The clattering of hooves struck the still night, breaking the brush and undergrowth strewn about the forest road. With every strike of the creatures’ heels against the ground, there summoned shoots of dust and debris. Heavy breaths bellowed from the horses; their ride had been a long one. High above, there shone a full moon, elegant and adorned with red hue. Its lunar light fell upon the cloaked riders beneath the forest canopy, who were silent in their stealthful approach. There rode seven of them in total, spread across half a dozen steers. The smell of pine and damp air had grown strong around them as they further crept upon the Faroff Spring. Summer was waning.
Ander, with his arms wrapped around the cloaked Damien, weathered the bumps of the saddled ride. Without a horse to call his own, he had little experience riding upon the mighty animals. They were swift, but to master them took great wisdom. Cross - Damien’s horse - was aptly named after the white stripes that met over her left eye. It brought the black mount character, and a title as well.
“How far out are we?”
Nallia’s whisper spread across the pack. To keep their presence to a minimum, Bella had marked the lot with a recall sigil. The marks were drawn under their right ears, the ink being a mixture of rabbit’s fur, molasses, and ash. It made even the most muted comment audible to all who possessed the sigil, allowing them to speak in whispers. It was especially handy when riding on horseback, as one would have to call in a great voice while on mount to make their words known to their kin. However, the mark was not perfect. It had an effective radius, and outside a dozen yards, it was without use.
“We’re coming up on a fork,” Sylas’ voice sounded in Ander’s right ear. “Scout, Slash, you hold to the right. Everyone else, take after me.”
Now a functional member of the group - but not yet a fully-fledged thief - Ander had been given his cover name, Slash. It was handed down to him by his master, who took mercy upon the boy by bestowing him a rather menacing name. He liked it, that was an honest thought. It was taken from his blade, and the heavy slashes it inflicted.
“We’ll signal when we're in position,” Damien stated, steering Cross to the right of the road. As they mounted a small incline, the fork Sylas had spoken of appeared in the distance.
“Stay focused, stay vigilant,” Thaddeus said to his apprentice and the young swordsman. “And good luck.”
“We won’t need it.”
The fork came, and the group cleaved into two: the insurgents, and the scouts. The path to the overhang of the Freemans’ outpost was a winding one, and steep moreover. As it became harder to blaze through the wood, Damien willed his horse to tread slowly, and with careful steps. The bond between master and mare was strong, and when they worked as one, it took no great effort to arrive atop the overhang.
“Atta girl, you got us here,” Damien leaned over to rub Cross’ mane, who huffed in appreciation. The duo had come across a small notch in the path that led to the overhang outpost, connected by a crawl space beneath the brush. It was no place for a horse, that was certain. Cross would have to wait on the trail, outside of the careful eyes of her companion.
“You stay hidden, girl. You hear me?” The two men dismounted the horse, who proceed to lower herself onto the ground. For such a large creature, she mesh rather well into the environment.
“You’re fine with her waiting out here?”
“She’ll be alright,” Damien spoke with certainty as he drew his bow off his back. “If anything goes awry, or one of us comes across trouble, she knows the way home.”
“Shall we?” The archer motioned toward the passage through the brush, and the two set off upon their knees. Rain had graced the grounds a day prior, leaving the soil with the kiss of moisture. As they crawled, it clung to their trousers and hands. To most, this would be seen as an annoyance. To them, it was practical. A route hard to travel through was a route many would not dare to cross. The path promised them secrecy and protection from the main trail.
A reassuring thought, Ander mulled in the mud. Although… It’s not what I need reassurance in.
The crawl was a short one, and when they rose to their knees they found themselves overlooking the Freemans’ outpost. None of it was permanent. There were no stone or plaster fixtures, nor trenches or barracks. The camp consisted of a frail wooden fence which reached just taller than a man’s height. Inside there resided several tents, most small, but some large. The greater ones were likely congregation areas or cantines, but all of them were the target of the insurgents.
“Send ‘em a whistle. Let them know we made it.”
Ander looked over to Damien, who was perched beside him. The two were lying flat on their stomachs before the edge of the overhang. It was made of stone, so no mud met their grabs and black cloaks. The edge of this cliff was nothing like the one of the stronghold. It was a dozen feet tall at most, but with such a small camp, their visibility covered all of the outpost.
Following his senior’s command, Ander found the muted whistle strung around his neck, and gave it a blow. It was the same instrument Damien had used seven months prior, the night the group had stranded Ander in the woods. As he huffed into it, he could hear its low pitch resonate in his right ear. The sigil was out of range for talking, but was still able to pick up the high frequency of the whistle.
“Look, they’re at the east gate, do you see them?”
Damien held an arrow out to point toward a pack of shadows clustered around the eastern gate of the camp. It was hard to see through the darkness, but with some focus, he picked out five silhouettes in a cluster. Not that he had much doubt, but he was glad all five of them had made it to the gate.
In the silent night, there sounded two low whistles, bellowing from the pack of shadows.
“They’re asking if they’re clear,” explained the young archer. “Give me a quick scan of the lot. What do you see?”
“I see…” Ander began, his eyes piercing the desolate outpost. In truth, he saw not a soul within the walls. A fact that put him on edge. “I see nothing. Do you?”
“Nope. They’re clear to go,” Damien fitted his whistle to his lips, and gave it two quick blows. There began movement in the eastern gate, and within a few seconds, the shadows leaked into the outpost, trekking for a nearby tent.
“Alright, now all we have to do is watch,” Damien spoke, his eyes still glued to the outpost. “It should take a bit of time, they have a few stops to make… Got any conversation you wish to make to fill the time?”
“Is that appropriate?”
“They’re not dead, are they?”
“I suppose they’re not…” Ander shifted on the stone, drawing his sword to keep by his side.
“So, anything you wish to speak about?”
“...”
“...”
“What’s going on between you and Nallia?”
Damien visibly stiffened, his hand pausing halfway to his quiver. “I-I suppose we should be focused on the job, shouldn’t we?”
With his eyes still glued to the camp, Ander smirked and demeaned the archer. “Oh, what happened to Damien, the great conversationalist? Was mentioning a girl enough to shut you up?”
“Oh, be quiet!” Came the boy. Their secrecy was threatened by their growing conversation. “Some things are just better left unspoken.”
“Are they? And why’s that?” Ander asked. “Have you nothing to say about Nali?”
“Of course I have something to say about Nallia,” the archer let out a sigh, sweat forming on his brow. “I have a lot to say about her… It’s just a tough topic to talk about.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because she’s, well, because Nallia’s Nallia. Nothing about her makes much sense,” Damien shook his head.
“To be fair, she is fairly straightforward with her intentions.”
“Is she?” Anger began to rise in Damien’s voice. “That’s not how I perceive it.”
“Then how do you perceive it?”
“I see it-The way I see it, I can’t tell if she’s a tone-deaf romantic, or she’s pulling my leg. Can you? Are you so certain as to which is which?”
“You’re saying all of her efforts are just to torment you?”
“Are you saying they aren’t?” The proposition seemed to strike a nerve in the boy, more so than everything before. “Legitimately, Ander, every single meal I eat, I have to listen to that woman’s gods awful remarks. Terrible things, she says. What reason can she have to say those things other than her wishing to see me distraught?”
“Maybe her reason is just honesty?”
“If so, then she should learn to lie. I mean, if she seriously wished to pursue something with me, would tormenting me be the right way to go about it?”
“Has Nallia ever gone about something the quote-on-quote ‘right way’?” With every word he spoke, he could feel the displeasure well within his brother-in-arms.
“Did she put you up to this?” He threw the accusation with vitriol. “Are you enjoying watching me squirm just as much as she does?”
“You’re the one who wished to fill our time with talk,” Ander looked to his right, eyeing Damien’s twisted expression. “This is as good a topi-”
“-Eyes on the outpost, Ander,” the command came swift and with authority. Being made aware of his mistake, Ander turned back to scan the campground. “You need to stay vigilant. We can talk, but always keep your eyes focused.
“Sorry, forgive me,” he mouthed, pausing for a small moment. “...Damien. Say Nallia is being honest. Be it tormenting or not. Do you feel anything for her?”
A sigh escaped Damien’s lips as a hand ran through his brown mane. It took him a short respite to organize his words, and when he did, he spoke. “To be honest, Ander, I do have feelings for her. She may be a bizarre person, as all the Nyx seem to be, but it’s not entirely her fault. She’s from a different culture, a much more abrasive culture. That doesn’t help me tell if she’s honest or not, but it does explain away her bravado.”
“But bravado can be a fool's errand,” he continued. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t find her appealing, nor her nature comforting, in some ways… perhaps I'm worried some things would not fit together-”
“-Fit together?” Ander let out a wild smile. “Is that really a concern of yours?”
“Would you just shut up,” Damien threw an elbow into his kin’s side. “You wished to hear me speak, so let me speak… Yes, I find her attractive. Yes, I wish something could be between us, but I’m just not sure if I’m suited for it. Nor am I sure she speaks with honesty.”
“Why not just ask?” Ander posed the question, despite knowing the answer.
“Isn’t it fairly obvious?” Damien’s grip on his bow tightened. As they spoke, the insurgents found their way out of the first tent and began their approach on the second. It seemed all was going well. “What would happen if I approached her and spoke to her my mind, only to be laughed at in response? I can’t go and do something unless I’m absolutely certain she feels the same way. The consequences would be… disastrous. I’d be a laughing stock, more than I am with Thaddeus. Until I see a sign, I’m holding off.”
“A sign? Dame, she sends you a sign every half second,” Ander scoffed. “What more of a sign can she be giving you?”
“I don’t know, how about a genuine one!” He exclaimed in a sharp whisper. “Perhaps something more to the tune of ‘I have feelings for you, Damien’ and not ‘My bed is a little too spacious tonight, I need someone to help fill in the room’.”
“That was a bit much.”
“You think that was a lot, you innocent soul,” Damien snapped. “... All that needs saying is it’s a difficult topic to talk about. Hell, love plainly is a difficult topic to talk about.”
“I know.”
Damien cringed, the memories of Ander’s tale of the silver-haired maiden returned to him. Careless fool, the archer chidded himself. As open as Ander had become with him, the boy was far from whole. It was his job to tread lightly around him, and be a support for his friend to lean on.
“Then let’s leave it at that,” Damien spoke in a low tone. “Let’s just… leave it at that.”
“Agreed.”
As silence fell over the two scouts, so did the air become still. The forest was quiet, devoid of the scuttling of critters nor the rustling of late summer leaves. There was a light breeze that blew through the outcrop, but other than that, not a sound could be heard. The job had progressed smoothly, and it seemed the insurgents were making good progress. For a while, the rays of the moon had been blocked by passing clouds, but now, the great light was open to all for admiration. The red hue of its shade danced through the air, painting everything in a crimson color.
The silence was comforting, but at the same time, it kept their nerves taught. So much of it was unnatural, almost foreboding. All was still. All was waiting.
*Crunch*
There came the quiet snap of a nearby twig, done in by a lurking thing. Damien’s voice rose in response.
“Cross?”
“*Growl*”
“Cross?”
“Sic’em!”
There bellowed a great roar from behind them as a beast lept from the shadows. The scouts flew around to face the threat, but for Damien, it was too late. A Razzorin, bearing great fangs and eyes or rage, bounded out of the treeline to fall upon the archer. Its claws were quick to take to the boy, who tried to keep it at a distance with his bow. Seeing such an attack, Ander was swift in his response. Off his back he went with his sword, and in a single motion, he buried his falchion into the side of the Razzorin, piercing its mighty scales. The beast roared, a mix of pain and rage. With the turn of its head, it found a new target.
The creature rose up and came onto Ander, spurred on by the blade skewered into its side. The swordsman levied his shield up to push into the creature's mouth, baring its fangs from sinking into his flesh. The Razzorin’s strength knew no end, and the two began to move about the overhang, still locked in a stalemate. Unable to bear it any further, the beast broke through his guard and bit down upon his right forearm.
A scream flew out of Ander’s mouth, as did rage fill his blood. The boy levied his legs up and kicked the both of them off the overhang, falling the short distance down onto the grass below. Ander landed atop the beast, and as he roared with exertion, he drew the sword from its side and buried it deep into its chest. The tip of the blade pierced the ground below, which ran with the blue blood of the monster. The fight left the beast as its eyes rolled back.
From behind Ander there came another commotion. Damien landed beside him, having been thrown off the overhang onto his side. He had with him his bow, and held enough strength to rise to his feet. Ander did the same, the pain of the Razzorin’s bite fading from his mind.
“They killed Scales!”
From the top of the overhang there stood three figures. The call came from the one closest to the cliff, and a second later, all three of them jumped down to stand before the two thieves. They were grizzly men, without shirts and marked all over with spiraling tattoos. Their beards, unkept and long, hung bits and rings of metal in them. They had no armor other than leather padded pants and metal belts draped in various fabrics. A mess is what they were, and with it came an aura of danger.
“That they did,” one of them smirked, holding a bearded ax in his right hand. “That one handled him well, didn’t he?”
“Ahhhh, I know what you two are,” came one with a mace. “You two are thieves aren’t you? Coming here to take from us? How pretty.”
“Oh, they are pretty aren’t they,” came the one standing closest to them, holding a short arming sword. “But you’re not alone, are you?”
“You’re friends are inside, aren’t they? Ohh, if you were looking for us, you should have said so!”
“We’re all that’s here, anyway.”
They all wore smiles dripping with wickedness. It seemed sanity was a foreign concept to this lot. None of them were all that large, but being Freemans, they didn’t need to be.
“Don’t cut up the pretty one,” the mace wielder pointed his weapon toward Damien, who shrunk back in response. “I want to keep that one, and his pretty mouth. But you!” He pointed the mace at Ander. “You killed Scales!”
“The beast won’t be the only one who falls tonight! Stay back!” Ander bellowed the threat, brandishing his weapons toward the lot. “Scout, call them back!”
“On it!”
A low, long whistle sounded in Ander’s right ear, the one used to signal danger to the insurgents.
“Are you going to fight us? That’s cute!”
“Real cute!”
“So be it,” Ander tensed his form, pushing the inaudible words off his tongue. Now was no time for nervousness.
Yet, he wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t startled. In fact, he was quite still. His blade, held tightly in his right palm, was steady, and true. Too was his shield readied, and in all the haze of combat, there was clarity for him. The rush of his heart sounded in his ears, the rhythmic flow it was. But it did nothing to intimidate him. Sweat dared to form on his brow, but it lacked the confidence to run.
“Scout, call your marks!” He bellowed in a mighty voice. The rush of his heart rang faster. His eyes scanned the three men for any sign of movement. Sword fights were quick, and wild. And being pit against three men - all of whom were surly veterans- was practically a death warrant.
“Caw!”
There rose the calls from a murder of crows siling from high above, circling the outpost with the flaps of their black wings. It was a call familiar to the boy. One of omen, and death.
Tonight, men will die.
The ax-bearer let loose a guttural roar as he dashed forward. The crest of his blade cleaved the still air of the forest cove, bounding in arc, eager to split apart Ander’s skull. But it never met its mark. Dirt was all it tasted as the boy parried the strike with his shield, moving its momentum to make it smash into the soil. The ax-bearer was vulnerable, but his weakness was covered by his fellow swordsman.
The arming sword of the swordsman came roaring against Ander’s blade, sending vibrant sparks through the air. As the two locked, there came a volley from Damien, aimed at the swordsman, who leaned forward to avoid its tip. This was a mistake, as with the close distance, Ander delivered a strike with his shield into the man’s chest. It forced him back, but the fires of battle raged within him. It made the boy’s heart race ever faster, but his hand refused to quake. He knew the odds, but persevered against them. This would be no easy contest.
To fight off all three at once was beyond suicide. He would have to find a way to entertain one at a time, a task his faith would instill in Damien. His volleys would have to keep the men on their toes, and by his marks thus far, Ander knew he was aware of this.
From his right, there came a swing from the mace wielder, who struck at the boy with a wicked smile. He could see the whites of the man’s eyes, soulless and bare. These aren’t humans.
Ander avoided the strike with ease, making distance with all three. Damien kept himself in position as well, always standing behind Ander, the best place for him to offer support. The two were unlikely to fight off the trio. Their only chance was to wait until the insurgents found them. Only the gods knew how long that would be. The cruel masters they were.
“Come on, come on!” The ax bearer urged the boy to make a move, grining with untamed rabidness.
In a joint attack, the swordsman and mace wielder came upon him, striking from both sides to ensnare the young man. Ander moved into the mace weilder’s attack, throwing him forward with his shield as he parried the strike from the swordsman. He stabbed into the man, but his falchion was thrown off course by the strength channeled through the arming sword. A mistake was made by the boy. He had lost focus on the ax bearer, who came forth and struck at the back of his heel.
It forced him to a knee, blood conjuring in the open wound. A bit higher and his knee would have been undone. A bit lower, and his heel would be no more. It stung like the bites of a thousand Ravage Ants, but the pain was quick to be tossed from his mind. He bolted back to his feet. There was no time for suffering in a fight.
Adrenaline surged in the boy, spurred forth by his wounds. The sting of the Razzorin’s bite was a lost sensation. All he felt now were the calls for war.
There came more from every Freemans. All would try to attack in unison, but Ander’s guard and Damien’s volleys kept them separate. The battle was young, but to the thieves, an eternity had already passed. Blades fell from every direction, all desiring a cut of his flesh, or a drink of his blood. Sweat now poured down the boy’s skin, staining the black garbs of his form. Though the pain was gone, there grew patches of red in his clothes. The three men were true with their swings, and little by little, they were taking their toll.
“Enough with the arrows!” Came the ax bearer, who aimed his instrument at Damien. “I don’t care if you’re pretty! I’ll get my fill of you once you’re dead!”
The savage bolted toward the boy, who froze at such a sight. From afar, Ander could see fear burst in his eyes. Hesitation stayed his form, and as the ax swung through the air, the blonde boy knew he would have to stop it. From across the battlefield he ran, his feet quicker than an Álff’s. When Damien regained control of his form, it was already too late. The ax was right above him.
*Clang!*
Ander hooked his falchion beneath the curve of the bearded ax, stopping the blow from splitting Damien’s skull. It did breach the skin, and over the boy’s visage there flowed a tide of crimson. They had struck his friend, his companion. Time seemed to halt in the lightning exchange as dark thoughts swelled within Ander.
They dare take them, again! He roared, his brow faltering into a menacing stare. The world wished to take more from him. Just as it had taken his parents, and his friends. Like it had taken Elara, and Nina. Rabid rage flourished within him. They were his family. They will not take him. Not on my life!
A visceral roar bellowed from Ander as he threw the ax of Damien, expelling it from the Freemans’ hands. The man, now unarmed, wore a pitiful look. He was afraid. Even in the short time he witnessed it, the quivers of the man’s lip, and the wideness of his eyes were unmistakable. That look would forever be plastered on his face as the edge of Ander’s blade cut through his throat, lobbing his head clean off his neck. There came up a fountain of blood from the man’s stump, pumping with his heart, but without his head the savage’s body was quick to fall.
When the man’s head fell, it bounced off the green floor of the forest glade. Dark shade of spilled blood coated the blades of grass, sparkling in the moonlight. There came another pause after the man’s death, and in that time, Ander witnessed clear the last emotions of the man’s decapitated head. Truly, he had died a coward, and in dishonor.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
But for the blonde swordsman, contrary sentiment flourished. The dead man had wished to take Damien from him, and thus Ander took his life. And in this victory, the young man smiled. Thoughts of honor and duty were lost to him now. All there resided was rage, and vitriol. He was right. Men would die tonight.
“Caw!” The crows agreed.
“You killed Bjorn!” The swordsman savage cried, a sorrowful look plastered on his face. It was swift to melt, and in its absence there flourished a vengeful grimace. “You’ll lose more than your head!”
A sword flew at Ander’s right as a mace careened toward his left. Neither met their mark when the young man dashed forward, brandishing his blade to cut into the side of the swordsman. It was a small slice, and it did nothing more than further anger the savage, if that was even possible. He pivoted back to face his opponents before they could strike at his unguarded back, and the move came just in the nick of time. The swordsman was upon him again, forcing him into a tight bind. The man gripped his sword with two hands, and in response Ander halved his sword with his free hand, pushing against the blunt edge of his falchion.
“When I’m done with you, you won’t even remember being a man!”
With the man so close to him, Ander swelled saliva in his mouth and spat it out into the man’s face. It forced him back as words of wrathful disgust bellowed from his lips. But the stagger was short lived, as from their right there flew an arrow. It was an accurate shot, and its tip became lodged in the swordsman’s right shoulder, letting loose a small spurt of blood into the wet air. The man gave no reaction to the volley other than a deadpan, seemingly lost in the flurry of events. With the opening, Ander gripped his blade and thrusted it into the man’s abdomen, tearing bone and sinew as it went.
From his right Ander could see the mace weilder’s rapid response, and so he moved to take back his blade. But it was stubborn in the body’s gullet, and thus he had to kick it free from the dead man. When he did, the swordsman keeled over onto the ground, joining his headless friend in death.
Ander’s blade, glistening with gore in the brilliant moonlight, curved up to catch the mace of the final Freemans. The weight of his weapon was no match for his opponents. His guards were easily broken. The man had an untamable rage now, being brought on by the death of his party.
It’s none the matter, hatred called within Ander. There was little reason left in him. He will fall like the rest!
“You wretch!” The man called, striking wildly at the boy. Every assault flew faster than the last, and with indomitable strength. Ander found himself on the retreat, unable to keep up with the man’s advances. “You killed Bjorn! You killed Thatchar!”
Fire burned in the savage’s eyes, and as he reeled back his mace again, he let it loose against the boy. Ander lacked the swiftness to respond, and so the head of the mace made contact with his left shoulder. The crackling of bones and bursting of muscles filled the air, as did Ander’s mournful cry. The immense pain forced him to drop his blade from his right hand. He felt nothing of his left, it was all numb, and lost.
The man’s mouth twisted into a horrible smile, eager to see more pain befall the boy. He hadn’t realized the mistake he had made.
A single memory flew through Ander’s mind, spurred on by the evisceration of his shoulder. Memories of teeth and claws filled his psyche, as did rage take his mind. The sensation of the bear's maw on his shoulder was fresh. Every ounce of pain brought mountains of fury and hatred. The final barriers that held the painful rage within him broke, and out flowed all of his bottled sorrow. The rabid beast was released, and it thirsted for blood.
“AAGHH!”
As the mace wielder swung again, Ander willed his right hand to fly and catch it. The flanges of the mace slashed into the skin of his palm, spewing blood and bits of flesh onto his black garbs. But he felt none of it. The savage was frozen in shock, and in that opening Ander gripped the mace and pulled it down and away from him, ripping it from the man’s hand. When the mace left his hand, he reached down and gripped his knife in reverse. It became unsheathed, but no later found shelter in the man’s jugular, piercing through his windpipe.
Shock stole the man’s eyes as he grabbed at his split throat. Blood ran down his bare chest, dark and vibrant. He lost the strength to stand, and fell forward onto his knees. In his final act, Ander leaned forward to grip his blade. When he did, he threw his right foot into the man’s chest, tearing apart the front of the man’s throat as the knife became unstuck from his flesh. When his neck was no more, the savage fell back, and promptly succumbed to death.
When the final sounds of the battle waned, Ander was left standing, beaten and bloodied. Dry pants escaped his lips, and in his ears he heard nothing but the rushing of blood. The pounding of his heart could be felt all about his body, sans his left arm, which hung loose and limp. For Damien, the scene was beyond disbelief.
Ander… He stood with his bow just barely hanging from his hand. He had seldom shot it during the battle, only landing one volley. And it seems he didn’t need to land any more. Three veteran soldiers of an elite clan were felled before him, done in by the blade of a novice swordsman. In plain words: he didn’t believe his lying eyes.
“Slash!”
Bella’s voice called from a distance, followed by a stampede of footsteps. The insurgents had made it out, just in time to spare themselves from the sight of Ander’s massacre.
“Oh gods!” Sylas tried to suppress his disbelief, but failed to do so. The rest of the team were mute in response to the view. Pools of blood had formed about the bodies, tainting the pristeen grass of the forest glade. Ander was at its centerpoint, solemn and stoic.
A groan escaped the blonde man’s lips as he dipped to a knee. With his right hand, he found a clear patch of grass and used it to clean the blood off Nina’s knife. As he did, his grip became loose, and his hand started to tremor violently. It was impossible to get it completely clean of blood, but with a few brushes through the grass, he got most of it off. There he tried to sheath it in its scabbard on his side, but found no such luck.
“I c-can’t,” he stammered, tears welling in his eyes. “I c-can’t… put it away.”
“For the gods sake, someone help the kid!” Thaddeus yelled. It was odd to see the older archer be the sympathetic voice, but in a scene as unbelievable as this, the thought was paid no mind.
Leon was the first to move, trancing over the bloodied grass to take hold of Ander. The boy collapsed in his arms, going completely limp, wearing a distant look as he stared into the sky. “Soul, healing!”
“Already on it,” came Bella. She readied her hands together, and summoned forth ethereal glow. She placed them over his shoulder, and began to chant.
“Rhass blun aey asgwn, haa e flux.” The language of the Ljósálffa came from her tongue, as did a cry of agony sound from Ander’s. The sensation of being healed was no pleasurable feeling.
“Cross, *Whistle*, here girl!” Damien turned toward the woods and called for his mare. It took some time and effort on Cross’ part, but soon enough did the head of the archer’s horse appear over the ridge of the forest glade. Damien motioned for her to jump down, and with caution, the horse followed her master’s orders. He was thankful she didn’t run home.
“Scout, you're wounded!”
Nallia, her focus finding Damien, let out a sound of shock as her eyes met the flow of crimson down his face. She rushed to his side, reaching with her meager height to inspect the boy’s forehead. There was a large gash there left by the ax of the now-descended Freemans. But it was only a flesh wound, and had already clotted up. Despite this, the Nyx’s voices roared with concern. Her hands found the sides of his head, forcing him to look her in the eyes.
“It’s nothing. I’m not the one to worry about here,” Damien turned back to his horse. He patted her mane as he spoke. “Someone needs to take him home. We’re napping Feylings out here!”
“Give me a moment and I’ll take him back,” Bella said between her chants, one hand on Ander’s shoulder, and the other on his cheek.
“Nonsense, I’ll take him back,” Leon stated plainly. “He’s larger than you. You won’t be able to ride and hold him. I’ll take him back.”
“Then you shall,” she nodded her head. “Give me a moment to get him stable. I won’t be able to right the bones out here, but I can try and stop the bleeding.”
“Thad, run back and get out horses,” Sylas gave the order to the archer, who departed immediately. The man was uncharacteristically quiet, although he certainly had words to say. A sigh escaped his lips. Out of everything that could have happened, this was certainly the worst scenario in which all of their lives were spared. There was so much he did not know, and the black-haired man yearned for answers.
The moment passed, and in the end, the clan watched the two blonde swordsmen ride into the distance, vanishing under the veil of the quiet forest. All that was left was the felled bodies of the men, and the memories of the fading fight. The moon shone great in the sky, greater than the crimson blood upon the ground.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
“You must stay still, Ander!” Bella released her hold of his shoulder as the boy mewled in pain. His bed, now stricken with blood and dirt, held the tatter boy as his wounds were mended. It was an arduous process, and a very painful one at that. He felt every little movement of Bella’s care. Every bone being realigned, every blood vessel reforged. It was agony incarnate, and all throughout he was cringing in pain.
“If you keep tossing, you’ll ruin my work!”
“How can I stay still,” he grunted, his face twisted in displeasure, “when your finger is buried in my damn shoulder!”
“I know, I know,” She sighed. It was vital for her to put aside her own feelings, no matter how much attitude the boy sent her. “...This shouldn’t hurt any more than last time.”
“I don’t remember last time,” his words dripped with loathing.
“Ahh, fair point.” She could tell he was trying to stay still, but the pain must have been too much to deny. Pity grew within her. The worst was yet to come.
“Here, bite down on this,” she handed him a roll of his bedquilt, twisted up into a small bundle. He took it with his good hand, before eyeing her up with suspicion.
“I need to line up your clavicle bone. It broke in half, and it’s right next to a nerve. This won’t be pretty.”
His head fell back with a groan. She could feel his whole body tense up, something that would only make the pain worse. Setting aside his objections, he placed the bundle of fabric in his mouth, and spoke in a muffled, yet solid voice.
“Do it.”
Cries bellowed from the boy’s room, oozing with stark terror, enough to frighten even the hardest men. Sylas, leaning beside the door to Ander’s room, winced at the howl as his hands clenched up in his pocket. So did his kin respond in grimaces, with Nallia willing her hands to cover her more sensitive ears. They all knew the horror of being healed while conscious, as all had injuries befallen on them at some point in time. But it did nothing to soften the scenario they found themselves in.
“It’s absurd. All of it,” Damien shook his head. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be dead.”
“Don’t dwell on it,” Thaddeus snapped in a commanding tone. After returning home, the young archer had been taken over by dread. A single instant was all that had separated him from life and death, and it was no one's fault but his own. He froze up under pressure, he was prey in the night. If it weren’t for Ander, he would be dead alongside the savages.
“You lived because you deserved to live. We all make mistakes, and we all get hurt. Sso quit your moping, learn from your mistakes, and move on.”
“I failed him, didn’t I?”
From the corner of the room, there came the voice of the desolate Leon. He wasn’t weeping, but for a man of his grandier, the grief he displayed was the closest to tears anyone would ever find him. His blonde pride, and honest muzzle, were a distant dream in that dark corner. His mind mulled over the disconnected words cast by Ander during their ride back to the stronghold. A whirlwind of apologies had been levied at him by the boy, begging for the older man’s forgiveness.
“Get out of your own head, Leon,” Sylas ordered. He had learned long ago that the best way to get through to the man was with a harsh grip. “Are you living in a different world than we are? Forgive me if I’m mistaken, which I’m not, but your novice apprentice gutted three - count them, three - Freemans. The boy you taught managed to kill three seasoned warriors!”
“Quit your talk about ‘failing him’. You’re the reason he’s alive!”
“This was but a battle,” Leon’s defeated voice replied. “But the war goes on. That’s what he told me, on the way back. I don’t know how lucid he was. But he spoke clearly.”
“What war?” Thaddeus joined in.
“The war for control,” Leon muttered. “He’s worried about control. And from what this one says, maybe he should be.”
“I owe Ander my life, that’s for certain.” Damien looked down at the chipped wood floor of the stronghold. Where it had once been stone, the floor was now gilded with porous woods. It helped stay away pools of wetness and filth, hidden beneath the floorboards. He raised a hand to touch his forehead as he spoke. A scar was already forming.
“I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t saved my life. Not just from the ax. But from the whole mess,” he went on. “It’s my fault they found us anyway. I told him it was fine to talk, when really we should have kept quiet. And it’s my fault that he had to kill those men.”
“What's wrong with slaying monsters,” Sylas spoke. It made no sense to him why such a thing was a point of contention. “Every freeman dead is an innocent soul saved.”
“I saw him smile after the first man fell,” the younger archer’s voice was a broken whisper. “The longer the fight went on, the more gore that came about, the more rabid he became.”
“Ander’s my friend, my brother-in-arms. I love him as I love all of you, and I would be lying if I said I weren't concerned… To lose himself so swiftly in that moment… And I know-I know, that he's as distraught as we all are, if not more so.”
“I told you, did I not? I failed him.”
“Both of you shut up! Is taking pity on yourselves that pleasurable?” Sylas’ patience was wearing thin. “If he wishes to learn to control himself, or to keep his head, then so be it. But why are you all so defeated about this? We made a clean haul, nothing was lost, and above everything, we sent a message to the Freemans. We sent them the message that they're not safe in Vimbaultir. I mean, honestly, I have no idea what you are all so ill over.”
“Perhaps it's just the troubles of a fool,” Leon placed a hand on the hilt of his longsword. He pushed himself off the shadowy walls of the hallway's corner to pace toward the group, eyes set on his chamber. “...I'm off to retire for the night. We can make a count tomorrow.”
“So be it,” Sylas shrugged without complaint. To be fair, not a few hours separated them from sunrise. The night was old, and they all shouldered weariness. “We'll speak further about this tomorrow.”
“I know we shall,” the swordsman said. The ride back had made him sure of it. Ander, in the faint glow of the blood moon, had levied every burden he had at Leon. All of his fears. All of his troubles. And all about that monster that resided within him. In truth, the boy was afraid. Not of taking a life, but of how easy it was for him to do so. Leon, though he stayed silent, shared the young man's fears.
It was a bad omen for a novice warrior to revel in death. Not that Ander did so, but the ease of taking a life often led to woeful things. He had faith in his apprentice, just as his apprentice had faith in him. But faith is only a construct. It is temperance that Ander needs, and perhaps that was something Leon couldn't teach.
For all his talk about honor and pride, the blonde swordsman was only a thief. A lowlife outlaw, a grown peasant boy with a sword in his hands and dreams in his head. Thoughts lingered with him into the night. Worries and troubles about his apprentice stuck to him like flies in the summer heat.
But where the worry never struck him, there stood resolution and hope. He would not fail Ander. If there was work to do, it would be done. And it would be done with the honor he wished he had.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
In his hand, Ander beheld Nina’s blade. Slag from the lost memories of rust still marked some areas, having bit deep into the cold steel. He had done a great service to the knife. The forgery was home to a grindstone, as well as several whetstones ranging in coarseness. They made it possible to wear away the corrupted metal, and make the edge shine even in low light. Its hilt, once tarnished with weak cloth blackened by use and filth, was now wrapped in bear leather. He had an abundance of bear leather. It was his trademark material, black and ominous, and it wove around most of the things he owned.
Ander had grown fond of the black shine. Perhaps it called to him where nothing else could. Perhaps its aura knew him better than anyone ever would. But the reason didn’t matter, the outcome was all the same. He had grown to love black.
A sigh escaped his lips as he played with the knife. It was past midnight, or so he assumed. The only clock of the stronghold was located in the den, and he wasn’t sure how reliable it was. Many years had flowed through its hands, if not centuries. How reliable could such an ancient thing be?
He traced his finger down the length of its blade. It was strange to think that, not a few hours ago, he had taken a life with it. That worried him, it worried him deeply. It shouldn’t feel strange, it should be horrifying. He should be petrified with the concept of murder, and yet… it was in no way alien to him.
Have I failed my master so greatly? He asked himself, the words falling short of his lips. Have I heeded none of his lessons? Have I no… No honor?
“Am I such a monster?”
“Ander,” Bella groaned, letting her head fall back against the cold stronghold wall. “How much longer must this back-and-forth last? Put down the knife and go to sleep. Just because you’re healed doesn’t mean you’re whole, you need sleep.”
“It’s not just what I did,” he spoke, looking through her. “It’s how easy it was to do it… That’s what frightens me, Bella. It was easy, and I think… I enjoyed it.”
“If you were a king, would you rather your knights be afraid to kill your enemies, or happy to kill them?”
“...”
“I assume you would choose the latter, as all reasonable men would,” she shook her head. Beside her, hung on a wall-mounted hook, was his bloodied mantle, its black hair soiled with crimson. “How can killing monsters in one scenario be honorable, and in another, make you a monster?”
“Because one scenario is defense, and the other is a cowardice attack.”
“Hmm, okay,” she crossed her legs, leaning forward to stare across at him. He was reclined on his bed. Its sheets, bloodied and soiled, had been removed for washing. It was an old sack, made of burlap and filled with feathers and soft junk. “The outcomes of both situations involve an evil person being killed, can we agree on this?”
“I suppose.”
“So is it only rightful to kill monsters when they seek to kill you, and dishonorable to go off and hunt them before they have the chance to maul the innocent.”
“...”
“Is this your reason?”
“Not entirely?”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Gods, you’re awful to argue with,” another groan came from the woman, who raised her hands in defeat. The young man was stubborn in his misery. Why must he always be this way, the question posed itself, but the answer was all too clear.
“Ander, do you know the tale of Faerthor the god killer?”
The young man perked up at the question. No, he did not know. He recognized the name of the current king of Sylvee - Faerthor Greatwood the sixth - but beyond that, he knew nothing of a ‘god killer’.
“What do you mean ‘god-killer’?”
“Faerthor the first, the God Killer. Taker of the life of Crassion, god of strength.”
“What of him?”
“Do you know his tale? For heaven's sake, Ander, is there a brain between those deaf ears?”
“There may be…” The boy placed his knife down on his bedside table, and sat up to pay attention to the woman. His room was as bare as the day he began residing in it. Just as void as his old chamber was. “What importance does this story have?”
“I think it may help you see some truth,” Bella slid her chair closer to his bedside. The ground, not having been clean, was still tainted with dried blood. It would need moping. “Would you care to hear it?”
“Be my guest.”
“Alright. Here, let me try something.”
Bella reached across to his bedside table, and took from it a slowly burning candle. She looked it over, and seemed to say something under her breath. He knew not what she said, but he recognized the language of the light elves. A moment later, she heaved in a breath, and blew on the flame. The wick went out, but in her breath there caught a wind of cinders and light. It flew about the room, faintly lit by the gentle rays of the moon from his small square window. The embers flew about like flailing snow, and as they spun around his chamber, they began to take shape.
“Eight score years ago, in the now lost town of Thydirel, there was born a low noble of the house Greatwood. His father, Norval Greatwood, had taken Elesei Vellera as his wife, and gave to her a son at the age of sixteen.”
“Sixteen?” Ander made his first interruption, a scourge of disgust rising within him.
“This was actually her second marriage. She had been first wed at fifteen to Norval’s older brother, but after falling ill, Norval was given her hand.” In the air there aspirated the portrait of a beautiful woman, blessed with flowing hair and draped in a flowing dress. She held in her hand a small infant, pressed upon her bosom. Behind her loomed an older man. “At the time, Norval was twenty seven.”
“Norval would go on to lead men into the battle of the Bloody Gates, and would never return home to the second-widowed Elesei. In her grief, she changed her name to Ashlai. It was a common name taken by widows to honor their lost husbands, and Ashlai would never remarry.”
“Her one and only son, Faerthor Greatwood, grew with the passing years, and took up a squireship under the cousin of the great Vastar Thornfeld, who led the armies of the north. He became a broad man, strong in body, and deft with a sword. At age sixteen, he was challenged by a knight for disrespecting the god Crassion, and at the age of sixteen, he claimed his first kill.” Sparks danced in combat, and as they moved, the image of a sword buried in a valiant knight’s chest arose. It was all magnificent to Ander, who was becoming entranced in the story.
“But Crassion, from atop the peaks of Astari, witnessed this blasphemy and grew mad. Even though the two coalitions of man support separate pantheons, all gods are respected, and the disrespect from Faerthor fell on wicked ears. For Crassion was wicked. He was not the first god of strength, and through the ages, the title has become a cursed godship. The god started to fall as his predecessors had, and in his wickedness, he took Faerthor’s insult, and burned his home village Thydirel to the ground. He was in Fimbull at the time, and when he returned, he was greeted with nothing but the echoes of the ashes of his lost family.”
…
Ander fell emotionless, a stoic face stealing his visage. Bella noticed this, but went on.
“After Faerthor performed the final rites for his lost friends and family, he took the ashes of his home, and sliced his hand for embers to mix with his blood. He swore an oath in the remnants of his village that he - the last of his blood - would seek the wicked god Crassion, and he would have his head. He would kill the god for vengeance, but also to stop the mad deity from causing more chaos.”
In the dancing flames, Crassion’s cruel gaze lingered over Faerthor, who in the dust of his village, wore a brave look.
“Faethor knew he was not mighty enough to slay a god, and so he departed Sylvee and the Pact of Aeon in search of strength. He made it through the mountain pass to Svartálffon to forge a mythic weapon. He traveled to the Ljósá Imperium to master the arts of the magii. From the gulf of sapience, he took a ship to Arkkon, where he learned the secrets of Tallon, the god of light and sight. Crassion watched him through his journeys, and kept monsters and beasts on his tail to try and slay him. Eventually, he realized he would have to take action against the mortal. A fatal mistake.”
“Crassion saw it unfit to attack Faerthor, he thought it too easy. And so, when the last of the Greatwoods was down in Arkkon, Crassion came upon Fimbull, and destroyed the High Citadel, slaying Faerthor’s old master, as well as the legendary Vastar Thornfeld. It enraged Faerthor, who became wholly consumed in vengeance. He took his teachings, and burned a path through the Union of Astari, all the way unto the temple mount of Crassion upon Aivernoth, the Mighty Mountain. He climbed the peak, and slaughtered all the mortals who tried to defend Crassion, even the high charities. When he came upon the god, the following fight was one of utter exceptionality.”
The flying ashes came together in the center of his room, forming a tight ball of glowing magnificence. When the sphere bursted, it laid out cascading images of the wicked god and cursed mortal locked in battle. It was amazing just how intricate Bella’s display was.
“It is said their battle took days, and some even claim their bout made Evernoth shrink into the earth. No god came to Crassion’s defense, as none saw it fit to aid the wicked god. Faerthor lost his right eye to Crassion, but in the end, the god's neck was cut, and his head fell from his shoulders. Faerthor… had taken his revenge.”
Vivid images of Crassion’s death filled his room, his severed head a mix of horror and rage. The god's body began to dissipate into dust, which flew about Faerthor, forging marks on his skin which faded into sigils.
“When Faerthor returned to Sylvee, he was heralded by all as a great warrior. The old king Algeron was ill, and without heir, and so he was deposed by his hand and Faerthor was risen in his place. He was a hero to all, the slayer of a wicked god, and the bringer of hope to lost mortals. He remained in the capital until his end days, where his lineage lives on even today…”
The ashes began to fade, closing in on the sight of Faerthor's burial tomb. When the final flickers of the story died, the ashes summoned around the wick of the candle, relighting it.
“... I don't understand…” Ander spoke, not sure of what he felt.
“Crassion was a monster who murdered countless innocent people. He was a beast, and in a way, so was Faerthor. Faerthor came to Crassion’s home, and slayed him. Yet, he’ss remembered as an honorable hero who felled a wicked god of strength… so, what is the truth? Was he a monster, or a hero?”
“I suppose… A hero, maybe?”
“But he wished to kill Crassion, and his death was satisfying for the vengeful king-to-be. How could a hero be so monstrous?”
“...” Ander shifted upon the burlap of his bed. Streams of moonlight split by the crossing patterns of his window fell upon his face. The wavering flame of his bedside candle provided little light, but just enough for him to see Bella’s endearing smile.
“I think I see now.”
“Do you think, or do you know?”
“I know I see now,” he stated, eyeing her with tired eyes. Over the crest of the horizon, there grew the telling signs of dawn. The sunlight hours were not far away. She leaned forward, and eyed him with a knowing glare.
“Lord Crassion was wicked and cruel against mortals, but the Freemans are tenfold worse. What you did tonight will go on to save innocent lives… You’re a hero, not a monster.”
“A hero? No, but… Thank you for helping me see.”
“It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you that,” she huffed, standing up to stretch her arms. She had been with him for a long while now, and the rest of the clan were surely asleep. It was only fair to let her slip away, but the idea of being alone felt so… miserable to Ander. As it always felt.
“We may never be the family you once had, but we’ll always be here for you,” she said as she turned to face the door to his chambers. She reached to grip the cold bronze handle before letting out a, “goodnight.”
“Wait!”
He called to her, in a voice sharp enough to be urgent, but low enough to pass over the ears of his sleeping kin through the walls. She pivoted at once, alerted by the order.
“...Would you stay here, just a little while longer?...”
There was a brief silence between the two. As soon as he spoke, patches of crimson began to creep up his collar. It was a request one would expect of a small child, or of a wimp. He was no child, he was no wimp. He was a killer now, and asking for company while he slept was beyond embarrassing. But he never rescinded the query.
“*Sigh*, I imagine it’ll be morning soon enough,” she shook her head, sitting back down at the chair beside Ander’s bed. “And I am quite tired. I’m sure no harm will come with me lingering a little while longer.”
A smile spread across his lips. The story, with how eerily familiar it was, brought him tides of sorrowful memories. But the woman’s presence seemed to fight them back, back down into the deep pits of his soul. She was a comforting figure, and always the compassionate one of the lot. With the bow of his head, he thanked her one last time, before the two closed their eyes.
But not before Ander recognized something. Something intriguing and familiar. Outside his window, staring down at him from the heavens, was the constellation the Forge of Aranos, steady and vibrant with the red shine of its bleeding stars. It had been a year and one month since he had last seen it, on the Willards’ roof with his sister. In the same year, he had turned sixteen. But that was a secret only held by him; no one else knew.
But most importantly, it had been a year and one month since that terrible night. The night he lost his life. And now, plagued by images of Elara’s beauty, Ander shut his eyes, and tried to catch his rest.
The pain was as fresh as the day he was gifted it, and as bright as the stars of the divine forge.
That night, sleep would never come.