by Osku Alanen
The scream led him right to the same clearing he had been looking for all morning. Ronan stopped on his tracks, squinting. He tried to make sense of the peculiar sight before his eyes. There was a child there, surely not older than five summers, kneeling over the three slain Daemoni. She was weeping.
“Step back, child,” Ronan warned. He knew the beasts were dead, but their fangs still had the same venom that had almost killed his son.
The child ignored Ronan’s warning, so he had no choice but to walk towards her. He kept his axe out of sight as in not to scare her. “Listen, it’s not safe here. There are Daemoni around. What are you doing all alone here? Where is your mother, girl?”
She turned her head towards Ronan, snarling, revealing two sharp fangs and numb eyes filled with hatred.
“No,” Ronan gasped, fumbling for his weapon. Not once in his life had come across a Daemoni child; it was almost unheard of. Their offspring always stayed out of sight.
The thing leaped at Ronan, her small but sharp fangs ready.
“Fuck,” Ronan grunted, trying to swat the beast away with his arm, succeeding just in the nick of time. Ronan felt for his neck, trying to see if the blasted thing had pierced his skin. It hadn’t. His face turned red with anger as he realized his carelessness had almost cost his life. The thing was a Daemoni, and as with all the Daemoni, it needed to die. Ronan saw the beast’s limp body laying still atop the thin layer of snow that had fallen atop the flowers, unmoving. Ronan moved closer, cautious.
The thing was crying.
The creature crawled backwards, towards one of the dead Daemoni. It bared its fangs and let out a cry of defiance as tears fell down its cheeks, using its small body to guard the corpse. It hissed weakly, pathetically.
“You’re a Daemoni. A monster.” Ronan took a step forward. “You’re not a child.” Ronan tried to shake away the hesitation in his voice, his trembling fingers clutching his axe as tightly as he could bear. “All Daemoni deserve to die. They are evil incarnate. There are no exceptions.” But gods, why did the thing had to look so much like a human child? The thought of what he had to took made him sick to his stomach. Could he kill this thing—end a child’s life?
The thing trembled, whining under its breath. It had to be related to the Daemoni he had slayed—most likely one of their spawn. It would be a mercy. The thing wouldn’t survive alone in the wild, not for long anyway. A mercy.
Ronan raised his axe high above his head. “This is just,” he whispered, eyes wide open.
The Daemoni child raised its small, quivering hands towards Ronan to guard itself from the blow that would no doubt end its miserable existence. And when facing death, all things felt fear, even these accursed creations. It was not a child. It was a monster.
Not a whisper was heard in the clearing as Ronan’s struck the ground below, missing the Daemoni child’s head by a hair’s length.
“Go,” Ronan roared. “Flee this place. Never come back.”
The thing looked at Ronan with its disbelieving, translucent eyes, too afraid to move. An eternity seemed to pass until the creature regained its courage, not fully comprehending how and why it was not dead. The thing took one final glance at Ronan before retreating into the woods.
Ronan fell to the ground, knees first. He let go of his axe, looking at his shaking palms. His hands had brought much death, but not today. The death of a child, no matter if it was a human or not, would not be in his conscience when his own child laid on a bed, fighting for his life. He knew the Daemoni child would likely die on its own with no one to feed it, but at least it had a fighting chance now.
Ronan left the clearing, fangs of the three slain Daemoni secured in a pouch around his hip.
***
“Catch,” Ronan said, throwing the pouch on the clerk’s desk. The contents of the pouch rolled out, spilling blood on the clerk’s desk. The old man frowned through his thick-rimmed glasses, frowning at Ronan and cursing his manners.
“Well, well. I thought you retired already, or better yet, left us for good, Northman. Now, what have you brought to me….”
The clerk yelped with pleasure. “Three fangs of the Succubi? My goodness. And such well-formed specimens at it, too!”
“Glad to see you enjoying yourself, old man,” Ronan replied dryly. He didn’t have the time or the interest to listen to this overly-eager clerk. Hunting monsters was a job for him; he took no pleasure in it. Maybe once he might have, aye, but not anymore. Those days were gone. One who takes delight in the killing of things—no matter if human or monster—is one who you should be cautious of. And that child-beast Ronan had left to fend for itself… its cries haunted him still.
“You’re right I am!” The man replied, face glowing red. “And I’m damn well not letting you ruin my good mood.”
“Aye. You’ll get to enjoy my trophy soon enough. My wage?”
The clerk started at Ronan, disgusted over the interruption of his pleasure. He opened his pouch, throwing three pieces of silver over to Ronan, the coins splattering all over the oaken desk. Ronan took them into his large, callused hands and grunted his thanks.
“Oh, and Ronan,” the clerk said, staring at him with a blank expression devoid of feeling. “The Huntress wants to have a word with you.”
Ronan shrugged. “Later.”
“She said to see her right away, should you appear in front of me. You know how she hates men who disobey her, don’t you?”
Ronan stared at the clerk with blatant irritation. Meeting the Huntress was the last thing had in his mind, especially now that Keran was injured. He wanted to go and buy the wolfhound he had promised his son. However, she was someone he didn’t want to refuse, so he felt like he had no choice.
Ronan pushed open the heavy wooden doors leading to a large, open hall. He quickly realized his mistake as dozens of heads turned towards the entrance, angered by the sudden interruption of the ritual. Ronan realized his mistake, muttering his apologies to the annoyed crowd, securing his axe by the entrance as no weapons were allowed inside the headquarters.
Hera loomed over his subjects, sitting cross-legged high above the audience, whispering something in a hushed tune. An altar of candles in front of her crossed legs was the only source of illumination in the room, casting an otherworldly shadow across the naked wall behind her back, making her appear much like the grand leader she acted like. The smell of myrrh lingered in the air.
Someone had died, Ronan realized. He had interrupted the last rites, a ritual for honoring a hunter killed on the job. He took off his shoes, joining the audience, careful not to disrupt the ritual any more than he already had. It was the highest honor a hunter could have, to be honored by his companions. Their task was to send the recently departed for one last journey, to prepare them for the one last battle in the beyond. And this time, it was Hera herself who performed the last rites. Was it someone he knew? The faces around him were foreign to Ronan; he had been gone too long. Men often died when hunting the Daemoni, and seeing fresh blood was hardly surprising. Boys from nearby villages, anxious to prove themselves, were always there.
Ronan sat on the ground, crossing his legs along with his fellow hunters, mirroring their voices and movements. No matter how he might have disliked working for Hera, he would never dream of disrespecting a warrior who had given his life. He joined the others in the hymn, praying for the warrior’s safe passage even though he did not share their beliefs. These men and women might have believed in gods and battles in the beyond, but Ronan didn’t. If there were gods, they were long dead. The only thing Ronan expected to find in death was mud. And regrets.
The singing came to a sudden halt, and Hera stood up, raising her arms, motioning for the crowd to do the same.
“My beloved hunters,” her voice boomed, echoing throughout the hall. “Tonight, another brave soul has left us.” She shook her head, mouth quivering. “And so, we mourn the passing of Jory, a man of great valor and strength. A man who gave his life for our sac
red duty.” She unsheathed the decorative dagger attached to her hip, firmly grabbing the razor-sharp blade with her right palm. Then she cut her hand, blood smearing the open bowl beneath crimson. She took the bowl in her hands, calmly raising it towards the ceiling. “As has this mighty warrior spilled his blood, then too shall I. May he find glory in the beyond.” Hera dipped her fingers into the bowl, staining her cheeks red. A single tear fell down her smooth cheek.
Ronan had seen this ritual countless a time. Death was an inevitability in this line of work. Yet every time Hera had performed the last rites, Ronan couldn’t help but admire how deeply the woman felt for her hunters. There is no happy ending for those who choose this life. Only misery and death. So why was he back again? For misery? For death? He wanted to think he did this for his son, but deep down he knew he hadn’t paid his dues for all the pain he had caused in his life. Was this to be his penance? A fool’s errand at trying to make things right?
In no time at all, the ritual was over. The rest of the crowd dispersed yet Ronan remained seated, deep in thought.
“Well, well.”
Ronan raised his head and saw Hera quietly gazing into his eyes with a deeply penetrative gaze. He felt her eyes dig into him, searching, pondering. Did she see the sadness Ronan felt? Did she know of what had happened to his son, Keran? The woman had always been perceptive to a point it was almost unnerving.
“Huntress,” Ronan acknowledged her.
“Thank you for joining us, Ronan. I’m glad to have you with us again. But for now, we have much to discuss.”
Hera massaged the hand she cut before. The wound was freshly dressed, yet it had already begun to bleed through the dressing.
“Come with me.”
Hera gave her hand for Ronan, and Ronan took it without hesitation. He followed Hera into her quarters just outside this grand hall. Her quarters were just as plain as he remembered. There were no decorations; her life was plain, mundane, pure. As a leader of the Lodge, she was no doubt rich, but she did not let it show. She was a warrior to the core and had no need for petty trinkets. But much to Ronan’s surprise, her quarters weren’t empty this time. Instead, a group of familiar men and a single woman stood there, waiting.
“Ah, hello there my friend. We meet again. What a marvelous coincidence!” Raven grinned, bowing deeply. His other companions were present also: the large, scarred southerner, along with the tattooed Nubian whose face was still covered by the hood, and the muscular woman who rolled her eyes as the raven-haired man said his words.
Ronan snorted. He was under no illusion that this was a coincidence. “A coincidence? You expect me to believe that?”
Raven grinned. “What else could it be? We certainly didn’t follow you here as you can so plainly see. I believe us meeting again was inevitable—A destiny if you will.”
Ronan frowned, massaging his temples. The playful words of this man were giving him a headache. “Enough.”
Ronan looked at Hera pleadingly. “Please, chief. Just tell me what this is about. I reckon I’ve earned that much.”
Hera snorted, suppressing a smile. The stranger’s ability to mock Ronan had plainly amused her. “Why won’t you have a seat, Ronan?”
Ronan did as commanded, but with reluctance. The presence of these strangers in the headquarters was surprising, but not entirely unexpected. The longer Ronan thought about it, the more sense it made. After all, these mercenaries were hunters of sort. And where else would hunters meet than here? Ronan realized that their meeting was inevitable, just as Raven claimed. Anything remotely related to the Daemoni would be discussed in these halls. They were, after all, in Hera’s territory.
Hera crossed her fingers, arms resting on her knees as she sat to the chair opposite to Ronan and the strangers. “I believe you’ve always been a man of few words, Ronan. Which is why I will give you the respect of speaking plainly: I want you to join these men.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Ronan stared numbly at Hera, expecting for her to laugh at any moment. He then looked at Raven who, just as he expected, was smiling expectantly. The man had known the outcome of this meeting all along. Things had already been set in motion before he even set foot in the building. Ronan cursed under his breath. He had been outmaneuvered. This group of mercenaries had obviously sought out Hera the minute Ronan had refused their proposition back at the tavern. Why did things never happen the way he wanted? Why couldn’t he just live his life, together with his son, in peace? Ronan wondered the question, yet deep down, he already knew the answer.
Men like him would never have peace.
Chapter 2
Arin
Arin focused intently on the musty tome in front of him, careful not to destroy its already half-faded and fragile pages with a careless touch. If someone caught him, he would be in trouble; one did not simply take the ancient tomes out of the sacred library. He needed to be careful, but the words of his brother echoed in his mind still, and Arin found his fingers flipping through the pages carelessly, desperate to find a single clue.
The words of the Kun’urin are false.
Those were the words of heresy. How could a scholar of their order utter them aloud, and why to him—a man who had vowed to serve their order? Did he not realize he had no choice but to tell the elders? That there would be grave consequences?
Arin bit his tongue, muzzling out a scream. There were no answers in this tome, either. Frustrated, he cast the tome aside, gasping aloud as it nearly fell from the table.
“You’re a damn fool,” Arin cursed to himself.
He looked outside; the sun had already set past the second peak, and the doors of the library would soon be closed for the night. Thankfully, Elder Kelmunir was not home; he still had time to return it to the sacred library before anyone discovered it was missing. Arin wrapped himself in thick furs, the book hidden safely from sight, and stepped out the door.
The sheer coldness of the mountain air made him shiver. Did he really have to train on a cold day such as this? Then again, it’s not like it ever was truly warm up the Peaks. He knew he shouldn’t complain. After all, his life had its comforts. Thanks to the hospitality of Elder Kelmunir, Arin had a roof over his head, and he never grew hungry. All he demanded of him in turn was respect and obedience. The thought made Arin’s eyes water; he didn’t deserve the man’s kindness. After all, he was the son of no one, never to know his true heritage. This lack of knowledge had been an obsession in his youth, almost threatening to consume him. It all changed when he first tightened his grip around a sword. Yet he couldn’t deny a part of him still obsessed about the fact; how could a father and a mother abandon their son so abruptly? Did they truly find him so worthless?
Arin entered the upper village, saluting the two Shields stationed at the gates. They were shivering from the cold, but they stood guard nevertheless, unmoving. The path from the lower village to the upper one had been concealed by a recently fallen blanket of powdery snow, and Arin pushed through it, trying to make something of a path in case some of their older folks wanted to visit the temple. He knew Nijakim’s mother liked to visit his son at least once a day, and she was growing old, fragile. She needed all the help she could get.
What would your mother think of your words, Nijakim? Would she renounce you, too, like the rest of the village will, should your madness deepen?
Arin wrapped his hands around the only memento of his parents. A pendant Elder Kelmunir had given to him on his fifteenth birthday. It had belonged to Arin’s mother. Frustratingly, that was all he knew of her, and it was all Kelmunir claimed to know of her. Arin could sense the Elder had left something unsaid that day, but try as he might, the he did not tell Arin more. There was always that faint hint of regret or sadness in his eyes when Arin asked him about his birth parents.
The door of the library was all but frozen shut. Arin had to force it open with the help of his shoulder. The elders really needed to hurry up with the renovation
of this part of the village. After all, the library was the oldest building in their village—hundreds of years old if not more.
“Safe and sound, right where you belong,” Arin said, sighing. He placed the book right where he took it after he was sure not a soul was in sight. He didn’t want the scholars of the library to wonder why one of the initiates was going through their sacred tomes. The act made his heart quicken, and he was anxious to leave the place. Luckily, their training involved mastering the self, to achieve inner peace amidst battle. He would remain calm and composed and leave this place without raising a single eyebrow.
“Brother Arin,” a familiar voice said behind him. He knew the voice.
Arin’s face turned pale as he saw his mentor, the man closest to a father he had, staring at him with a smile on his face. By Kun’urin, the man enjoyed making him squirm. Why did he had to be here of all the places? And why now?
“Elder,” Arin said with a straight face, bowing deeply as a sign of respect. He felt his hands shake and sweat. So much for all that talk about inner peace.
Kelmunir raised his hand, grinning. “How unexpected to find you here, young Arin. Didn’t you have guard duty?”
“No, not today, Elder.”
The man looked at the shelf behind Arin, frowning. Had he seen Arin place the sacred tome back atop the shelf?
“I didn’t take you for a reader, son,” the man teased, visibly amused. “I always thought you would much rather beat things down to a pulp.”
“That’s not fair,” Arin protested.
“It’s not?” Kelmunir asked with a bemused voice. “Whenever someone made fun of your heritage, did you not respond with action instead of words? I recall many a time I had to take you home lest you start another fight.”
