by Osku Alanen
The fat man shouted orders, and the three men armed with spears followed. The next to fall was the man with dull, dangerous eyes by Arin’s a sword through his gut. He died the slowest of them. Two of the men thought they could surround Arin and attack him simultaneously from left and right. Arin baited them, waiting for them to stab at him with their spears. When they did, he rolled forward, and sliced open the femoral artery of the one to his left. The man bled out in seconds.
Now, only a few men were standing. Arin grinned; these men were no match for him. The fat man seemed to realize the same thing, as he dropped his spear and started running. The two remaining men exchanged looks and said something to each other. They looked at Arin, and dropped their spears, slowly backing off away from the carriage. They put down whatever cargo they were carrying and joined the fat man. Arin could’ve dispatched them with ease, but he let them go instead. He had seen enough blood shed these last few days, and he had no lust for more today.
He saw Nijakim limping towards him, slowly. “Need a hand?” he chuckled.
“Well, they were no fighters—that’s for certain.”
Arin judged the scene. The man with pox-scarred cheeks laid there on the short, green grass of the forest, staring at the sky, mouth open and eyes lifeless. The two other men he had killed had bled out from their wounds, too. They were safe, and so was the woman and the child.
“Thank you,” the woman said. Her voice seemed gentle, grateful.
“You can understand us?” Arin asked, surprised.
“Of course,” the woman said, looking appalled.” Your accent might be strange, aye, and I might be a Northerner, but even we speak Common, you know?”
Arin stared at the woman he had rescued. The boy stood by her, clutching to her leg, obviously frightened. The woman was dressed in thick furs, much like what they used to wear atop the Three Peaks, which was surprising considering how warm the forest around them was. She, too, had traveled from far, Arin judged. He also couldn’t help but notice the woman’s figure, which made his cheeks turn bright-red as Arin realized his gaze had wandered. The woman took a step back, covering herself better.
Nijakim saw what was happening and laughed. “Please excuse my brother, his manners aren’t always the best. We mean you no harm—I assure you. We might look like the Daemoni currently, but we are cultured men.”
“I believe you,” the woman answered, relaxing. Still, Arin noticed the hand she had placed on the boy’s shoulder.
You can never be too cautious, Arin thought bitterly.
“Please forgive our manners,” Nijakim said. “I am called Nijakim, and the skilled fighter by my side is called Arin.”
“A pleasure,” the woman muttered. Arin noticed she didn’t give them her name.
Nijakim pointed at the dead men lying on the ground. “I take it these gentlemen were not your friends?”
“Aye, you thought right. I thought them merchants, but they weren’t what I thought them to be.” The woman spat on the ground, sneering with disgust.
“Why were you with them?”
“They were heading the same way as I did. They promised me a seat in their carriage for little coin. As it turned out they were merchants, aye, but they dealt in men, not in goods. I still can’t believe my luck. The scum.”
“I see,” Nijakim replied. His face had turned pale, and it seemed like he had hard time standing up.
“Are you alright?” the woman asked.
“I’m… fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.” As soon as he finished the word, Nijakim lost his footing. His forehead was sweaty, cold.
“I think his wound is infected,” Arin said with concern.
“let me see.” The woman rushed to the man’s aid, feeling the skin around the wound.
“You’re a healer?” Arin asked.
“No,” she said, pursing her lips. “But I’ve seen my fair share of wounds.” She flinched when she saw the large cut in Nijakim’s stomach. “This isn’t good, though.”
“What can I do?” Arin asked. He felt helpless. He was a fighter, not a healer.
The woman removed Nijakim’s shirt and walked to one of the bags the merchants had been carrying. “Stay out of my way.” He pointed at the small boy hanging by her. “And take care of the boy while I work, will you?”
***
The sun had set by the time the woman was done cleaning and binding Nijakim’s wound. They moved as far away from the clearing as the dared, as the smell of death made the child seem queasy. Arin grew restless waiting for the woman, so told the child to stay put while he dug graves for the men he had slain. Elder Kelmunir had taught him to show respect for his enemies, even in death. It was something only he could grant.
The merchants’ possessions proved invaluable; they had food, water, clothes—even medicinal herbs—with them. Both Arin and Nijakim devoured the dried meat they found with unsavory haste, suddenly realizing how empty their stomachs had been.
“How does he fare?” Arin asked, voice lowered.
The woman whispered in return, as she saw Nijakim had fallen asleep in the comfort of the warm campfire. “I cleaned his wounds and bound them with fresh bandages. His wound was covered in filth; it smelled foul. As long as the infection hasn’t reached his blood, I think he’s going to be fine, but I can’t guarantee it—only time will tell.” She hesitated when she saw the horror in Arin’s eyes. “But he’s obviously a fighter and he drunk the potion I made—which should make him feel better—I’m sure he’ll make it just fine.”
Arin nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your help—truly.”
The woman snorted, her accent breaking through as she seemed to ease up. “It’s me who should be thanking you, I reckon. It’s the least I can do to repay you.”
They both relaxed by the campfire, enjoying the passing moment of solitude. The sun had sent for the night, the stars of the night the only illumination in the sparse, lifeless forest they had ventured into.
“You know, I’m afraid I never caught your name.”
The woman seemed to flinch at the question. “You can call me Rhea. And the boy over there is Benjen.”
“He seems shy.”
“Aye, he is. Misses his father, I think.”
“Where’s he at?”
Rhea pursed her lips. “Far.”
“Oh.” That’s all Arin could think of to say. After all, it wasn’t really his place to question the woman. She seemed like a good person.
“So, where are you two heading off to—wounded, no less? If you don’t mind me saying, you two don’t seem like you’re from around here. I thought you for a priest of some other nonsense like that, but the way you fight….”
Arin swallowed. He didn’t want to remember. It was too painful. He felt something stuck in his throat, the words stuck. “Our home was… destroyed. Everyone we know is… dead. We are the only ones who made it out, I think. At least, I don’t think anyone else did.” He clutched to the pendant hanging from his neck, the emotions he had held at bay finally surfacing. They were truly dead, weren’t they? Elder Kelmunir. Master Nazek. Everyone. They were all gone.
“Are you alright?” Rhea asked gently.
Arin shook his head in shame. He was already eighteen—a man grown. How could he show this part of him to a woman he barely knew? It was unseemly. He needed to be tough, strong. There was no time for childish display of emotions. He needed to find the men who did this to his order and make them pay. Yet, here stood this girl, with that worried, painful look in her face, willing to listen. So, Arin talked. He talked until the sun had set, and all the way to the darkness of the night. He talked until his throat had grown hoarse. He talked until his tears had dried.
“What will you do next?” Rhea asked. She kept her voice quiet as the small boy had fallen asleep on her lap. She caressed the boy’s blonde hair gently, careful not to wake him up.
Arin looked at Nijakim, asleep by the fire. “I’m going to wait until my friend is better, then we’re
going to find avenge those who have fallen. I’m going to find justice.”
“What will that solve? Your home is gone.”
“You expect us to just let it go?” Arin stared at the woman with disgust.
The Nordic woman shook her head with vehemence. “No. But you have to move on. Look, Arin, you are so young still. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t let anger consume you. Vengeance solves nothing, and at worst, it will get you killed.”
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Arin whispered.
“Oh? But I do. I was like you once, you know. I lived in a small village, too. One day, when my father was out hunting, a band of raiders pillaged my village. They looted every house, every family. They burned, and they destroyed.” She lowered her voice. “They raped my mother, killed her after. And that was right in front of my eyes. I was seven, I reckon.”
Arin fell silent. “I’m so sorry.”
Rhea raised a finger on Arin’s lip to silence him. “I harbored vengeance in my heart for many years, all the way into my adulthood. Then one day, when I was old enough, I acted on it. I hunted the man who had hurt my mother. Turns out ours wasn’t the only village they had pillaged. It wasn’t easy, but after years of hunting him down, I finally found him and killed him. But not before I tortured him. Not until I made him squeal like my mother had. And at the very end of it, he begged me to end his life. And do you know what I felt when I was done?”
Arin didn’t answer. Was this the mankind his order had sworn to protect? All his life he had thought the Daemoni the sole enemy. But for other humans to fight, to murder their own? It was incomprehensible. In the span of a few days, his whole world had turned upside down. How could he have ever been so naïve? In his fanciful dreams, him—a warrior of the order—walked down the Three Peaks to lead the men fight against the Daemoni. But, as it turns out, in the world of men, it was only men fighting other men.
Rhea nodded. “That’s right—nothing. I felt hollow. Finally, the man who had ruined my life was dead. And I felt nothing. Not regret. Not joy. I felt numb. I spent my youth looking for this man I would’ve never seen again. Not only he killed my mother, but he took my youth, too. And do you know what the worst part was?”
Arin remained quiet.
“A while later, I learned the man had mended his ways. He gave up stealing, pillaging. He started a family, even. That’s right: I killed a father. I became what I had always despised. Because of my actions, there is a little girl out there without a father. I did that. And that is not the worst thing I have done after—not by far. I became what I so despised, I reckon. Do you understand now, boy? That is what vengeance grants you. Don’t let those thoughts consume you like they did me.”
Arin was speechless. The woman’s words had made him sullen, angry even. He wanted desperately to lash out. To prove her wrong. Who was this woman to berate him? Sure, she might have gone through things, too, but that was ancient history; it had no relevance to him—a man whose entire people was massacred.
The rest of the night Arin stayed by himself, quietly brooding in the misery of his own making. When sleep came, he saw only nightmares.
Chapter 8
Alessia
Alessia vas Nerian laid in wait in the quarters of his youngest brother—now deceased. It took her less than an hour to lay out the trap for the assassin she hoped was coming. First, she escorted the High Inquisitor to the laboratory where she kept all her patients. She watched in horror as Everny walked from cage to cage, gloating as he saw the miserable, fever-ridded patients of hers. There was nothing more dangerous than a man who took pleasure by inflicting pain onto others. Alessia never hurt her patients more than she absolutely needed to. She knew other men would think her experiments wrong—immoral even—but all of those were insignificant, feeble-minded men, weren’t they? They didn’t understand the whole picture. The necessity of the sacrifice these men were making.
Alessia’s mood darkened as she found the patient she had injected her latest formula with dead. Had the dosage been too high, or was the man simply too far gone? Still, whatever the reason, at least his death wouldn’t be vain; he could act as a passable double for Edgar. She knew she couldn’t use the real body of her brother—it felt… wrong. Besides, his father would never let her desecrate his body in such way, to use him as a bait.
The dead patient looked nothing like Edgar; he was taller, and the man’s black, ragged hair looked nothing like the boy’s golden locks. But that didn’t matter if she hid him under the sheets and kept the lighting minimal. Now, all she needed was patience. She still trusted her assessment. Surely, the assassin would try to escape. And if they were lucky, he would lead her straight to the people who had hired them.
Alessia locked herself in a closet, with a squadron of soldiers ready for her signal, watching the room through a secret spy-hole. The plan had its risks, but Alessia was confident she could avoid being killed long enough for help to arrive. Sure, she could have used someone else for the job, but she didn’t trust anyone else for a task this important.
Hours passed, and nothing seemed to happen. Alessia was growing increasingly anxious. She The closet had been emptied of Edgar’s clothes beforehand, which gave her ample space to move, but it was still a closet, and Alessia could feel a numbness set into her limbs. What if the assassin wasn’t as resourceful as she though, or worse, if he decided to wait a few days? Surely, he wouldn’t knowingly wait for them to torture him? Killing three members of the royal family would not grant man a swift death, certainly not for a presumed spy and assassin of the Nubian Empire.
Then, finally, the knob to Edgar’s room started to turn. This was it. The moment she had been waiting for all night. She felt her race as the figure stepped into the room. Wait, why did the man seem so familiar? Then the man walked by the large window, the cold light of the midnight moon casting pale light onto the man’s features. It was the King—her father. What was he doing here?
“Of all the possible times,” Alessia muttered under her breath. She wanted to step out of the closet, to tell him to leave now or else he risked ruining her trap. But a voice inside her warned her that something seemed… odd.
King Robert closed the door behind him, quietly sneaking towards the bed of his dead son. He was dressed in nothing but the silken nightgown his wife—Alessia’s late mother—had made for him. She was surprised to see him still wear it, after all these years. He had purged the palace of anything that even remotely reminded him of her. It was part of the reason Alessia had chosen to stay in the family mansion; the removal of every trace of her mother was too painful—and incomprehensible for her. But here he was, wearing the robe her mother had gifted him.
Something was wrong.
King Robert stabbed the body lying underneath the covers with three rapid thrusts while holding his right hand over the decoy’s mouth to drown out any screams. The King stood silent, unmoving, staring at the twice-dead body in front of him. He threw the covers away and growled, muttering something in a language foreign to Alessia—Nubian?
His father walked to the large balcony with sure, rapid steps, opening the glass doors, leaning over towards the inner courtyard, his hands placed on the stony balcony. He lifted his leg over the edge, then another.
“Father!” Alessia cried in alarm. She opened the wardrobe, staring at his father, eyes wide. His father turned his face towards Alessia, baring his teeth. This man was not his father, Alessia realized in horror, as the man winked. This was not the assassin she had seen in Everny’s chamber, either. This… this was the one Captain Severan had failed to capture.
The man jumped over the edge and Alessia could do nothing but stare in utter bafflement. It took her close to two seconds to fully process what she just witnessed, and two more until she remembered to cry for help as she ran towards the balcony. She reached over the edge, and watched the assassin standing on the ground level, more than three stories below Alessia, bowing deeply before he hid himself in the dar
k thickness of the Queen’s gardens.
“Impossible,” Alessia whispered. The one staring at her was no longer her father. Somehow, his features had transformed. At the very same moment, Captain Severan charged through the door, along with five of his best guards, all their swords drawn.
“The assassin flees towards the gate. I think he plans to escape. Do not let him,” Alessia cried.
Severan saluted Alessia and begun barking orders to his guards. Moments after, Alessia heard the castle bells ring. Her actions had woken up the entire castle; she heard children weep as the loud shouts of armed men echoed throughout the halls. She watched at the castle guards mobilize, distant shadows with lit torches running around the gardens below, shouting, realizing in painful regret that the man was far gone already. She had failed, and one of the murderers of her siblings—had escaped. She had failed—miserably.
It took over an hour for the castle to return to its nightly slumber. Alessia had listened to Captain Severan’s report in silent horror; the assassin had escaped—there was no trace left of him anywhere. They found the other assassin—the one locked in Everny’s torture chamber—with a slit throat. She slowly came to grip with her naivete; she had severely underestimated the assassins—and their abilities. Still, what she had witnessed—It denied reason! She could’ve sworn she saw her father stab her poor, dead patient. And then the man’s smile….
Alessia shook herself awake. She stood before the King, with most of the court—the closed council included—assembled in an emergency meeting. And She was responsible for this mess. The black sheep of the family. The castle’s alarms hadn’t been raised for more than a decade—not since the last attempted invasion of their keep. It was a small miracle no one had died in the chaos that followed, with armed men searching door to door to find this second assassin. Had she truly seen the assassin transform? There was something unnatural going on here. She felt an excitement rise inside of her—a question that needed an answer. And she was good at finding answers.
