Amara
"Help! Someone help me, please!"
Alexander Amon had been roused from his evening duty as night watchman by the sound of a girl crying out for someone to save her. No doubt this was his time to shine. He straightened his steel cap, buttoned up his leather gambeson, pulled up his pants and exited the outhouse on the edge of the sleepy town of Milport with more gumption than he’d ever displayed in his twenty years on the job. He followed the sounds, and the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps against the rainfall.
"Help!" the child screamed again. "Oh, by Amarata, help!"
Alexander quickened his pace, quitting his post as the captain of the Eastern watch-tower and following the sounds of the girl as they ran through the thickets and brambles that obscured the outskirts of the quiet village. Normally, he wouldn’t bother. Normally he’d be asleep by now. But with tales of a wandering murderer kicking around and all the talks about disappearances this past week, he knew this was his moment. This was clearly the work of the murderer on the hunt again, only this time he’d messed up. Even a second-rate bandit knew that you muffled your captive before fleeing with them – especially if they were children.
He followed the sounds till he approached old Heathcliff’s barn on the edge of the forest just outside of town, hemmed in by trees. Old Heath kept himself to himself, and wasn’t ever interested in town politics. Come to think of it – no one had seen him in the market square these last few days. Could it be…
Noble Alexander drew his guardsman’s cudgel and braced himself as he approached the barn door in a crouching stance, as per his training. He wasn’t no lowly peasant. This time, the murderer had messed with the wrong guardsman.
"AHHHHH!" a child wailed from within the barn. "No! Get away! Get away! Please stop!"
That was all Alexander needed to hear. Without a moment’s hesitation he slammed into the door of the barn and aimed his cudgel at the form that was sitting there in the hay, legs crossed in what looked like some kind of meditative position.
"Milport town guard!" he barked. "Give it up, Heath. Come quietly and you can have a fair trial and all that."
He wiped his nose. The cold was getting to him. But after this case was solved, he’d have a warm hearth and enough booze to fill his belly, along with the admiration of the town. He’d be set for life.
"Nice and easy, Heath," he grunted as he edged closer, seeing the blood that had dried up on the hay bales all around him. Looks like ol’ Heath had started cutting up his own animals. Crazy bugger.
He was now mere inches from the body and was starting to realize something was wrong here. Heathcliff was clothed, but the plaid farmer’s shirt hung loosely from his old thin bones – and as he moved ever closer Alexander noticed that this was no exaggeration.
What he was looking at was the charred remains of Heathcliff’s body – skin burnt to a crisp and shriveled away to nothing. Bone exposing itself through the neck.
He turned the body round and saw nothing but an eyeless black skull staring up at him, which quickly crumbled to dust as he fell and knocked the corpse over.
Alexander shivered with uncontrollable fear. And only then did he realize that the barn door was being closed behind him.
"You look cold," a voice said at his back. "Let me help you with that."
When it was over Amara looked down at Alexander’s smoking body and the remains of the old man she’d killed in his sleep last week. She’d been staying comfortably in his barn since his demise. But now that she’d burned a guard up, she knew the town would realize she was here soon enough.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
She looked at her hands and clenched them quickly.
GLANCE: 9/25
She had gotten used to just how much of the flame to let out before she’d be spent. It wasn’t enough, she thought. To have all the power in the world but be limited by some unknown force that she could only vaguely keep track of was frustrating beyond belief. All she knew was that rest would recover her strength – normally for eight hours or more.
You’re catching on, honey, the Voice whispered to her gently. But why did you kill this man?
Amara searched around his waist to confirm what her Appraisal had told her and – yes! – there it was: a little brown coinpurse tied up with loose string.
"This one keeps his wages with him," she said aloud. "Idiot."
Within her chest she felt the pleasurable impulse of laughter rising. Not from herself – she knew that’s just how it felt when the Voice was amused.
Very good, dear, it said. Very good, indeed.
She placed the coin purse in her leather leg-guards she’d bought at the Tanner’s two days ago on one of her jaunts to the village marketplace. On the way back, she’d drawn the attention of a few boys who meandered around there looking for various girls to pursue, sent by their lazy mothers to buy fresh produce for the day. She knew they were looking at her, but they took one look at her eyes and dared not approach. She liked that.
This one though, she thought as she looked down at the hollowed-out skull of the guardsman. He just was stupid.
He was just like the rest of those boys when they grow up: pumped up with adrenaline and filled with aspirations of adventure and riches, of slaying dragons and hoarding gold in their Keeps for the rest of their lives, surrounded by beautiful maidens. Once, in town, she’d seen a puppet show where a knight slew a fire breathing dragon and took its head as a prize for his princess bride. She’d almost cried. To viciously slaughter a creature of living, breathing flame itself was one thing. To present it as a trophy to win the heart of some braindead girl was another.
She pulled out her map and considered her options. It was a tatty, sweaty thing. One of the first things she’d bought when she’d ventured out from her home with nothing but that slaver-cat’s cloak on her back. She’d stolen from butchers and bakers at first as she made her way across this land called ‘Averix’, but eventually realized that caused more trouble than it was worth. People didn’t take kindly to thieves. But what they swooned for was little girls who cried in the dark and wanted a hero to come save them. It was so easy to exploit that. Like the Voice said – people were idiots when it came to children. And really, idiots deserved to die.
Looking at the map, she knew only what the Voice had helped her understand. The letters that meant things when you put them all together – the names of the villages (the one she was in, Milport, was marked with a piece of charcoal), the mountains, the key landmarks – places to avoid and places where she could buy stuff. The last two years of almost constant travel hadn’t been easy, but like the Voice said – you couldn’t have progress without pain.
And you’re not that little girl you were before, the Voice broke in. Now, you can take care of yourself. You know how to survive. But know this: you still have a lot to learn before you are ready to become even stronger.
Her eyes glanced over the big letters she’d written at the very North part of the map – the big circle that she’d traced round with her finger on many a sleepless night, or those times when she woke up in a cold sweat, thinking her father was coming for her. It was comforting, somehow, to see those letters, to know that there was a goal she had to reach:
The Everloft.
She was close. Closer than she’d ever been before. The Voice had guided her to those places she needed to go – where there were sights, it said, she had to see. The Voice said that the world was a harsh teacher, but it was best to see things for what they were, rather than simply be told about it.
"How much longer?" She asked, straightening out her hair and flexing her fingers, letting them trace the sacred word again.
Soon child, soon, the Voice replied. I know you’re impatient. But you must trust me.
"I know, mum, I do," she whispered.
She had decided to give the Voice that name soon after she’d set out on her quest. She knew it was her mother talking to her. Who else would have come to help her realize that all along she had the power within her to save herself from her father? Who else but the woman who had always loved her no matter what. She never did know her, and her only memory she did have was this small, soothing feeling of what her voice sounded like. It made her feel good, just like the speaker in her head did now. So, she knew that it was her, living inside her. The Voice made her feel just like she did. Every time it spoke it was like her mother was hugging her close and telling her how proud of her she was.
"Where do I have to go next?" she asked, counting out the stupid guard’s money.
North, the Voice replied. You must find a place called Yarruck.
"North?" Amara exclaimed with excitement, looking for Yarruck on the map. "You mean..?"
Yes, dear, the Voice said. The end of your journey is coming. And your new life shall soon begin.