THE BEGINNING

The evening mist rolled into the small village of Willow’s Hart bringing with it a stranger.

The young man’s dark skin tone and stature a stark contrast to the village’s inhabitants thus the onlookers branded him an outsider. Most of his kind rarely appeared this far inland and when they did appear, they roamed in the cities of kings and queens rather than the dwellings of farmers and miners.

The man moved with an assured stride ignoring the gawking bystanders. He passed the open market just as it was closing on his way to find lodging. In small towns and villages, inns and resting homes were easily located even to the hard at rational. With a customer base full of illiterates and bigot’s it was the proprietors imperative to make it so.

Within minutes the young man stood in front of a structurally sound, beautiful even some might say inn. The name of which was in the Tuxisian language which used a lot of cursive letters and characters. Beautiful sure but always hard to read defeating the purpose.  After a few bends and twitches of the neck he deciphered the name to mean Lion’s Den or something close to it he couldn’t be sure because he suspected it was spelt wrong. Probably written by an illiterate trying to look smart and in this part of the world who would doubt the fool. The sign actually read lion’s whore which if true would provide an exceptional treat but the absence of smell of debauchery gave the man his answer. He pushed the wooden door open, it gave way smoothly. A warm odourless draft pelted his face upon entry relieving him from the torture of contorting his face to combat the smell of human and animal faecal matter.

“No weapons allowed.” Said a man close to the entrance. The man in smartly dressed tunic paused as though finally realising who stood before him. “Sorry, we’re closed at the moment.” He uttered looking at two men wielding halberds.

The two men approached the black wanderer with imposing posture.  “You’s not from around here ain’t you’s boy all wouldn’t have budged in here all important like.” The bold one with a face full of scabs prodded with a gentle shove.

“You heard the man. You’s kind ain’t welcome.” The other said strapping the weapon off his back. “Come on, git.”

A common problem faced by humans and beings of different hues the further they went inland. It proved best to avoid these xenophobes and bigots, encounters usually ended in bloody messes.

The stranger turned heel without defiance.  A wise choice, if only the bold gatekeeper of this bitch shared the same wisdom. A shove to the stranger’s back and he recoiled. A black flash blew out the lantern light. The room went dark, light returned and a sharp tip of a spear kissed the bold man’s neck.

“Stanyoko chikala.” The stranger said with gritted teeth. “Don’t ever touch me.”

“Woah!” A man at the end of the bar stood. The man practically leaped time and space. “Woah! Woah!” he intervened.

“No need for violence.”  The man continued, placing a hand on the spear. The clung of his golden rings against the steel broke the stranger’s gaze. “Forgive my brother’s hubris.”

A sharp fluid movement and an ebony dagger now kissed the decadent man’s throat. 

“Magic.” The sharply dressed server gasped. The spear turning into a dagger dumbfound him. Wizardry a rare practice in the land. One could count with one hand the magic wielders in all three kingdoms. What were the odds one finding his way to Willow’s Heart, a remote village just west of the bloody Swamps of Madness.

The licentious man took a gulp of air easing his nerves. “Not a weapon.” The man spat, gently revealing a pouch off his belt. The clang of coins reverberated through the silent hall.  “Here take it. Five hundred gold and two hundred silver coins.”

“You colour me a bandit?” The stranger uttered wearing a sarcastic smile. “A simple apology will suffice. Not you, him.”

The large bold man obliged with a bow and without fuss, the dark stranger walked out.

“A warm bed and warm eats.” A dirty little boy greeted upon the stranger’s exit from the Lion Whore. “This way rest. Only at Mouldy’s.” the words nonsensical.

The stranger grabbed note in the boy’s hand. He read it three times and it still made less sense than the words uttered. Another fool trying to look smart. Although mostly useless the note’s last line – clearly written by a different author – spelled perfectly.

“All are welcome at Moudy’s even lousy dark god slayers.” He read aloud. “I’ll assume that’s me.”

The urchin agreed joyously grabbing the stranger’s hand. “This way!”

THE MIDDLE

The moons were taking their places when the boy brought the god slayer to edge of the village. He pointed to the rickety construction appeared to be held sutures. His joy palpable; the little boy’s not the stranger’s’ of course. Taking a deep breath before entry, the stranger pushed the lopsided wooden door.

The bar went quiet but only for second simply acknowledging his existence and continuing their various conversations. To them his difference and specialness irrelevant. After all, who cares about a god slayer if you’re no god.

The look and smell of the Mouldy’s patrons ranged between dirty thin and dirty fat men. From calluses one could tell these men were proud members of the hard labour’s union probably farmers  or miners. The stranger flushed  his best smile and they gave him their curses. These are joys one longs from such reputable places of business. Reputable in these parts should always be taken with a pinch of salt.

The stranger acknowledged the warm reception and took an empty seat by the packed atmosphere he could tell the labourers had recently received pay. It while before a serving wench noticed him. The wench’s shock evident upon first setting eyes on him, she quickly gained composure – clearly a professional – and approached the table.

“I would offer some water but some idiots dropped a dead cat down the well.” Her voice hoarse and raspy, understandable working in such a rowdy environment all day. “Unless your gut’s made of iron.”

“I’ll pass.” He placed two gold coins beside his tin cup. “Got room for a traveller?”

“Yes sir.” She replied changing tone. Coin usually got the preferred answers more so in low-income lodging houses.

“I’ll need some warm water and clean cloth sent to my room.”

“There is a bathhouse –“

“I prefer privacy.” He interrupted. He then placed ten silver pieces next to the wooden plate. “Now what’s on the menu?”

“You eat wild rat soup?”

The stranger smirked, “I’ll take the water.”

“Oh it’s in there too.” She informed with a colourful smile.

The stranger relaxed his posture and stance for the first time upon entry, allowing his body to feel the jubilant atmosphere. Nothing more jovial than a drunk then again he could have been preparing to strike, with his kind you could never be sure. Agility and speed in abundance, a simple movement could result in a death across the edge of the world as old Mathias a veteran of the war claimed. Strange thing is old Mathias never actually saw the battlefield he deserted before his friends marched and probably never set eyes on a god slayer. Five thousand years later and old Mathias’s journals were the most widespread work of historic knowledge in the west. Therefore shrouding the entire race of dark skinned – occasionally red eyed – beings in myth and legend. Then again no one who marched east ever returned to debunk old Mathias tales. Besides all history was concocted fiction, Mathias would console his guilt upon his deathbed.

An honest “god slayer” as affectionately termed by the denizens would correct this gross error in perception but a smart one would realise more armour even peripheral is vital when travelling among a hostile and xenophobic population.

“It’s never good to drink alone.” The words came with tankard full of ale.

The two shared a long gaze before another word escaped their mouths. He took in her long black hair covering half her face, her black eyes that would swallow the whole world if you looked too long and a perfect aligned slender nose. One could see hidden behind all the marks of war – cuts and bruises – lay a woman capable of playing the role of young princess. That’s all the peasants of these lands ever dreamed of being a prince or princess.

“Come on indulge me.” She pleaded pointing to the tankard.

“Sorry but I don’t do sexual fantasies.” He rebutted.

“Oh please don’t flutter yourself, I meant indulge with me.”

The serving wench arrived with his food. “Ginger I didn’t know you knew the heathen.” The woman said to the black haired woman.

“I don’t but it’s never too late to make new friends.” Bearing an inquisitive smile she asked, “so what do I call you…friend?”

A long pause preceded the answer. “Friends call me Chite short for a long name your kind find hard to pronounce.” He grabbed a vial full of purple liquid; he then poured it in the tankard and soup. Strange thing though, neither the broth nor ale changed colour. “So what do you need my lady?”

“Cutting to chase I see.” She began. “See when I was about knee height my mother’s old man used to tell tales of these old knights birthed by nature itself bound to no king or queen but honour and justice. They roamed the world righting wrongs the gods deemed menial for their almighty power – the stupid prigs. Anyway, these guys and gals tended to be dark skinned, red eyed living statues. You lack the looks and eyes but am not picky type.”

“Another one these old white story tellers ruining a black man’s story I see.” He chided taking a gulp from the tankard. “Ok I’ll bite. What’s your grievance?”

She told a tale of group of men descending on remote village on the eve of marriage ceremony. They pillaged, raped and killed designating the village to a dot that once appeared on a piece of parchment. The moral of the story being investing in a simple militia never hurts a village’s coffers like a good pillage. Although brutal, thugs of that ilk were rarely thorough. A young girl survived and years later wound up meeting one of her tormenters running a small mine in an obscure village.

“I’ll pass.” He plainly proclaimed. “I tend to adhere close to the rule of not trusting strangers.” Chite spoke from experience, in these parts rushing to a damsel in distress only guaranteed a shiv to the lung than a shag in the haystack. If you were lucky her and partner would just rob you and with winter on the horizon added up to the same result. In their defence, men were idiots and deserved to be taken for a ride. (Served them right for expecting intimacy from complete strangers.)

“Understandable.” She said taking a swig out of her tankard. “Then let’s simply enjoy each other’s company.”

“Will your friend be joining us?” Shifting his brown eyes towards a burly man at the bar.

“Perceptive.” She admitted. “Olaf grab some more ale and march your ass over here.” Her voice roared over the noise, a woman used to the company of noisy crowds.

Olaf brought a cask for the table and sat next to Ginger across Chite the shared appraising guises. Olaf stared at Chite’s dark frizzled hair - cut in the sides and let to grow in the middle – with curious wonder. He wanted to feel it’s texture but the cold brown eyes staring at him gave him pause.

“Blue eyes and purely blond hair,” Chite picked up breaking the awkward silence poured a tankard for Olaf. “Are genetic dispositions of people who live beyond the breeches in the cold mountainous region overlooking the veil of oblivion. How does one wind up this far east?”

The man appeared perplexed. “Well…well i…” He stuttered, not a man of words it seemed. “I followed a couple of friends. Destined to become famous adventures you see, in a bid to become immortal. Stopped for the night in Ravengrad and when I awoke everyone was gone. It was nothing nefarious, they just forgot about me and never looked. Tried my best to catch up but never quite caught up. Found this cosy little paradise and decided to stay. Was never much of adventurer anyway.”

“Came for the fables but stayed for the reality, ain’t that quaint.” Ginger joked, it seemed she was hearing the tale for the first time.

Olaf emptied an entire tankard in response. Chite filled another for the man and another for Ginger.

“Since were sharing.” Chite took a swig. “I woke up in a cage with some idiot trying to sell me to a noble as a pet. People ambushed him – I assumed bandits and I just used the chaos to escape. I have been looking for my lost bird ever since. He is a special bird you see.”  He briefed.

“What makes him special? Is he one of those war birds? I once saw one pass through a man’s head clean through.” The girl pantomimed, trying to show how eyeballs went flying out of the bird’s victims.

“No but maybe I could teach him. All I have to do is find him.” he trailed off lost in reverie.

“How long have been looking?”

“Almost eight winters past.”

The duo broke out in laughter at the odd mission. The exchange led to more stories and another cask. The ale was dirt but with company, it served its job. Hours later, the three were on the teetering edge of black out drunk. Olaf called it but a misjudged step brought him back to his seat.

“Need some help?” a bubbly Chite offered. Olaf turned it down, willing his body step by step as he walked up the stairs.

The patrons were thinning out Chite noticed. He decided to pack up too. Ginger held out a hand.

“What would you do? If you were in my shoes.”   

Chite pondered the thought, “Nobody lives forever but there is no point in chasing death.”

“I didn’t ask for poetry.” She scoffed blowing away the hair revealing her full face. “Disgusting, I know.” She disparaged noticing Chite’s reaction.

“More disheartening than disgusting, I would say.” He joked badly trying to appease her, surely he could have done better but in his defence the large burn scar caught him of guard.

A man led Chite to his room above the bar’s inn. The serving wench turned out to be part owner and occasionally moonlighted as his wife as he put it. The frustration could be heard in his voice but it was the look, the way he looked at her – the serving wench – that reassured Chite of the man’s true feelings. Another fool in love. Yet he continued to complain about the union as the two walked up the stairs. Only the short distance to the room saved him from a lecture on the evils of monogamous eternal bonding. Never get a bond mate, happily bonded mates preached to the singles.

“Your water.” The innkeeper paused realising the water had yet to arrive. “Boy! Harry up with the damn water!” A small boy came racing up the steps no sooner than the man called impressing with his balance. Not a single drop of water fell from the wooden basin. Lined with metal Chite noticed as the boy dashed by, leaving quickly upon setting it at the foot of the bed. Lagging behind came a young girl on the precipice of woman carrying a bucket of water with clean cloth around her neck. A spitting image of the serving wench shaving off two child bearing labours in appearance. Her father tried to help but she waved him off and eventually completing the task. A proud smile from her father awaited her at the doorway and an annoyed look was sent his by the boy – where is my acknowledgement the boy complained. Now that’s a good family dynamic.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

“If you need anything we down below. Just right at the foot of the stairs.” The man informed leaving the young to his lonesome.

Chite waited for the family to disappear before entering his room. Once inside he paced slowly towards the bed, hard and worn but better than slamming it on the floor. He surveyed the room, looked under the bed, the cupboard  and finally through the window. He breathed out, relaxing his nerves as he begun to unfasten his grey cloak then slowly peeled of his jerkin. Finally he removed his brown light armour and through the reflection in the window he saw a white cloth soaked in red around his waist. He winced at the sight. Never trust these people.

MIDDLE PART 2

The next morning came with it a bright sunny day.  Chite awoke late the sun was a fair angle up the sky when he looked through the window. He washed and treated his wounds before walking down stairs and taking a table. Breakfast – more like break-feast – was served, fried eggs, fresh baked bread, roasted chicken, goats milk and a pot of porridge put on the fire set aside if he asked for it.

Ginger kicked in the door just as Chite dug into a drumstick. The noise caught the ire of the innkeeper – the wife – but she restrained her thoughts. The glare was enough, Ginger raised her arms in admission of guilt and finally cooled her heels. It was clear the woman was angry but the what was unclear at least to the innkeepers. She glanced past the bar in the corner of the room and saw Chite in the same chair as the previous night.

Chite saw the girl barrel down his way like a scorned lover confronting her cheating spouse. The meat got stuck down his throat as primal fear ran through his veins. She was just a friend. His DNA offered up, the train of thought surprising the young man. He gulped down the tankard of milk to flush down the food. Ginger again sat down without permission, an act he began to suspect was a personal trait. He noticed her hair was up and the burn scar lay in full view. He refused to flinch on second viewing.

“What a buffet we got here.” She said digging into the fried eggs. “Wow onion inside! Where was this genius chef when I was given day old gruel?”

“Pay in Hexor gold and Silver and she’ll appear.” The innkeeper said pouring Chite some more goat’s milk. Ginger immediately spit in the tankard claiming it. The innkeeper poured another and left the two.

“She’s definitely spitting in your food.” He said as the innkeeper disappeared into her room.

“No complaints here. I could use the flavour.” She picked up a large chicken piece.

Usually this would get the girl a slap to the face but Chite was in a generous a mood and the sheer volume of food looked daunting. As the old proverb said, He who refuses to work does not eat but he who eats like a pig will be hunted like one. Those foreign proverbs must have been written by extremist or angry old people. (Same thing the young argued.) Silence reigned, Chite watched in awe as his counterpart scarfed down as much food as she could. His theory was beginning to solidify about her personality. She woman lacked polite social etiquette, preferring to treat any that would allow as long-time friends. Confident enough to show flaws when making a first impression and enough pride not beg. A good mix of traits that usually harboured by folks who were open, loud and rude often mistaken for unscrupulous people.  Chite had a good record with such kinds of people, well those that weren’t xenophobes. The thing he found hard about these people was it was hard to decipher when they acquired enough conviction to lie.

“So you’re one of them noble types.” Changing phrases to appear inferior thus feed his ego. “Paying in Hexor coin. Only aristocrats move with that. So are you one? A noble that is."  

See less tactful individuals would have used fewer words to ask if one was a rich fool or poor one clever enough to shank one without suffering the repercussions.

“No.” He relied adding no further information. The two resumed stuffing down their morning feast in silence. Chite trying to keep pace with the she-wolf masquerading as black haired woman named Ginger. The speed at which she ate must have been a survival mechanic, it was clear the food wasn’t going anywhere yet she attack like trying supplement a personal best. Chite had seen this in girls with a lot of brothers and those that run in mercenary bands – explained the bruising. “Try this.” He said pushing over a cylindrical vial full of spices. “Not too much.” That did the trick, the girl now took her time savouring each bite. “Merchants that travel the great west and east roads use Hexor coin too, something about a stable exchange rate. Helped one cut through the mashes a few weeks back.”

Ginger breaking a fat chicken bone began sucking out marrow. “Is that what brought you here?” No answer came. “Fine I get. I was running with a couple of mercs. Led by one Juan ‘Isco’ Pocatile. So you heard of him. Mostly we run jobs for the free states but occasionally made it to the desert kingdoms – great family merging balls if we were lucky, a camel race here and there. He decided to lead the family – that’s what he called us – west towards the Avangent–”

“You mean Avenee.” He corrected.

“Fuck the colts and their pronunciations. I see Avangent I call it Avangent. Anyway with name processes and the slight problematic treatment of women I chose to stick around here.”

“Olaf?”

“First descent lay have had in ages.” She expressed casually. “Sadly he got attached.”

Again, they ate in silence. Ginger put eggs in a hole she carved out of the bread making a sandwich and dug in. Chite followed suit until only crumbs littered the platter. They washed it down with milk. The little boy suddenly appeared, Peta he said was his name Chite remembered. He pushed over the platter of leftover chicken ignoring Ginger’s protest of saving it for later. Peta disappeared with a speed of a mouse leaving a trail of multiple “thank you”s.

“So when are you going to ask?” Chite asked.

“After the meal. I’ve got manners but since you brought up the subject. Bonaventure and his thugs aren’t that tough. All you need to do is be my side, the cowards will protest but won’t act then I can deal with little Bono and his brother. Justice served and you get a bag of coin for your troubles. It even throws in karmic relief as the Duns preach.”

“I don’t think it applies to killings.” He corrected but he could see it in her eyes she would never stop asking. “You know there numerous princes and princesses that rule whorehouses.”  The girl looked baffled. “It’s just something I noticed this past summer. Strange how every inn and brothel seems packed with crimes only could I avenge. Anyway, I say to you as I always preach to these misguided ghosts. Become your own hero.”

The girl opened her mouth but no words came out. She drunk from her mug again.

Was that a hint disappointment on her face? Could she have actually believed the stories about his kind? Maybe not the stories themselves but the storyteller. He hesitated, tried to think about it but experience and pragmatism formed a formidable duo. Last time he played the heroic stranger he wound up with a slit gut, floating on a slow moving ice sheet but he was younger then- barely thirteen. Now almost sixteen he could not repeat childish acts besides sticking out your neck was faux pas in the modern day adventurer guide. In the old ages, this is what brave girls and boys left home for but too many deaths and deceit prompted a recall. The new code called for cold rational – at times cruel – thought. The new breed was full of cynicism and paranoia.   

“In three days I’ll go after Bonaventure and his men. They are holed up in the large house uphill, the lion’s den.” She said leaving the table and walking upstairs.

A play at his pride. A dare, no, a question. What kind of man are you?

Ginger would get the answer sooner than she expected, when on the second day the innkeeper – Mouldy – told her Chite had packed up early in the morning. Coward she would later bemoan as she scratched and clawed in the dark, dunk basement of the Lion’s Den after her failure. She was angry, not with the bold man hitting her – cracking her ribs with every hit – but the brown-eyed stranger.  It’s was he who reminded her of the silly stories grandpa told her and her friends around the fire. Remembering that made her realise she had a younger sister and brother. A mother, a father, a home. No that wasn’t it. Then why? She asked. A sharp sting to the left side of her face stopped the thought. The pain in her abdomen returned. Fu–. Now her right side stung.

“I said,” The decadent man grabbed her face with force twirling a dagger on her iris. “Who sent you?”

Silence. A little angered that the man who killed her (or thought he did) had no recollection. Ginger refused to answer, she couldn’t answer. That was the only thing keeping her alive. A lesson to would be avengers that proclaim their entire mission statement before attacking. She took a ringed fist to the face. Bonaventure, the prick, no manners at all, at least use a bare fist. A loud “ping” kept ringing into her left like a hollow metal rod being rhythmic pounded. Her vision blurred, the ringing became calm and the world faded in to haze.

***

Suddenly she was back to the Mouldy’s enjoying – tolerating – the ale when a familiar face hovered past her peripheral. The face pale white, with golden brown eyes above slender lips. A crooked nose – not too bent – the only blemish but one could call the man who bore it handsome. The exclusion being Ginger, for how do you forgive the murderer of your father? Or everyone you ever knew. The man looked straight at her, maybe through her. No, he didn’t see her at all through the window. He flashed his teeth and stroked his beard. (Definitely using the window as a mirror). The audacity. All the years of searching, nothing to be found and now that she decided to give up her futile pursuit for revenge his just plops up of nowhere. Ginger found herself slowly stalking the man through a busy crowd dagger in hand. A few clumsy pushes and shoves and the chase is off, she ducks behind a vegetable stall. She pretended to ask about the prices but she could eyes upon her, a quick glance revealed a large man with a long sword dangling. Must have been made but Ginger wasn’t sure (she was never much of stealth agent), didn’t stick around to find out. Quickly disappearing into another crowd.

Days of fooling around with a local miner yields the answers Ginger needed but not the ones she wanted. Apparently the killing rapists had managed to rise to small town mayor and his brother played the sheriff. The most clogged justice system she had ever seen, it gave her strange sense of relief and an excuse to cause upheaval. In the mean time she would enjoy the company of this blue eyed idiot.

A month later and her macabre optimism had been overridden by overwhelming reality of corrupt power: Bonaventure ran the small town with perfect blend of fear and benevolence making it hard to acquire information. Only an offhand tip from Olaf after a late night drink saved her from walking into a trap. The former part time brigand now mayor had in his hands in everything with his younger larger brother shored up the gaps. After a few days of fruitless sightseeing a month of alcohol binging loomed, upon the realisation weeks of restless sleep threw Ginger into an absent minded hunger strike. The desire to eat, to see the outside completely eroded. She stayed in her small room in Mouldy’s Inn and watched the days pass. At this point Olaf had taken over paying her rentals only then did she notice three months had passed in this little strange town that baited revenge called Willow’s Heart – because she had paid for a another month in advance.  The gesture made her feel obligated to spend time with him and satisfy his needs. She didn’t mind this, others had taken that privilege without consent but she hated the dark implication.

One night on Olaf insistence, she cleaned up, dressed aptly and joined him downstairs by the bar. Hilde – the innkeeper – looked delighted by this, which made Ginger a little happy but she never let it show. Hours of listening to Olaf’s mining crew discussion on mining operations had her in daze seconds away from dozing when inn’s lousy door informed of a new patron’s arrival. The man – guessing from his stature – looked odd in his all black get-up – black overcoat and hood. She could see he was a young man after he dropped the hood and in that moment the stories of old grandpa came flow back. Ginger smiled brightly, a smile that shocked both her and her partner. The young man’s iris colour veered off the mark from the tales but she couldn’t be bothered, it was a chance and dammit she was going to take it. She took a tankard from Olaf and confidently walked to his table

“It’s never good to drink alone.” Ginger said placing the tankard on the table. A cold appraising gaze greeted her.

***

That’s why she hated him, that’s what made her skin inch in irritation beside the dry blood – hers. In those few moments, the walk to his table back at Mouldy’s, in that moment she had hope and giving hope to an animal on its way to slaughter is beyond cruel. That’s why she screamed like a maniac when his face came to mind.

The sheriff turned instinctively drawing a baton and landing a hit to the assassin’s rib cage as he came flying from behind him. “Wake up, you louts!”  He screamed trying to wake his companions that were in the basement.

 “Are you trying to get me killed?” Chite moaned, holding his left side. He felt his wound reopen under his armour. He winced, the pain beginning to throb. To make matters worse the sheriff’s partners – four – had joined the fight blades drown. “Last time am doing a rescue.”

“We meet…” The sheriff’s words interrupted. Seeing a friend choking on his own blood can do that to a man. A throwing blade piercing his friend’s throat with such efficiency caught the sheriff by surprise. Just when the man was begging to feel comfortable, damn the superhuman. He assumed a defensive posture, trying to make himself looking imposing. Whatever good that did.

Nobody moved, everyone just watched the young man slowly gag to death on his own blood in silence. Chite sidestepped left, the sheriff and his men did the opposite. Ginger shot beady eyes at both parties. Another sidestep. One of the sheriff’s men made a move, a swift move and a black flash sent his heard flying. Ginger produced another muffled, more from the dark than the decapitation. When lantern light returned Chite stood behind Ginger’s chair wielding a bloody sabre above her head. She couldn’t see it was curved, all she could see was a sharp tip dripping on her face. Silence now ruled but not for long. The sheriff’s men attacked again, this time with strategy – one aim his blade at Ginger as the other came at Chite. A powerful slice through the first attackers elbow disarmed the man followed by another flash of darkness, this one didn’t blind Ginger as she was too close to the source.  She saw Chite’s curved blade instantaneously morphed in a double blade spear and with another step move between the two attackers one swing and both heads rolled. All this happens so fast that the disarmed attacker has no time to scream – his head cut off with mouth agape.  A headless body landed on Ginger’s bonded legs spouting a fountain of blood over her, this time no muffled scream just a vivid look of disgust.

The action took its toll on the young man. “Are you ready? You only get one shot.”

“Is it too late to ask for a proper weapon?” The sheriff lifting the baton in resignation, he had accepted his fate and now all he hoped for an entertaining fight. His brown-eyed assailant looked contemplative; the sheriff looked on tentatively as godslayer gently un-muffled his captive.

“What do think?” Chite asked.

“Fuck…him up.” Ginger answered her voice hoarse as cock fighter announcer.

Chite gave the Sheriff the eyes, pointing to his halberd. “Sheriff of Willow’s Hart you are accused of crimes against humanity. The details to which will read by the black haired woman known as Ginger.” His facial features became hard with each word, the boy within giving way to the man. Ginger taken aback by the words stammered but listed the horrors that befell her village. The sheriff had just reached the weapon as Ginger finished. “What’s do you say to this?” The question never a question only simple courtesy. Every good extrajudicial killing deserved one.

“Guilty.” The bald man uttered assured taking up an attacking stance with the halberd.

The room went quiet for third time probably for one last time. Darkness consumed the room again the sword turning into a spear. They both attacked in dark not waiting for the lantern’s light illumination. Sparks went flying as steel collided. Once, twice, thrice but never a fourth. Ginger heard the quiet whining of a dying animal, like a city stray dog taking in its last breath.  Footsteps came thump her way, they sounded heavy and with that realisation, she held her breath.

Lantern light returned to reveal the aftermath, Ginger gave the victor an angry glare as he loomed he loomed over her.  “Well what are waiting for?” She said defiantly. A heavy sigh was his response as he tightly held his heavily bleeding abdomen. The spear morphed into a ebony dagger which he used to free the ungrateful captive. Ginger wasted no time once free, prying the sword from the dismember arm and quickly plunged into the sheriff’s stomach. “This is for Gilly!” She kept repeating, frantically stabbing her villain.

“I think his dead,” Chite said in a deathly tone. “Might want to save your energy for his brother.” He finished pointing up the stairs.

Ginger left but soon returned with Bonaventure tied up like animal – his hands and feet tied behind his back in complex knots. “Oh you tied him up in a bow, for me? You shouldn’t have.” She exclaimed with superfluous movements as she through the man down the steps.  The man writhed at every step before hitting the basement floor.  Ginger feed off the man’s agony and moved with fluidity despite her injuries.

“Only the best for the pretty lady.” Chite said sitting in the chair she had vacated. He watched her move Bonaventure across the wooden floor face down with curiosity. He wondered how she would kill him. He watched tie a hook to ropes on his back and hoist him up using a pulley system. Such systems were using used to store meat but Chite suspected little Bono and his brother used it for far nefarious acts.

“You ugly bitch what did you do? What did you do to my little brother? No. Maxim.” Bonaventure moaned when he set his sights upon his brother’s bloody corpse. Only his shaved head distinguished him from the other corpses. “I’ll kill you both.” He cried.

“This is my village –Gilly – you and your men sacked five years go under the guise of imperial orders. Having a hard time remembering. It was during a bonding ceremony, after the village had invited you in.” She said getting angry with every word. “My best friends bonding ceremony to be specific. You attacked the people you were paid to protect and claimed we harboured traitors when questioned by the prefect. Ring any bells.”

“Don’t give that shit.” Bonaventure screamed. “Who cares about a few dirty farmers in the outskirts. The least you could do was serve the army efforts. Beside I remember you enjoying being passed around.”

“Liar! Shut up!” She reacted instinctively head butting her captive, breaking his nose in the process. “I’ll gut like the rancid pig you are.” She grabbed a large hunting knife hanging on a set of hooks on the wall. She hesitated not out of remorse or fear but as tactic to let him toil about his death. Then when begun to breath rapidly in fear she plunged the knife deep into his stomach. She let him feel the full agony of the strike before dragging the knife down to his pelvis. “Enjoy that.” She said as Bonaventure’s gut’s came spilling out.

END    

The sun rose over Willow’s Heart with a rejuvenating glow at least that how it felt when it touched Ginger’s skin. It cleansed a lot of excess weight she had carried. In that moment relief gave way to euphoria and she burst out a wide smile.

“What’s wrong?” Chite asked with concerned expression. The two stood at the edge of town accompanied by Olaf was preparing a mule.

“It’s my happy face.”

“Well… stick to your sad one.” Chite said with straight face. “I’ve seen your people hang for less.” He received a soft punch to the shoulder for it. “Anyway as I was saying,” He picked up after Olaf joined them. “I’ll be going before they put a bounty on my portrait.”

“I’ll make sure that never happens.” Olaf said with assured confidence, handing over the mule’s reins. 

“I’ll believe it when I see–”

“Why did you come back?” Ginger interrupted.

“Just playing a role that needed to be played,” He said mounting the mule. “And the persuasive skills of your partner. He said Bonaventure hoarded all the good liquor. Now that’s a crime against all the alcoholics on every continent.”

“I thought you said it was about love. Love trumps all.” Olaf countered.

“That too but the alcohol thing too.” He joked now beginning to depart, Ginger paced alongside him.

“How can I repay you? It’s not a gratitude thing, I tend to grow rashes knowing I owe someone.” She explained.

Not wanting to argue he said, “Pass it forward and aid someone else.” That seemed not to satisfy the girl. “Look, if you're ever in the free states travel to Heamansha and look for the scholar named Maximilian of whom they call Bender. He’ll point you the way.”

Ginger would later tell this tale several times to the various individuals who were curious about how the end of the world began.