by Joseph Lallo
Nothing that had happened, nothing that he had done, had changed anything.
He stood tall, fists tight, and turned to the north. They would change now.
#
“I knew you'd be back,” remarked the heavyset bounty officer with a smug grin. “Follow me.”
She hoisted herself from her seat and began to waddle toward a deserted patch of the city. Whether it was for Teyn's benefit or her own, she elected to leave the lamp behind, moving with practiced confidence through the darkness. As she walked, she rambled.
“This one's a stone-cold hunter, I said. Knew it from the start. And all the really great hunters I've known, they've all been animals, deep down. They don't just like to hunt. They are the hunt. And the hunt is about the kill. There are only so many times you can have the rabbit's neck in your jaws without wanting to give it a good shake . . .”
Teyn released a breath that was just barely audible as an irritated hiss. Her words bothered him. Not only because she spoke so casually about despicable acts, but because she spoke of him as an animal. She could simply be using colorful language . . . or she could know what face lay behind the mask. She continued as though she did not hear him.
“You know something? You've returned a few bounties to me, but I don't think you ever told me your name. What do you go by?”
He hesitated. Sorrel had dubbed him Teyn, and in the years that he'd known her, that was how he'd come to think of himself. But Sorrel was not in his life anymore. The thought of this horrid woman, of anyone else calling him by the name burned at him. He'd been called Mally, but he would not and could not be known by that name. His mind flitted far back, landing upon the only other thing he could remember having been called.
“Some call me the Red Shadow.”
“Eh. You want to keep your real name a secret? Suits me, Red. Probably best for both of us. Name's Maribelle, but you just call me Boss,” She remarked.
They reached a building that looked as disused as the dozen they had passed before it, save for the fact that this one had a sturdy door with a high-quality lock. His employer dug shamelessly down the front of her armor coat, tugging out a gleaming bronze key. With a quick twist, she clicked the door open and slipped inside. He stopped at the doorway.
“What are you waiting for, Red? Inside,” she coaxed.
“I will wait here.”
“Your type never seems to like having too many walls around you. Fine, wait here.” The woman slipped inside for a few moments and returned with a rough slate board. “Since this is your first job for me working off of the black list, we'll start you with something small and simple. The man's name is Crilless. He lives in cottage a short distance north of the battlefront. Easy to find. Due north from here until you hit a river, then east along it until you find a dock with black slats. He's the first cottage west of it. Red door with a horse shoe on it. He carries a leather bundle filled with parchment. It is always on his person. Kill him, take it, and bring it here as proof. Should be done in a few days at most.”
“Why does he need to die?”
“Because someone is paying us for it. Listen, Red. This isn't a job where you ask questions. The less any of us know, the better.”
“Does he deserve to die?”
“Someone is willing to pay good money to see him dead, so I'd wager he's no saint. And what did I just say about questions? Bring me that bundle and you get eight rhysus. That's all you need to know. Now off with you. These things have a way of going stale, and I don't want the price going down because you decided you were curious.”
She ambled away, leaving him behind. Knowing that if he hesitated any longer he might change his mind, and knowing that this dark opportunity represented quite possibly the last real chance he had to earn enough to make a difference, he set off for the battlefront.
Little care was needed to stay hidden as he left the city. The soldiers traveled on the main roads, and none but they would dare venture so near to the battle. All of his life, twenty years now, Teyn had heard of the war. When he imagined it, he imagined clashing swords and butting shields. He imagined men on both sides fighting and tearing at each other. His mind had never turned to what those battles might have left behind.
These skirmishes had raged off and on for a generation. The closer he came to the line that the lives had been lost to defend, the more he saw that the land had not been spared. The scars of dozens—if not hundreds—of battles fought on this stretch of the land were everywhere. Houses reduced to charred ruins. The broken remnants of stone walls. Hastily-erected and even-more-hastily abandoned shelters. Broken arrow shafts stuck from the ground like some manner of ghastly crop. He passed through what might once have been a town, but the only evidence was a scattering of foundations and a single stone-paved road. Now it was a place so ruined, so long-deserted that only wildlife called it home. He took the opportunity to stop in this forgotten place long enough to catch and consume a meal before continuing on his journey.
Then, looming in the distance, there was the front. It was a sight to behold. He had heard the people of the nearby Tresson cities refer to this place as Red Band. Here, the border between Tressor and the Nameless Empire ran through a wide stretch of low, flat land between two sloped ridges. It was a war ground that might as well have been designed to foster a stalemate. Each day, the men would descend the slope, spill blood, and retreat when the battle was through. If the line moved too far north or south, the high ground would bring it to a stop.
Beyond the slope was a patchwork city of tents, lean-tos, and other makeshift structures. Horses slept, or shuffled uneasily. Heaps of red armor streaked silver with scrapes and gouges lay outside each temporary residence, awaiting the morning when the soldiers would suit up once more. The air was heavy with the scent of smoke and blood. Most of the soldiers slept, but along the top of the slope, a line of campfires glowed, warming the patrol that kept watch over the killing fields, lest some of the northern scum try to slip by. Far in the distance, a string of similar glows served the same purpose for their opposite number.
The task of crossing to the north mercifully stole away what mind he had left to dwell upon what he had seen, and what he was planning to do. Where the ground was steady enough for a squad to attempt to slip through, there were scouts and lookouts. To make the land elsewhere less forgiving and more likely to betray those who would sneak across, the soldiers had littered the field with bundles of cruelly-sharpened sticks sunk into the soft earth. That suited him fine. One did not become a successful hunter—at least, not one of the sort that Sorrel had taught him to be, without learning to step lightly and carefully. Selecting a route heavy with traps but virtually without patrol, he began the long, treacherous trek across the border.
There was an eerie, cold feeling as he moved across land. A part of it, a small part, was how far north he had come. Unlike most of Tressor, which was warm for much of the year, the air became sharply cooler near the border with the north. However, a stiff breeze and an icy bite to the air was nothing compared to the graveyard pall that hung over the place. So many had died here. There were no remains of soldiers, save the stain of blood here and the dislodged bit of armor there, but the atmosphere seemed sickly and poisoned by the horrors it had witnessed. The smell, likely too faint to be noticed by the men and woman who fought here, was almost nauseating to him. A single whiff was all he needed to know that it was a scent that would linger for years, a stench of death that would be a part of this place for generations to come.
He pressed northward, senses alert. The border was behind him now. He was in the land of the enemy. As he traveled, swift and low to the ground, he found himself glancing toward the fires at the top of the ridge ahead, hoping for a glimpse of those who fought on the side of the north. These were people spoken of with nearly the same fear and hate as malthropes. As he drew nearer, though, and he began to see faces and forms near the flames, he found that they were merely humans, identical to those he had left behind
him—albeit clad in blue rather than red. Somehow, he'd expected them to look different, to be monstrous or ghastly.
Seeing more of the same left him baffled. How could something as arbitrary as which side of an invisible line a man called home make him worth killing? With a shake of his head, he logged it away as yet another thing about humans he simply could not understand.
When the battleground was well behind him, his mind began to drift back to his target and how to find him. First came the river, if it could even be called that. It was a narrow, shallow stretch of water. More than a stream, but not by much, it must have been one of the tributaries to the river that wrapped around Millcrest. He had to take care as he followed its banks east. A well-traveled road ran alongside it, and flat-bottomed skiffs loaded with goods and passengers were drifting along its surface even as dawn was just beginning to break. Both the goods and the passengers were destined for the war, so special care had to be taken to remain unnoticed. Everyone would be well-armed.
Pier after pier passed with faded gray planks until the rising sun fell upon a row of black adorning a pier near a small cluster of cottages. Three had red doors. One had a horseshoe. He approached it. There was enough light now that he was in real danger of being seen, but the fertile ground of the riverside had resulted in a lush and dense area of high weeds, and whoever called this cottage home had done little to tame them near his walls. He crouched among them and breathed deeply of the air. There was only one human scent, the scent of a man. It formed trails, new and old, leading toward and away from the cottage. The trails all led to the single door of the structure, and they always approached from the riverside road. It smelled as though he was not home now, but he'd left very recently.
He closed his eyes, removing his mask to draw in a better sample, and unraveled the story the scent told. The man spent his nights here. He returned after the sun set, and left before the sun rose. Others passed along the road, but no one ever came to the cottage. So long as he could weather the day unseen, Teyn was certain he would find the man alone after nightfall. All he had to do was wait . . . and hope that when the time came, he still had the resolve to complete his task.
The wait was agonizing. Constant traffic on the road put his nerves on edge, allowing long overdue sleep to come only fitfully and in shallow dozes. The dreams that came whenever he drifted off were dark and twisted, filled with troubling memories. Finally the sky began to darken. Not long after, the crunch of purposeful footsteps approached the cottage. Through the weeds, Teyn could see the man he was to kill.
A heavy jacket, made from rough cloth and stuffed with down, covered a wiry and unwashed form. His hair was long and greasy, his face bearing the wispy beard and mustache of a man not meant to grow facial hair. To look at him, one would almost think that he'd been warned. His eyes were sunken and red, dark bags beneath them. His head darted aside to scrutinize the source of any sound, real or imagined. His left arm was held tightly to his side, clutching at a vague form beneath his coat. His right was at his hip, clutching lightly the hilt of a dagger. This man was no stranger to being a target.
He approached his door and cast a wary glance around him, eyes sweeping over the very patch of overgrowth that hid Teyn. They lingered there for a moment, but Teyn knew better than to abandon his hiding place due to a simple lingering stare. Sure enough, the man turned back to the door, reluctantly taking his hand from his weapon to work the latch. In the moment of distraction as the door slid open, Teyn slipped from the weeds and pulled himself to the roof of the cottage. The motion was smooth and nearly noiseless, but the crackle of a tuft of weeds was enough to raise an alarm in the jittery man's mind. His hand shot to his dagger and pulled it free, and he launched himself into the weeds, stabbing viciously at the spot where Teyn had been moments before. As he struck at the underbrush, he screamed threats in one of the languages Sorrel had attempted to teach.
The man stopped stabbing and stood stone still, eyes wide and wild. When the only sound to greet him was the babble of the distant water and the swish of windblown weeds, he made his way quickly to the door and pushed it open, hurrying inside to latch it again. He threw himself against the door and listened once again, ear against the sturdy wood. The only light within the cottage was the faint glow of embers still weakly alive from the previous night's fire. It wasn't enough for the man to see, but it was enough for Teyn.
The malthrope had slipped inside when the man was stabbing at the weeds, and now he stood behind his target, a knife in his hand. His breathing was slow and controlled, his eyes steady and locked on the man's back. Every part of his body was still, but his mind was a storm. It had been his fear, ever since the dark day at the plantation, that if ever he found himself in a position to take another life, he would not be able to resist. He was certain that he would lose control as he had before, that he would become once again what the men had believed him to be since birth: a monster, a killer. Now he stood behind a man who had been marked for death by other humans, and he couldn't bring himself to put his blade to work.
As the man stepped away from the door and fumbled in the darkness until he found a taper and a lantern and set about lighting it from the embers, Teyn continued to struggle with himself. This was for the others like him, the others denied their freedom. Taking this one life would provide him with enough money to give back the life of at least one worker. This man had his freedom and look where his choices took him. It was time to give someone else a chance.
Now the man had lit the lantern, filling the cottage with its dim glow. If Teyn was going to do something, he had to do it now. His target began to turn. Teyn grabbed him by the arm and twisted it behind his back, forcing him forward and slamming him into the wall. The force of the collision knocked the lantern from the man's hand, spilling lamp oil onto the floorboards and setting them aflame.
“Listen to me!” Teyn hissed through teeth clenched by the mask. “There is a price on your head. People want you dead for the bundle of parchment you've got clutched beneath your coat. Give it to me!”
After struggling and screaming in pain until it was clear there was no breaking free of his assailant, the man spoke, his voice brimming with insanity. Teyn knew little of the language. He didn't understand half of the words, but those he knew were filled with hate and madness. Words like “kill” and “wealth,” words like “war” and “children.” Teyn repeated his offer as best he could in the same language, but it was clear that this madman had no intention of accepting. He struggled and shoved, all the while the flames growing higher. Finally, an awkward twist of his body and a furious thrust of his foot managed to shove Teyn back toward the flames. It was enough to force the hunter to release his grip on his prey.
In a flash, the man was upon him, knife drawn and screaming. The two tangled, rolling atop one another. It was clear after just a few moments that this man was no stranger to combat. Crazed though his eyes and voice seemed to be, he moved with precision and purpose. He was barely as strong as Teyn, and far slower, but it took every ounce of advantage that the creature had to keep his opponent's weapon from meeting its mark. The fire spread around them as the fight intensified. The man's raking fingers caught the edge of Teyn's mask, pulling it free. The sudden sight of animal eyes and a beastly face were enough to briefly seize the mind of the man. Teyn took full advantage, kicking him off and springing to his back. One hand grabbed a handful of greasy hair and pulled the man's head back, the other held the knife tight. Teyn's teeth were bared, his mind aflame as he breathed great heaving breaths of the scalding air. He lowered his weapon . . .
#
Outside the cottage, men and women were beginning to gather, calling out for water to extinguish the burning cottage. A bucket brigade was already forming when a form finally burst from inside the fiery cottage. Despite the many witnesses, none caught more than a glimpse of the fleeing form. It was little more than a blurred silhouette rushing from the brilliant flames. Some claimed it held a tight bundle in one
hand. Others were certain it held a crude, armored mask to its face. The only thing that was certain was that it was not the man they knew to live in this place. When hours of work and countless buckets had been hauled from the river to the cottage, they revealed the remains of the cottage's mysterious resident. Though the fire had done its work, it was clear to all that he had been dead long before the flames had reached him.
#
Two days later, the woman who had hired him smiled as a leather bundle dropped to the table beside her, crunching spent nutshells.
“Well, well, well,” she said, slapping an insect buzzing by her ear, “look who came back.” She snatched up the bundle and pulled it open. “Did you look inside?”
The malthrope simply shook his head.
“Good. Glad to see you got that curiosity under control. Me, on the other hand . . .” she commented, pulling open the roll and sifting through the pages. “Need to be sure you brought back what they were after, rather than any old pile of parchment.” She read over a few of the sheets. “Yes. Yes this is what they were after. Boys! Eight gold!”
Inside the building, he heard the woman's two assistants moving crates and chests.
“It'll take them a bit to get to it. We don't do business in gold much these days. See, two out of three of the people I've got working off the black list don't come back from their first job. Some of them lose their nerve. The rest lose their lives. But I had a feeling about you, Red. Like I said, I looked at you from day one, and I thought to myself: this one, he's a killer, through and through.”
