by Osku Alanen
Eira looked at Ronan with saddened eyes. Did she pity him? No matter how long they had known each other, Ronan could never make sense of what the woman wanted. They had been close once, partners even. Lovers. He had burned that bridge years ago and didn’t wish to reopen closed wounds, so he chose to stay quiet.
“He needs rest now. The poison is gone, but the wound remains. The fangs dug deep into his neck. If the wound festers, I don’t know if I can save him….”
Eira placed her hand on Ronan’s shoulder, quickly removing it when she saw Ronan flinching at her touch. “He can stay here, you know? He’s more than welcome,” Eira added.
“Aye. Thank you.”
Eira smiled wearily, but her smile quickly turned into a worried frown. “Ronan, what do you plan to do now?”
Ronan shrugged. “Whatever I have to. Hunt. What else can I do?” He flexed his large, calloused hands, forged and tempered with decades of training and killing. “These are the arms of a killer. They ain’t much for saving. You only need to see the boy lying there, half-dead, to know it true. It’s my fault. My responsibility. My… sin.”
Eira frowned. “You know as well as I do that it’s not true. How long have we known each other? You must let this anger go, Ronan. It’s not good for you. There is more to you Ronan than this. You’re a father—a good man, even. If you let yourself be.”
“I’m not a good man.” Ronan whispered. “You don’t know half the things I’ve done.”
“Poor Ronan,” Eira said mockingly. “You don’t know half the things I have done, either. Doesn’t mean I can’t at least try to redeem myself. You can’t just say those things to me and expect me to stay quiet. Your past doesn’t matter—it is done, buried, forgotten. Only what you do now matters.”
“And what do you want me to do then?” Ronan growled. “Sit by his bed, wait for him to recover? You know me, girl. I need to act.”
“You’re a fool,” Eira snorted, pushing Ronan gently away. Her tone turned sour, spiced with anger. “And don’t you patronize me like that again. Ever. You owe me more than that, you bastard. And don’t tell me you can’t see where this path will take him. Death begets death. What I want from you, Northman, is to take responsibility. Not for your sake, but for your son’s. How long do you think it will take for another beast to give him a go? Do you think he will stay still while his father is alone in the wilderness? Never. I know the boy well enough. You need to leave this place. Just stop fighting. Just stop it! You must. For his sake, if not for yours.”
Ronan was silent. If he still had his youth, he would have cursed her words, but he knew better. His days of arrogance were over. He was no longer the man he once was. He had learned patience. But why did her words hurt him so?
We both know you can never stop fighting. It is in your blood.
Ronan flinched at the words in his mind, ill-prepared for their piercing presence. There was a time in his youth that he had listened to this voice. He had done terrible deeds then. Killed men and women alike—anything to sate the lust for blood. Try as he might to avoid it, the voice was always there with him, whispering. He could put up his walls, but eventually, the voice always returned. And now that he had grown careless, the voice was back, mocking him. Taunting him.
Begone, Daemoni, Ronan thought. I have no time for your deceptions today.
“You know I can’t leave. She won’t let me. Not if I still owe her,” Ronan replied Eira, shutting his mind to the voice, rebuilding his walls.
Eira snorted. “Then fix it. I am told you are a resourceful man. Find a way.”
“I’ve tried, Eira. You have no idea how hard I’ve tried to do that,” Ronan vented. “She is not a woman you can say no to. There is always that one more hunt she needs before my debts are paid.”
Eira cast a pitied look on him, her eyes softening. “Aye, that may very well be, but all I’m asking is that you try. Giving up solves nothing. Do it for your son’s sake. He deserves it—you know it.”
Ronan knew her words had wisdom, but he could not fully appreciate them. The implication that he hadn’t done everything in his power to give his son the future he deserved was painful. Ronan never had a place to call home growing up, his family being a tribe of nomads. He wanted Keran to have it better than he had. A future without killing. No violence. A foolish dream, Ronan knew. But if a man didn’t have dreams, then what did he have? A future with no hope is not one worth having. He felt like an animal trying to free himself from a trap laid by a hungry hunter but failing to understand that the spikes dug deeper every time he tried to jerk away.
Ronan yawned. All he wanted was to sleep his worries away. He cast one last look at Eira and his unconscious son. “I’ll be back for him tomorrow.”
Eira bit her lip, but she nodded wordlessly as a reply. Ronan sensed there was something she had left unsaid but wagered she didn’t want to pursue the issue further. Not today at least. He knew if he asked, Eira would let him stay the night, but the truths that had come from her lips had wounded him deeply. And deep down, he was a proud and a stubborn man.
Ronan left for Riverend, forcing his aching feet to move one step at a time towards the dim fires lighting up the night sky in the distance.
***
The streets of Riverend were eerily quiet, the stench of old urine and feces lingering in Ronan’s nose, as he passed through the muddy alleys. No one in their right mind ventured near the harbor at this time of the night, but Ronan had other things in his mind. He placed his hand firmly on the shaft of his axe, ready draw if someone jumped him, thinking him easy prey. You needed to look tough or risk confrontation in these parts. But Ronan knew himself well enough to know that a part of him yearned for a confrontation now. And should some sorry fool insult him tonight… well, he would release some pent-up frustration, regardless if the bastard deserved it or not.
Ronan could sense the voice in his mind chuckle at his thoughts, which made him even angrier. No. What would his son think if he saw him now? He needed to be patient, to hope and pray for his son’s recovery, no matter how painful inaction might feel.
Lost in his thoughts, Ronan walked by a nearby tavern where men spending their hard-earned wages away flirting with the young wenches, telling them to bring more ale while slapping their behinds with no care for subtlety or manner. Ronan looked at them with distaste as he walked by, muttering angrily. He couldn’t fathom how some men turned lose all their sense when they poured ale down their throats; he was the very opposite. If anything, the ale made him morose. Sad, even.
Sometimes Ronan wondered how Riverend could be the capital of the Northern Islands. How could this place be the best they had to offer when all the other nations of the vast world had riches and miracles that defied comprehension? The rest of the word regarded the Northmen with quiet distaste, yet they still turned to the seafood and lumber only Northmen could provide them. That was the only good thing Riverend had to offer—fish and firewood.
A short while later Ronan found himself staring at the entrance of the tavern he and his son also called home—as if one could call a room in the back of a tavern a home. They had never properly settled down here with his son. Ronan wasn’t entirely sure why. Connections with other people were always difficult for him. The people he was close with had the tendency to die prematurely; it was almost as if he was cursed. The only exception to the matter was Eira, his only friend in this city. She hated the city, too, hence the reason she lived inside her modest cabin, deep in the woods. Or at least, that was the reason she had told Ronan.
The air inside the tavern went quiet as Ronan entered, and grim faces turned towards the entrance to silently judge whether the newcomer was a potential mark. Someone worth luring behind the corner. When they saw the familiar, grim face of Ronan, they quickly turned their gaze away, pretending not to see him. No one inside the tavern dared cross Ronan. They had all learned what happened when the man was angered. Ronan greeted the barkeeper, crashing straight on the stool.
He knew he shouldn’t spend the last coin he had, but both his body and soul were drained; he simply didn’t care. All he wanted to do was drink away his worries and hope tomorrow would shine brighter.
The barkeep nodded, quickly pocketing the coin, casting a glance towards a group of travelers sitting by the corner. “Those guys have been asking for you.”
“I know. I saw them staring at me the minute I came in.”
“Friends of yours?”
Ronan shrugged. “Never seen them before in my life. Thanks for the heads-up, though. I appreciate it.” Ronan handed an extra copper—his last. He had a deal with the barkeep: he would provide Ronan with useful information, and Ronan would keep the peace. Ronan gulped down the last droplets of ale, wiping froth off his lips. “I reckon it’s no use to prolong the inevitable.”
“Ronan,” the barkeep lowered his voice. “No fighting inside the tavern, you know that. If you’ve got issues with them, take it outside.”
“Aye,” Ronan nodded grimly. “I remember.”
The barkeep grunted, polishing a mug with a piece of old cloth.
Ronan considered the faces of these outsiders. Those were grim faces. Faces that had seen more than their fair share of action. Scars and old injuries. The one that Ronan judged to be their leader had a nasty, faded scar, spanning from his eyelid all the way to his chin. Ronan wondered how on earth he had lived through that while still having his vision intact. And the man was big, just like him. He looked just as strong, too. At first glance, he might have seemed like a Northman, but he was too tan for that; there wasn’t enough sunlight in the entirety of the North for a man’s skin to turn that shade.
They were a violent bunch, there was no doubt in that. Ronan approached the group with increased caution, hoping he would be able to finish his drink in peace.
“You won’t need your weapon with us, friend,” a man with a soft, booming voice said, his back turned towards Ronan. He turned around, smiling.
Ronan frowned. Had he misjudged the scarred man? This feeble-looking youngster with raven-black hair was their leader?
“Aye. That’s good to hear and all that, but it never hurts to be cautious.”
The man grinned. “You’re absolutely right, but I assure you; we mean you no harm. We simply want to have a few words with the most famous Northman in these parts. Would you please sit down?” The man pointed at the free chair right next to him. Ronan remained standing. The man’s tone darkened, slightly. “I insist.”
Ronan noticed the man’s companions were silently moving their hands towards their weapons. The big man with the faded scar was carrying a huge two-handed sword. He looked strong as a bear, Ronan judged. He would hate to have to fight him. The third person in the group looked like an enigma to him; his face was covered by a hood. It was strange, Ronan thought. He could sense no hostility coming from the man. However, his dark complexion and the perplexing tattoos covering his hands reminded Ronan of a man from his past. Was this hooded figure a Nubian? Here, in the North? Curious. The fourth and last member of this group was a woman, which Ronan found unusual. Most women weren’t fighters. And one woman with three men never ended well. She was an archer, Ronan judged, based on her callused hands. Curiously, the raven-haired stranger seemed relaxed while the tension in the air otherwise remained palpable.
Be cautious. This man is more than he seems, the voice in Ronan’s head alarmed. I sense… something about him. How peculiar.
Ronan frowned at the voice’s sudden warning, but he remained at ease. “No harm with sitting, I guess.”
“Excellent,” the leader laughed, clapping his hands together. “Barkeep, refill this man’s mug, will you? It’s my treat.”
Ronan muttered his thanks. It would take more than a mug of ale to make him trust a man. “You, and your companions are an awfully curious bunch. I reckon you’ve seen some action.”
The man smiled mysteriously. “You could say that.”
“So, why come to me?” Ronan asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the man cocked his eyebrow. “To recruit you to our merry bunch, of course. For some more action, as you so marvelously deduced.”
***
Ronan woke up with a frown on his face. Had the events of the night previous really happened, or had it all been one of his nightmares? He tried lifting himself up, wondering why his every muscle ached so. The memory came rushing back to him, drowning his mind in a sudden, violent rush.
“Gods damn it,” Ronan whispered. “Keran.”
Yes. There was no doubt about it: what had happened was real. That damn job of his had almost gotten his boy killed. The thought made his heart ache with anguish. Had his son survived the night? Ronan bit his lip. He had no choice but to trust Eira. She was a skilled healer, as Ronan well knew. She would’ve sent word if something like that had happened.
Massaging his aching feet, Ronan lifted himself up. He stared at the tired reflection looking back at him. When had it all happened, for him to have turned into this scarred old man with haunted eyes? Time is a curious thing. One day, you play with your friends, giggling as they try to catch you. And the next time you blink, you stand in the middle of a battlefield, nothing but guts and blood and puss as far as the eye can see.
Ronan splashed his face with cold water, gasping as it forced his mind and body awake. He remembered something else from last night also. The group of mercenaries, were they also real? Ronan had no doubt they were—it would be just his luck. Months of inaction, of peace, and now everything that could go wrong went wrong. Why is it that an old man cannot live his quiet little existence in peace and quiet? Life in Riverend had been mundane for a while now. Nothing remarkable ever happened here. So why here and why now? In the span of a single day, his world had been turned upside down, and Ronan feared it would never return to whatever it was before.
Their leader had introduced himself as Raven. He was leader of a group of mercenaries who scoured the world in search of Daemoni to slay. For coin. Their latest adventure had taken them to the cold Northern Islands, but for what god-forsaken reason, Ronan couldn’t fathom. As far as he knew, things had been peaceful here, and whenever the Daemoni caused mayhem in a distant village or two, Hera’s hunters were dispatched, swiftly. After all, Riverend hosted the largest gathering of hunters in the North.
All in all, these strangers seemed like a skilled bunch, and if he was younger, he would have dropped everything and joined them in a heartbeat. But the same fire no longer coursed through his veins. He had a son to take care, now, and whatever decisions he made affected them both. And he would damn well make sure his son had a better life than he had. It was his worst nightmare—for his son to end up a killer like him.
What better life is there than the life of a warrior, Northman? It is a noble goal. One worth every sacrifice.
Silence, Ronan muttered. He was in no mood to have one of these chats with his own madness made manifest.
Still, whatever their true goal was, Ronan had to admit it did seem just—to rid the world of the Daemoni, as Raven had proclaimed. At first, Ronan had thought it a joke of some kind, but the youth appeared genuine. He truly believed it to be his duty.
A naïve fool, Ronan thought bitterly. What can a single man do against a legion of the damnation? Not a damn thing!
Ronan, too, had slain his fair share of Daemoni here in the North. He thought himself retired, but once his pockets turned empty, and his son cried of hunger, he had no choice but to return. A year of retirement—that was all he got. The brief respite had gained him nothing but grief. He had grown careless, sloppy. And it had almost gotten his son killed.
Still, Raven had taken his refusal surprisingly well—almost suspiciously so. No one who travels this far could be in that good of a mood after a blatant refusal like that.
No one.
“
Keran,” Ronan whispered as he locked the door to his room. He desperately wanted to see his son, but what good would that do? He would still be injured, and he didn’t want his son to see his father so helpless. If he was to see his son, he would have to bring him something. A gift. Something to ease his suffering.
A wolfhound! Ronan’s lips curled into a smile. His son had begged and begged for his father to get him one, but he had always refused. One that was big and strong enough to protect him from those who would do him harm. They were fearsome creatures, aye, but if they were properly trained… they would do anything for him. Ronan grinned with enthusiasm. He would bring his son a wolfhound, one the boy could train. One that would protect him when his father was away and to keep him company.
Just outside the tavern Ronan came to a sudden halt. How much was a proper wolfhound worth these days? A wolfhound that wasn’t prone to violent outbursts. A lot, Ronan guessed. He tried his pockets, their emptiness deeply unsettling. He then remembered the three Daemoni he had slain. He had no choice: he had to his way into the very same clearing where he had encountered the Daemoni. The hunter’s lodge would never pay him if he showed there empty handed. It was not the way Hera did business. He knew she liked him, but even she couldn’t just take Ronan’s word for it. No. He needed something tangible. And that meant he had no choice but to go back and cut himself a trophy.
Soon after, Ronan found himself staring at the dense forest around him in complete disbelief. He thought he knew these woods well, but somehow the clearing wasn’t where he thought it was. He came across a stream he hadn’t crossed over the day before. He bit his lip, angry at his own incompetence. Not only his strength, but had his senses dulled as well? A skilled hunter would never get lost in these woods. Never.
A while later, Ronan sat by a stream of water to stretch his legs. He looked around but recognized nothing. He took a moment to calm his nerves. Ordinarily, this was the favorite time of the day for him. The dawn of a new day, surrounded only by the peaceful emptiness of a forest untouched by man, bracing for the coming winter. But now that he had time to take in a deep breath, he noticed that something was wrong. The forest around him was utterly quiet; there were no birds, no wildlife. Nothing. A mere moment later a sudden shriek disrupted Ronan’s thoughts. He froze, trying to make sense of the direction the scream came from. Did that voice belong to a child? This deep into the forest?
