by Osku Alanen
They both bundled up in their uncomfortable beds in the damp dungeon, waiting for sleep that didn’t come.
***
Just as the judge promised, the guards came for them at first light, banging the bars loud enough to wake up a bear from its slumber. He could feel their wary looks as they turned the key; any man should be cautious when a prisoner was armed—and while Arin was young man yet, he did look formidable. The guards pointed towards the entrance while standing a safe distance away, frowns coloring their faces. Arin walked out the dungeons, sharing a silent nod with Eldon.
The crowd cheered as the two men arrived in the colosseum. Arin felt his anxiety spike, as he saw the cheering crowds. Never had he seen such a gathering of men and women. Was the entire capital watching? The men shouted like animals yearning for blood, for that was undoubtedly what they came here to witness. It was not that long ago that Arin had taken his first life, and today, he would have to take even more. And this crowd seemed to yearn for it—for death.
“They have not witnessed a trial by combat for ages, Arin. If we survive this, we will be legends,” Nijakim said. He, too, seemed nervous.
“When,” Arin corrected, gently placing his hand on Nijakim’s shoulder. “When,” he repeated.
“When,” Nijakim answered, clasping hands with Arin.
Arin scanned the crowd, looking for a sign of someone in charge. He saw a man, sitting comfortably on a chair, drinking something. He looked bored, reluctant to be here. Arin wondered if he was the King the judge had told might attend, but he concluded he couldn’t be, as the man was dressed entirely in black. A king should look more… regal, shouldn’t he? No. This was not the King, but it was someone with authority. And there was something about the man, something that made all the hair in Arin’s body stand up. When the man in black saw the convicts approach him, he put his chalice aside, standing up. He motioned Arin and Nijakim approach.
“Prisoners. You have been found guilty of murder. You have taken the life of our beloved Captain, leaving behind a widow and two small children. If it was up to me, you would be dead already.”
The man’s voice was neutral, emotionless. “Unfortunately, I cannot act against the King’s laws. He says we should respect our ancient laws and all that nonsense. So, without a further ado, you are going to duel against our reigning Champion. Where is Gregor, anyway? He should be here already.”
A guard to his right whispered something in the man’s ear.
“He is what? Then wake him up, you senseless fool,” the man shouted.
“We tried, High Inquisitor, sir, but you know how Gregor is when he drinks. Not even the end of the world could rouse him.”
“That blasted drunkard,” the High Inquisitor said, spitting on the ground. “This is a farce. A farce, I tell you!” He looked at Arin with flustered, reddened cheeks.
The man did not handle complications well, Arin judged.
“Now, what am I going to do with the pair of you?” High Inquisitor muttered, his eyes narrowing.
Arin swallowed, looking at Nijakim helplessly. If their champion didn’t arrive, could the man simply hang them instead? They were found guilty, after all, even if they had done nothing wrong.
The High Inquisitor’s eyes seemed to brighten, he showed the two brothers a crooked smile. “Say, prisoners. I am terribly sorry, but it would seem we lack a champion here. Luckily, I have thought of an appropriate substitution for that useless drunkard. Are you still willing to go through this duel?”
Arin took a step forward. “I am ready.”
“Excellent! Then prepare yourself. The battle is about to start.”
Arin looked around him, confused by the man’s words. “But… there is no one here.”
The man snorted. “Ah, but there is. Look behind you.”
Arin looked, just as the man asked, but he saw no one.
No one except Nijakim. Then he understood.
No.
“You can’t expect us to fight each other,” Arin shouted.
The High Inquisitor stared at Arin blankly. “Oh, but I do. Look around you; these people are all here for a show, and a show I will give them.”
Just as he finished the words, the crowd erupted in cheers.
“You will fight each other, prisoners. I am a man of my word; if you win, you walk away as a free man. Disobey me and….” the man traced his finger across his neck. “I’m sure you get my meaning. Now, get to it!”
Arin looked at Nijakim with eyes filled with anger and disbelief. This is not how things were supposed to go. They were supposed to fight their champion and earn their freedom. This is not how he thought things would go, at all. Where was the justice in all this? “I will not fight you, brother,” Arin whispered, shaking his head.
He could see Nijakim pressing his fingernails deep into his palms. “Sir, I implore you. You must stop this foolishness. We are not puppets to be ordered around. This is my closest, oldest friend, here. What you ask of us is not only impossible: it is immoral, deplorable, unjust. We are to invoke the Old Law. And as I understand it, justice and honor are the cornerstone of it. I ask you, sir, is this what justice means to you?”
The High Inquisitor looked bored. There was no hatred in his eyes. Those were the eyes of a man who cared nothing for them. “Have it your way then. Guards. See that they fight. If they do not obey, you have my permission to kill them.”
“Yes, sir.”
He cast one last glance at Arin and Nijakim, lips curling slightly with disgust. “I have better things to do than to deal with rabble. Captain Arilyn, you have a chance to prove yourself to me, now. I leave the arena to your capable hands. See that the King’s justice is met.”
The Captain saluted to the man as he walked away from the colosseum. The crowd around them shouted, cursed. They were getting bored.
“I will not hurt my friend!” Arin shouted, hoping the man would turn back and take it all back.
He didn’t.
“What are we to do, Nijakim?” Arin whispered, looking at his friend helplessly.
Nijakim shook his head. He was unarmed, Arin realized. If they wanted them to battle to the death, he would have to kill an unarmed man. The only man left in this world that mattered to him. His only friend.
Arin looked at the man whom the High Inquisitor had left in charge. “You cannot expect to us to fight. Look at him: he is unarmed. You seem a capable fighter yourself, captain. Fight me, instead.”
The man sneered, showing them a disgusted glare. “I was friends with Severan, you know? We were close. Every night, I sat down with him for a drink. I don’t know how the poor man got himself killed by the likes of you, but I do not intend to succumb to the same trickery.” He unsheathed a dagger from his waist, and threw it down, right by Nijakim’s feet. “You will fight, or you will die. It’s your choice. Men!” the man shouted, motioning for the soldiers by his side to draw their bows.
Arin stared at the nocked arrows with disbelief, all pointed at either him or Nijakim. He was a capable fighter, but even he could do nothing against a rain of arrows; there was nothing to duck behind in the arena.
“Arin,” Nijakim said gently. He picked up the dagger from the ground. It was a fine dagger. Sharp. Long. He pricked the tip of his finger with the blade to test its sharpness.
“What are you doing, Nijakim?” Arin asked, his hands shaking.
Nijakim drew the blade, pointing it at Arin. The crowd erupted in cheers. “You heard the man. We have no choice. If we disobey them, they will kill both of us. At least this way one of us gets to live,” Nijakim spoke quietly.
“You cannot be serious!” Arin shouted. “There must be another way. There must!”
Nijakim shook his way. “If there is, I cannot see it. I am sorry, Arin. Truly.” His face was blank, emotionless. There was something… strange in his eyes, something Arin had never seen before. Anger?
“No. I won’t believe it. There must be—.”
Nijakim charged.
Arin’s eyes widened in surprise as the blade scratched his cheek. If he hadn’t sidestepped the attack, it would have been a killing blow. He stepped backwards, feeling warm blood slowly painting his cheek crimson. The wound throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the betrayal he felt. Was he truly trying to kill him? “Please. Stop this madness,” Arin cried. He grabbed the handle of his sword, still undrawn.
“Draw steel,” Nijakim shouted, his voice delirious. He charged Arin again.
Arin dodged the blow by a hair’s length. Nijakim was ready for this, however, and he kicked Arin in the chest. The strength of it caught Arin by surprise, and he was sent sprawling to the ground. Where had the man learned to fight with such ferociousness?
“Stop it,” Arin shouted, gasping for air. He drew his blade.
The crowd cheered.
Nijakim’s mouth twisted in agony. “I will not. Protect yourself!” he cried, charging again.
Blade met blade, the whining of metal filling the air. Nijakim’s determination was unwavering, but a small dagger was nothing compared to the strength of Arin’s curved blade.
Their eyes met.
Arin thought his brother had gone mad, but now that they were close enough to touch, Arin could see the tears in his brother’s eyes.
“Farewell,” Nijakim whispered.
“No,” Arin cried but he was too late, too slow.
Nijakim let go of his dagger, and the tip of Arin’s sword pierced Nijakim’s skin, muscles, lungs, until finally, it pushed through Nijakim’s back, the blade red. This had been his plan all along, Arin realized—pretending to fight, only to sacrifice himself to save Arin’s life.
Nijakim slumped to his knees, taking in ragged breaths. He looked at Arin, tears freely flowing down his cheeks.
Arin ran to him, taking his only friend in his arms as he lay dying.
“What did you do, Nijakim? Oh, my brother. What have you done?” Arin wailed.
Nijakim grimaced with the pain, the bloodied pommel of Arin’s blade protruding from his chest. He tried to smile, but his teeth were stained red. “I am… sorry, Arin. This is not… how I wanted our story to… end. But this… was the only… way.”
His words slurred; they were hard to make sense of.
“Save your breath,” Arin whispered. “We have survived worse. I will save you like I did before. This is nothing new.”
“Nay, brother. It is… too late for… me. I have lived… on borrowed time. I should’ve died… back in the village….” Nijakim coughed blood on Arin. “All that matters… is that you get to live….”
“No. I don’t deserve to live. Nothing matters if you’re not here for me.”
Nijakim shook his head. “You… matter. Save Eldon. Make this… your home. Find… peace.”
“I’m nothing without you, Nijakim,” Arin cried, gently touching the dying man’s cheek.
Nijakim reached for Arin’s face, brushing it gently. “There is something… something I should’ve said… long ago.”
Blood already ran freely down his bloodied cheek. Arin tried wiping it away with his already soiled shirt, but to no avail. No one could survive a wound like this. No one.
“What is it?” Arin wordlessly gasped. He had never felt pain such as this.
“You mean the world to me… brother.”
Arin shook his head gently, his lips quivering. He knew he was dying, yet his eyes were so warm. How could someone be this kind, this pure? “And you to me, my friend. And you to me.”
“I know,” he whispered. His eyes were filled with sadness, but he smiled nevertheless.
Arin could feel the man’s strength slipping away. There was so much blood.
“Take care…. my friend.”
Rain started to fall. It looked to Arin as if the heaven itself wept for him.
With the last of his strength, Nijakim pulled Arin to a close embrace and whispered something into his ear. His final words to him. His final will. With shaking fingers, he adjusted his spectacles for one last time and he smiled. Then, suddenly, his hands went slack, and the final sparkle of light left his eyes.
Arin buried his head in Nijakim’s still warm embrace, hoping the world would quiet down. Hoping that it was all a bad dream. Hoping he would wake up from this nightmare.
cold rain stained the ground red, washing away his tears.
Chapter 18
Ronan, Alessia, Arin
So, the Northman chose to give in. I should have known; you always were weak without me.
“Leave me be,” Ronan grumbled, pressing a pillow against his pounding head. He tried to drown away the invader of his mind, but nothing could ever shut him out completely. He tried opening his eyes, but the sunlight was too much for him, so he kept them shut.
What will resignation grant you? I wonder… should your boy witness the acts of his father now; would he think him a coward or a warrior?
“What does it matter? My son is dead,” Ronan growled. Gods, how dry his throat was.
He is dead, yes, but even now, I can hear his voice in the beyond, yearning for his father to avenge him. How can you forsake vengeance for the boy? When I forged this covenant with you, you were not this frail weakling. You were a tempest, felling foe after foe in glorious whirlwind of rage—a force of nature. Do you deny how good that felt? How… liberating? A single word is all it would take for those days to return. Say yes and we can rule the world again with an iron fist. Together.
“Even now, you try to deceive me? While I grieve? You claim you’re not a Daemoni, yet your actions say otherwise. Do you think me that feeble a man, to give in to you, again?”
I have never lied to you, Northman. Daemoni are but tools, far beneath me. With the snap of my fingers, I could take over your body, but I will not. It must be of your free will. But you will say yes. Eventually. No mortal can resist the power I can grant them—least of all you.
“Begone. Now!” Ronan shouted. Gods, the bastard was persistent. Why couldn’t he get a break, for a single moment? Usually, his walls were like granite, but whenever he lost focus, they weakened. Like cracks in a dam, a single leak could burst the entire thing open. With constant focus and sheer power of will, he could fill the holes before the wall came crumbling down. But should he lose control completely, the dam would burst open—just like all those years ago. Ronan was no longer sure he could regain his mind, not when the cornerstone of his world was gone; his son had been the sole reason he had fought to keep his sanity.
Ronan knew well the voice wasn’t a Daemoni, but something altogether different. Still, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if it was simply the madness of his mind made manifest. The murderous, lunatic part of him he tried to suppress. But whatever the case was, this was not the time for the Berserker; a bloodshed would solve nothing. He was a grieving father, now. All he wanted was to sleep away his misery, to drown away the world. A part of him wondered why his friends had yet to return from the meeting with the King, but he simply didn’t have the will to care. Not now.
“Ronan,” a voice whispered.
Again? Gods, what did have to do to make him go away? But something was different. The voice sounded different, more feminine? This was not him, Ronan realized. Only yesterday, he would have answered right away, but now it didn’t matter. There was nothing left here for him to care. He could plot vengeance, just like the voice had said, but what was the point? His son would be dead no matter what he did.
“Ronan,” the voice repeated, sounding more urgent this time.
The man he had trusted, the one he had called his friend had deceived him the worst way a man could: he had taken the only thing that had ever mattered to him. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Someone or something shook his body, gently at first, but then more violently. Ronan ignored it. The girl was a fly, one he couldn’t kill no matter how much he tried. A devious fly, this one. A fly who kept coming back for more blood, night after night. Soon the fly would suck him dry. Then, eventually, the
fly left, and silence filled the room once more.
Ronan fell asleep again, silent sobs his sole comfort.
***
Ronan had no idea how many days had passed since he’d learned of his son’s demise; they had all blurred into a single, incoherent nightmare. All he wanted to do was sleep through his misery, to hope his grief would soon turn into numbness. However, no man can turn blind eye to his primordial urges forever; Ronan’s stomach complained, shouted, cried. Ale might have kept him alive, but it didn’t nourish his body. No matter how lost his mind was, his body refused to give up. Cursing, Ronan forced himself up, dizziness setting upon him straight after. He wondered how long had been since he’d last eaten. A day? A week? Gods, how weak he felt. A staggered step after step, Ronan left his room, hoping the woman who kept pestering her had left.
She hadn’t.
“Ivy,” Ronan whispered, casting a numb glance towards the girl leaning on the wall.
Ivy bit her lip, looking at him with anger. “Oh, the Northman still lives? A miracle, I tell you. I half expected to find you chocked in your own vomit by now.”
“Leave me be, girl,” Ronan muttered, pushing the woman aside.
“You know, one of these days you’re going to have to choose if you want to keep living or not. Only you can save yourself, Ronan.”
Ronan opened his mouth, almost ready to apologize, but no words came out. What did this girl matter to him anyway? She was a thief. One he barely knew. Raven should have simply killed her when they first ran into her.
Raven?
Ronan’s eyes went dull.
Raven.
A few days ago, he had cherished that name. He was a man Ronan looked up to. To find out he had been deceiving him all this time… it was too much. Ronan clenched his teeth, striking his fist through the wall next to him. Ivy jumped back, fingers reaching for a dagger, no doubt. He felt something inside his arm give in from the impact, but he didn’t care. What is one more injury to a man with so many?
