A cold wind blew along one of the watchman’s neck. Strange, only the crack under the door would betray such cold against the popping warmth in the hearth. Further mystifying the situation was the look upon his companion’s face. Terror, mixed with horror was openly displayed. Nothing was right about this. Gusts of wind, no matter how cold, would never freeze the skin like this one, numbing his neck, chest, and face. Only after he had taken those few precious seconds to analyze the situation did he try to inhale.
Instead of arctic air burning his lungs, he only choked upon a thick, warm liquid tasting of iron. Instinct took over, forcing him to exhale only to be rewarded with bloody bubbles frothing from his mouth. Too late did the realization fall upon him, he was already dead, his mind only now catching up to speed. Terrible, terrible pain attached itself to the bloody wound. The watchman grabbed at his lifeblood’s exit point in vain. His head slammed against the table before collapsing to the ground, never to take another breath.
Bloody blade held deftly in his hand the thief said, “Yer purse. Yer life. Choose.” The other watchman stared upon his fallen comrade. Just moments ago they had been conversing about the topic of being picked off by an urchin dweller within this wretched city. Ironic, thought the watchman, a mad grin spreading across his face. Somehow, the barkeep had disappeared at this exact moment into the back.
“Choose!” The thief jabbed at the air in front of the watchman. “I’ll not ask ‘gain.”
Lyon, shocked at the turn of events, shook his head trying to extinguish the dead man from his thoughts and looked upon his mark.
He was gone. The insufferable fool had vanished right as Lyon’s attention had been broken.
Blasting through the door of the inn, Lyon saw a quick movement around the corner at the end of the street. He barreled after his prey not paying attention to the scuffle that had broken out behind him. Abel had the upper hand, due to his small size, in the cramped alleys. Lyon, on the other hand, was not as affected by the snow’s depth as Abel was, for his long stride would carry his momentum through the snow’s encumbrance.
They dashed through narrow streets, open courtyards and destroyed buildings. Abel bounded off a table within one of these desecrated homes, to catch a rafter. He deftly swung himself onto the roof, losing no momentum from the maneuver. On and on he ran, his only companion, the moon. Its silvery light brought some small solace to him. Quickly, he looked back for signs of his pursuer. Finding none, he jogged on top of roofs, jumping over the small gaps between houses. Slowly, his heart started to fade from a booming drum to a fast worked billow—white frost no longer poured its ghostly wisps from his mouth.
Frost fell from another’s lips as well. Snow crunched loudly under his leather boots; the boots themselves in slight disrepair. Lyon looked upon his prey from the streets below, gold thorns passing through his mind every step he took. No more would he and his have to kill travelers for small coppers. No longer would he have to dig graves for the men and women he had killed. No longer would his men go hungry but still trust him to lead them to their next meal.
Still, he reveled in his quarry’s speed and strength, a breath of fresh air after so many mundane targets. Lyon’s mind tried to rationalize it as the excitement for the money, but somewhere within him, he knew it was only his animal ferocity trying to unbind itself. However, with this bounty, Lyon would be able to feed his entire cohort of thieves for years to come. Not just feed them from day to day but to buy their own hamlet. Lyon could even settle his little band into the life of governorship of a small town—protecting the townsfolk from what Lyon and his band once were—finally finding some sort of finish to his story.
One must never forget the cruelty of fate and the gods when musing about the future.
Abel stopped at the edge of the city. Guardsmen no longer patrolled the walls, especially during the seven months of winter. It was not that the mayor paid them regardless of duty served, or even that the cold penetrated the thin cloaks that were supplied. It was that no army would march upon these lands for years to come. There is no reason to defend the walls against a generation wiped clean of fighting men. Abel would be reminded forever of this; the sight of the city before him only brought the distinct realization to a burning, tangible reminder.
Upon his eyes fell the sight of melancholy. Empty walls were only filled with the ghosts of battles long past. Rubble would continuously fall from the collapsing walls during blizzards, adding another hazard to an already deadly city. Black smoke rose from almost every chimney. White smoke arose from the proletariats’ houses. They could still afford to burn the wood that was shipped in from Restchur, thirty leagues from Trael. Beyond the walls laid nothing but scarred earth from which no seedling or sprout had burst forth for over a decade since The Battle of Trael. On this day of the sixth month of the year, Vunes, the snow had fallen extremely heavily.
White peace swirled around the city, casting its flakes upon it. It was counterfeit peace, though; the hands of it would reach down upon the people to pluck their life up into its deathly embrace. Abel could see a man collapse from the perch he had ordained as his own, the body in the distance falling into the cushioning snow. Surely, this was accompanied by a muffled crunch and tired eyes gazing upon the dead man, his pockets quickly emptied of everything. Abel could see a few others from his angle upon the sad excuse for a city. He could see those without homes freezing to death right beside those who were already dead, their shaking hands trying to claw warmth from an icicle.
Like death itself, a huge man rose up from the catastrophe of the city not twenty feet from Abel, a wild smile suddenly growing across his face. Death had let Abel roam his domain for too long and now had come to claim his prize, the death of his rival, destroying the quarry before he had a chance to escape once more. Sword in hand, Abel began to charge the unimaginable legend that now stood before him, its dark silhouette casting a shadow upon his smaller form.
Metal struck metal. Whines of steel bending echoed off the calm snow. The white fluff was kicked up around them in their duel of death, creating a shroud of misty ice. Death battled the smiling fool, equally matched in terms of skill. Their blades met again, and again, but Abel was forced to his knees under the strength of a ground shaking arc.
“Enough, oh solemn angel, enough I say!” Abel’s legs quaked with pain and his arms were numb. His voice fared only marginally better. “Take your accolade that is my life. You have earned it many a time over.” His head bowed in one last sign of resignation. After many moments of silence, Abel looked up at the towering man. “Where is your voice, oh taker of lives and ender of legacies? Where is your say?”
Stolen novel; please report.
Lyon shook away his incredulity. “I am no ender of legacies. But a taker of lives? That I can attest to.” He circled behind the defeated warrior. “Stand noble Abel. Stand and let your life be worth something at the end.” Lyon swung his large sword in a wide arc, hoping to rend the head of Abel from his body. Instead of harsh resistance from the thick bone of his spine, Lyon’s blade met air, making him stumble forward. He recovered quickly and looked about him, to no avail. Abel had disappeared within a few short seconds of the other’s faltering. “Where hath he gone?” Wind gusted, blowing the recently disturbed snow into the air in a flurry. Lyon followed the gusting snow until it flew above the crumbling wall, right past the figure he had been searching for, outlined from behind with the moon’s great light.
“Yourself a noble warrior,” said Abel atop the wall, “I will refrain from killing you this night. Be warned, though, the next we meet, my blade will find your heart.”
Before he could jump from the wall to disappear, Lyon called out. “One last request, Abel.” The man turned to face Lyon. “Tell me, where will you go now?” Lyon had no doubt that the plea would be dismissed. Then again, after all his searching, he wanted some way to track his bounty after his hapless luck this night. “Your feet move like wind. Surely you could escape me once again.”
“An honorable man, such as you, deserves some answer not riddled with half-truths and lies, but I am not known to give such things,” Abel laughed. He thought a moment until his eyes lit up with playful glee. “I will run to the night’s embrace, following the trail of utter disgrace. The hawk, the eagle, and the pig shall talk, quite at length until the king shall balk. You shall find me here, you see, at the last hours of the marquis.” One last quick flash of teeth and he was gone. Abel hitting the snow was the last thing Lyon was able to hear, not even his footsteps could be discerned against the, now, howling wind.
It all came crashing back: the hopelessness, the grief, the ever building weight that held itself on Lyon’s shoulders. He had missed his chance for redemption. He had let his prey escape him this one, and only, time. All his animosity welled up. His hand gripped his sword and his shoulders shook while he gnashed his teeth together. Anguish escaped his lips in a guttural scream. His emotions were soon assuaged by his cold, calculating mind. He put his sword and his ferocious smile away. The wind whipped at his face and hands for what seemed like a lifetime before he finally moved. His bones seemed ancient and his joints pained him. Back to his band of thieves. Back to unrelenting helplessness. One great breath filled his lungs with burning air before he released it into the black night in a deep sigh.
Lyon lumbered through the city streets and out through the city gates. No man paid any mind to the giant Easterner. No one cared. Right outside of town was a more respectable inn than anything within the city’s walls, its ale only tasted of horrible ale, the foul stench of waste almost removed. Lyon burst through the double doors into the large chamber.
Talk was loud and rowdy, this being the only place where anyone with a semblance of joy stayed. Nights were expensive, real logs burned in the hearth and actual food was served. Everyone here was just passing through to Burins or Restchur. Out of the crowd Lyon spotted his band, packed into a corner, all hands rested upon their pommels. He made his way over to his compatriots.
“It’s Lyon!” roared Berik, the only one who towered over Lyon. “He’s finally come back! Relax everyone.” Berik made his way over to Lyon, long, powerful legs traversing the distance between them in a breath. “How goes it, friend?” He clapped Lyon on the back with his log he called a hand. His crooked smile and eyes were of real joy.
“Some questions have the undesirable effect of turning a cheery mood rather sour,” said Lyon brushing past the brute. “Another time, perhaps.” Berik only grunted in reply, moving on to bother his brother, Ferik. Under his breath, Lyon whispered, “One day, I shall smash your skull in, you fool.”
Inside, the fire’s warmth turned Lyon’s mood less bitter. It was good to sit upon solid ground. Someone pushed a thin soup into his hands. Thanks were mumbled and Lyon ate every drop of the meatless broth. It did very little to sate his appetite. Feeling returned to his face and although the soup did not quite make him feel full of energy, it lent some strength, to contend with his fellows again. Just in time, too, for Lavara chose to sit beside him.
“The business in Trael not come to a pleasant end?” asked Lavara. Her rough features did nothing for her rough voice. Dark, ratty hair grew out from atop a scarred face; a broken nose adorning the center. Although beauty was not a trait she exemplified, strength and hardness more than made her a formidable opponent. The ability to survive was much more sought after than a fleeting thing such as beauty.
“What possibly made you think such a thing?” Lyon asked, harsher than he intended.
Lavara grunted in response. They sat in silence for some time, the fire in the hearth crackling all the while. As per the innkeeper’s agreement with them, Richard was tasked with tending the fire and replenishing the wood. He threw another broad log onto it, sending sparks dancing up the flue. An argument arose from across the room only to be broken apart by Berik when he finally decided to notice. Another agreement for room and board. With their services bartered the cost of such an extravagant inn was lowered to a less extortionate rate.
“Would you like to share my bed tonight?” Lavara asked this without any inflection in her voice. Her eyes stared into the fire, as if trying to pry its secrets from its inferno.
Lyon looked upon this woman again. He did not outright find her revolting he surmised. Although her face was marred by this age of battle, Lyon thought it would be better than shivering within his own bed, brooding with his thoughts alone. “Yes, I suppose I would.”
Lavara turned toward him and nodded. She grunted, as was her wont, and disappeared into the crowd of drunken brawlers to take care of some unruly youngster, no doubt. Lyon watched her go, differently this time. Intelligence swam behind her brown eyes and she did, indeed, have the body of a woman, despite remarks otherwise, mostly from Berik. Strange, it seemed, the woman never betrayed such thoughts towards him before.
Less than an hour later, the inn’s lobby began to empty. Feeling Lyon’s mood, no one had come over to talk to the man. He enjoyed the quiet. Most days he had to labor over every miniscule dispute. This time, they read his demeanor well enough to leave him alone. The last of the cooked food was shoved down the gullets of hungry men; the fire was then left to burn itself out while providing some heat with its dying embers.
Being the last one in the hall, Lyon looked down upon his mug of ale to see his amber reflection, just as he had earlier that day. He tried to remember that feeling he had when Abel was in front of him but it escaped. If anything, Lyon only looked more worn than he had before, no extra vitality bestowed from catching his quarry and returning home victorious. He subconsciously adjusted his eye patch and checked his sword as well as his purse. Then, he slowly made his way up the stairs of the tavern to Lavara’s room. She had gotten her own for she was the only woman that Lyon had let on to his group.
Instead of knocking he tried the handle first, surprised to find it unlocked. Casually striding in, Lyon found Lavara already asleep on her bed, her form dressed in a light cloth. A moment of indecision warred in his mind. He chose to undress himself and climb into bed beside her form. Draping his arm across her, Lyon smelled her hair, sweat laced with the aroma of spruce. He closed his eyes, lost in the memories of yesteryear.