouldn't have yelled...”
Katryna reached up to touch his face, and he placed his hand tentatively over hers. “It's alright,” she murmured, and Will saw—to his complete disbelief—the glistening beginnings of tears in her eyes. He could not readily recall a moment in his life when Katryna had cried, and he had no desire to drive her to such emotion.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said from the doorway, “but I heard you were looking for me.”
The reaction was both comical and instantaneous; Castor toppled backward, chair and all, and crashed to the floor in a heap. “Mother of Gefan!” he cried, and scrambled to his feet. Katryna, for her part, simply stared open-mouthed at Will, who winced as Castor nearly tackled him to the floor in a bear hug. “You stupid son of a...what happened to you?” He held Will at arm's length and gaped at his battered body and armor. Then his eyes flicked to Clare. “And who in the Void is this?”
“First,” Will said in a somewhat strained voice, “this is Clare. She saved me and nursed me back to health. Second, your grip on my maimed arm is rather tight, and I'd appreciate it if you would let go.” He sighed with relief when Castor released him as though he were a hot pan.
“Where have you been?” Katryna said slowly, still staring. She left her seat and moved up next to Castor.
“Well, I—” Will was abruptly cut off as Katryna seized him by the ears and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Then she slapped him.
“What—hey!” Will spluttered.
“Ass,” Katryna said. “You scared Castor.”
“It's not like I had a choice!” Will cried. “I was on the verge of death, you know! For seven days!” He held up seven fingers for emphasis.
Clare cleared her throat then, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Um...if I'm intruding on something, I can leave for the moment.”
“No, no,” Will said quickly. “Don't go. It's nothing like that. She's insane,” he pointed at Katryna, and then included Castor in his gesture, “and like I said, she's with him.”
“Trust me, the kiss didn't mean anything,” Katryna said sardonically. “He's all yours, darling.” She eyed Clare up and down as though seeing her for the first time, and then stuck her hand out. “Clare, was it? It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for bringing my lover's lover back in one piece. He was devastated—well, you heard him.”
Clare shook her hand tentatively, though she looked relieved. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at Will, and raised an eyebrow when she saw that he was looking. He grinned at her, and then Castor held his hand out to her as well. She took it, and he bowed dramatically, lightly kissing her wrist. Katryna swatted him, but he ignored her.
“I never thought Will would bring home such a lovely creature,” he said with a sly grin directed at Will, and Clare blushed. “See? I told you he likes women.” The last he said to Katryna, who snorted and attempted to cover her laugh with a cough.
“Alright, that's enough,” Will said. “Castor, Clare is here because I asked her to come back with me. She was chasing the yaru by herself—”
“Wait, yaru?” Castor interrupted, arching an eyebrow. “What yaru? First bandits and now yaru? What on earth have you been up to?”
“It wasn't bandits,” Will said grimly. “When we got there the bodies of the villagers had been...mutilated. Rik said it was a sign of Keth, the dark Titan.”
Castor raised his eyebrow, but said nothing.
“The yaru came back that night,” Will continued, “and led us into the forest. They killed everyone except me, though it sounds like you saw for yourself. They would have killed me, too, if Clare hadn't shown up and chased them off.”
“We never found any yaru,” Katryna said slowly. “Just the bodies of your men.”
Will stared at her. “What?”
“We just figured the bandits had dragged off their slain, or something,” said Castor, and shook his head slowly, staring down at the floor. “Yaru this far south...”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Will. “I thought they stayed over around Brightstone for the most part, and sometimes along the border of the Kahara. But yaru murdered the people in that village, and my men as well.” His hand went automatically to the wood flute at his throat. “They killed everyone in Clare's city eight months ago, and she's been hunting them ever since. The...well, the alpha, I guess, was about to kill me when she and Grim showed up and drove them away. I told her we'd help her hunt the rest of the monsters down. It seems especially prudent now, considering the conversation we overheard awhile ago.”
“What conversation?” Castor asked. “And who's Grim?”
The great warhound, apparently having heard his name, suddenly pushed the door open with his head and stepped inside.
“God above!” Castor cried and jumped back, but Will held out a hand to stop him.
“He travels with Clare, Castor. He's fine. Just don't make him angry.” Grim glared at Castor, and then butted Will's hand with his head. He scratched behind the dog's ears. “The conversation was about attacks on the other outlying villages,” he continued. “Have you heard of that?”
“Yes,” Katryna said slowly, “but we thought it was the bandits, of course. Or maybe the Eastlanders, but that seemed a bit of a long shot.”
“Well,” said Clare, “I think we can safely say at this point that it isn't them. This is important—the yaru need to be stopped, and I can't do it alone.” She paused with a somewhat embarrassed expression. “I need more men to help me hunt them down. But I understand what I am asking, and if you don't want to commit your soldiers I fully understand.”
“I'm going with Clare,” Will said before Castor could respond, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Clare smile. “This is important, but beyond that I owe her my life.”
Castor shrugged. “As if I needed that comment to make up my mind. My men are committed to the cause.”
“Hold on,” Katryna said. “We still haven't trained enough soldiers for this city to defend itself. We can't leave just yet.”
“Good point,” Will said, scratching his beard. “How many do you have so far?”
“About four hundred,” said Castor. “Though they're all still fairly green, obviously. It's only been two weeks.”
Will looked at Clare. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
A startled look flitted across her face. “Me? But, I—they're your men, not mine.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, “and if you wish to leave now I will accompany you. Castor's force can catch up with us later.”
She looked aghast. “What?! You're still walking around like a cripple!”
Will inclined his head. “Even so, I can make it. I'll heal on the way.”
Clare shook her head incredulously. “Will, no. No, we'll stay here for at least a few days.”
“You're sure?”
“You'll get killed!” she cried. “Are you mad?”
Will gave her a half smile. “Like I said, I owe you my life. What do you want to do?”
She gaped at him, still with a disbelieving look. “You're a fool, you know,” she said, and then she cocked a grin, rolling her eyes and shaking her head slowly. She punched him softly in the arm. “I spent too much time making you well to let you die now. We'll stay until you're better.”
He smiled down at her but said nothing.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Castor cleared his throat. “Right, anyway, while that's very sweet...” He trailed off as Will directed a withering glare his way.
“We're staying here until Will's recovered,” Clare stated with finality. Grim, as though sensing her conviction, walked happily inside the much cooler inn and laid down on the floor.
“In that case,” said Will, running a hand along his beard, “do you mind if I go see a barber?”
Seven
Of all the Titans, it was Forod whose fury at Keth's perceived betrayal was strongest. He was the god of life, and now his brother had become the god of de
ath—as far as Forod was concerned, they would forevermore be enemies. He cursed his brother, and when the other Titans convened to decided what to do for punishment, it was Forod who suggested they cast him out alone into the depths of the Void.
Koutoum did not partake in talks of punishment. Instead, he sought out Keth.
“Why?” he asked.
Keth could not bring himself to meet his brother's gaze.
“Keth, why did you do it?”
“I am sorry, Brother,” the Lord of Death whispered. “So, so sorry.”
~
The blade was an Eastland sha'shim—long and slender and curved, designed more for draw-cuts than chopping or stabbing. Nevertheless, the polished steel slid effortlessly between the yaru's ribs and out through the skin of its back. Little rivulets of blood clung to the grooves of Eastland script etched along the blade's length. The beast gurgled and choked, and with each of its dying breaths bright red froth bubbled out from the holes in its lung and heart. The blade twisted to the right, and the motion was followed by a sharp crack as the ribs around it snapped and splintered. The yaru's eyes rolled back into its head, and its slack mouth gaped stupidly. Serah withdrew the blade and wiped the creature's stinking blood from its surface with a rag.
“Zizo,” she said, and one of her ever-present bodyguards appeared at her elbow. He was armored in the desert fashion, with mail and plate covered in delicate scrollwork, but he carried a longsword, favoring the Southland style of fighting over that of the Eastlanders. As always, the only visible part of his body was a small strip across his eyes. “Tell me,” Serah continued, “how exactly I was unable to see this many of my brother's twisted offspring amassing?” Zizo stared at her impassively. “No ideas?” she sighed.
