Ren wasn’t sure how long he lay there under the cooling, bleeding body. It wasn’t until he realized his breathing was the only sound he heard that he finally moved, pushing off the stiff corpse.

The blade came free. Ren’s hand just wouldn’t let go. At least it wasn't shaking now.

He knelt over his friend, rolled him over, checking for breathing, for pulse. But Hamsa was as stiff as the body that he’d just crawled out from under. Tears burned his eyes and carved a path through the blood spatter on his cheeks.

He could have saved Hamsa. He’d had the shot. He’d had the shot. He’d had the shot. Why had he missed? Why? Why? Why?

He beat his fists raw on the ground, finally releasing the sword.

Hatred, hot and wild, roiled through his being. Hatred at himself for failing, for being too weak, too cowardly, too pathetic. Hatred at the weakness, the bullies, the ones who made him into this cowering mess with their torments at every turn and in every season of his life. Hatred at fate for being so cruel, so unfair.

Hatred at the bandits.

Why did he hesitate killing men who would have killed him without a thought? Men who killed Hamsa? Men who killed Nadeema?

He stood, swaying.

Picked up the sword again.

Looked at the man who’d killed his friend.

Then he screamed till his voice broke and his hands brought the sword down on the body. Again and again and again. Till it was more of a lumpy puddle than a corpse.

He collapsed to his knees.

Why hadn’t he made the shot? He’d practiced thousands of times. He’d never missed at that range. Not once since he first picked up the bow.

He slapped himself. Hard.

Why not?

He slapped again. So hard his ear rang.

The sting shook him from the haze of horror and shame. These men wouldn’t have come alone. He grabbed his bow and Hamsa’s knife, strapping the latter to his belt, and he ran.

***

The command tent was a smoldering pile of ash. Slain comrades and bandits alike littered the ground.

He stepped in the gaps between limbs and bodies, nearly tripped when a severed head rolled under his ankle. Some were hewn by blades, others looked to have been torn with fangs, still yet more were peppered with crossbow bolts and arrows.

Even the cooks, even the medics.

Ren squashed his horror with anger. It was all he had right now. Anger and his need to find Gunney.

A groan. Ren spun and drew on the sound. Jarreth. The man held pressure on a darkly oozing gut wound where the links of his armor were torn open.

The medical supply cart had been tipped–and looted, from the looks of it–but he managed to find a bottle of alcohol and some bandages.

Clean. Disinfect. Bandage. He mentally ran through the chapter of his medical text book, whispering encouragement to the soldier who hissed at the touch of alcohol. He tried not to remember the statistics on gut wound survival as he packed the wound and wrapped it.

Jarreth passed out by the time he was done. It was all he could do. The man’s arm was pointing out at another body. He approached to see it was gasping with each breath, clutching a bolt in the chest sticking out from her mail armor. Noor.

“You’re going to be okay,” he told her as her wound sucked in air, collapsing her lung. Shit. Leave it in or risk taking it out? He looked around, activated his Silver Fox Meditation.

Sap hanging from a branch. Broken carts. Horses dead or missing.

After a struggle, he managed to pull her chain shirt off without disrupting the impaled object too badly. He coated a patch of bandage thoroughly in the sap, braced a hand on her chest and pulled the arrow free, pressing the dressing over the wound, tight around the edges till it adhered and the sucking sound stopped. Gently, he secured her arm to her body with a bandage wrap, pulled her up, and leaned her against a tree.

“You’re going to be okay, Noor. Stay with me.”

She blinked blearily, but already her breaths looked to be coming easier.

Ren moved on and didn’t find anyone living until he reached the opposite edge of camp. There he found Gunney, the bodies of five bandits spread about him, his bow arm severed just below the elbow, remaining hand clamping a torn piece of blood soaked fabric to the wound, arm held tight to his chest as he leaned against a tree, eyes closed. Breathing.

“Gunney!”

The man opened his eyes and his face warred between a smile and a wince. “Shit, kid. You’re alive. Thank the fucking spirits.”

“Let me see it.” Ren gestured to the wound.

He learned a few more curses as he cleaned the wound and applied a tourniquet and bandage.

“I guess you’re the best archer in the unit now.” Gunney choked on a laugh.

Ren frowned. “What happened?”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The question seemed to bring the lead scout back to his senses. “They took out all the sentries. Tried to get me, too. They must’ve had a hundred men. But I think we took most of ’em with us.” He smiled and fell into another fit of delirious laughter.

Ren slapped him. “Are there more?”

“Maybe… ten still alive?” Gunney’s head started to nod. He was pale. Too pale. “Plus that damn… wolf… they took… Narwalla… Lieutenant…”

Ren shook him, tried to force water down his throat, but stopped when the man choked on it. Fuck. Gunney was either going to live or die, there was nothing more he could do. Same with Noor. Jarreth was probably already dead. Hamsa was...

They were all dead. He was powerless again. He’d frozen. He’d let that bastard run away and caused all this. This was his fault.

No

No No No No No

It was their fault, curse-rotted bandit bastards. The darkness within unfurled, reached out to him. Hungry. Angry. Cold.

I’ll give you power, it seemed to say.

But then his mother’s voice.

You are a gentle soul.

I know you’ll make us proud.

He finally looked at the question that he’d been hiding from. The secret, selfish fear. What if he changed so much that he couldn’t go back? What if the only way to save everyone, to do the right thing, was to break? To become something that could no longer belong in those bright dreams and memories? That could no longer be looked upon by innocent eyes.

Was it the shadow he feared, or himself?

Don’t let blood get on your soul, Garam’s warning

He’d tried everything else. Tried to hold on to his heroism, his ideals. Tried to hold back the darkness in his soul. And this was the cost. He’d give anything to take it all back, to do it all different. But the sands of time only ever flow one direction.

“I’m sorry Mom. I’m sorry Garam.” He looked down at his unconscious friend. “I’m sorry.”

What had he left to lose? What did he fear more than this blood, this helplessness, this pain? How long till it was the bodies of the twins beneath him?

He welcomed the anger, and it surged from the dark corner where he’d kept it chained all these years. And with it, came the serpent’s hissing shadow.

He reached to meet it and was swaddled in a cool embrace.

Vengeance. Blood.

Yesssss.

It poured through him, a calm fury that made his soul tremble. And he let it.

Ren salvaged what he could with cold determination: some rope, water skins, a short sword and baldric, a spear. Knocking free the spearhead, he affixed the bone blade he’d been carrying.

They would pay.

The shadows had grown long and they clung to his skin where they touched him. He was the terror in the night.

They would know fear.

The darkness in his spirit smiled, and he smiled with it.

*****

Kareem awoke to stars and a stabbing pain in his head. He almost choked on the smell of vomit and realized his head was laying in a pool of it. It had almost dried and pulled at his skin as he lifted his head from the ground.

He opened his eyes and the stars were still there. Everything was dark save those dancing lights. Cold, hard stone sapped the heat from his body. His head reeled as he moved. Feeling around, he found three walls of rock and one of wood. A cell?

Memory crashed into him like a wave. Ambush. Fighting. He’d killed three of them.

The wolf.

“I am Kareem Gutari!” he’d roared. “You will pay the cost of my blood with your own.”

Then everything went black.

Captured.

Light flickered through the cracks in the wooden wall, then it pulled open. A door.

The torch sent a fresh spike of pain into his brain and he collapsed again. His head whirled with the sudden movement and he crumpled into a retching ball.

“The lordling is awake,” called the torchbearer. Too loud. Kareem wanted to scream and cry and beg the man to put away the light and lower his voice, but he couldn’t get words past his dry-heaves.

“Come on.” Another voice. Rough hands grabbed each of his arms. “The boss wants to see you.”

They dragged him through a crude stone hallway. A cave?

Then they emerged into a bigger cavern, bedecked with carpets and embroidered cushions. It was all wrong. All out of place. On a raised platform of stone covered by a thick Safric rug, sat a large man, thickly muscled, red silk bandages wrapped around his forehead and down on one side of his face, covering his right eye.

Then Kareem noticed the body manacled to the wall. Commander Narwalla. The metal was a dull silver-grey. Malamite? Where could they have gotten such a thing? It was a controlled substance in Ardus.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” He said. “I hope you are enjoying the magnanimity of my hospitality.”

Kareem’s escort released him and his legs wobbled and gave out.

“Do you have any idea why you are still alive? No? Well let me enlighten you.” The man lifted a goblet and slurped loudly.

Even in his compromised state, Kareem roiled at the poor manners. Damn ingrate.

“I hear from my men that you made a mighty war cry in the fashion of storybooks. Even said your name, didn’t you?” He took another sip. “Imagine our surprise to find one of that bastard’s brood out here of all places.”

Kareem managed to croak out a few words. “You… know my… father?” Light’s blood, his throat was dry.

The man smiled, but there was nothing sweet about it, nothing happy. It could have been a snarl and it might have been less frightening. “Not directly. You see, your father was the one who pushed the contract for the Golden Fang Trading Company through. Wasn’t he?”

“What… do I care.. about that shit?”

“Well you should care, because those- Filthy- Scum-sucking- Rat-fuckers- turned on me and mine. My family, that I built from nothing. They took it all from me. And not just me. King’s-Ear and No-Hair who escorted you used to be my rivals. Now we are all of one purpose.”

“My father… serves the Republic!” The words felt like they ripped his vocal chords on the way out. But he would not stand for slander, even here, even on his knees. Gutari’s had their pride.

“Does he now?” The man exchanged a look with his comrades and laughed. And laughed. And kept laughing till he was gasping for air. “Serving Ardus? Is that why he gave the arms contract to a foreign company run by the- never mind. Clearly the cub is not as sharp as the bull. I suppose, maybe you are innocent of his crimes. But sadly that doesn’t change anything.”

He nodded to his men and they grabbed Kareem again, pressed his right hand down flat on a patch of exposed stone between the rugs. Forced his fingers apart.

One drew a curved dagger, held it in a flaming brazier.

“What are you doing? Stop!” Kareem pushed against the nausea, the fog, the dizziness. Flailed. Tried to kick out only to receive a punch to the kidney.

“Relax, Son of Councilman Gutari. It’s only a finger. Today. Though I suppose it could be more if you don’t hold still. King’s-Ear has been known to be quite clumsy with a blade.”

The man with the knife, who happened to have one abnormally large ear, grinned.

“Please,” Kareem begged. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything. Please don't please don’t please don’t-”

The ugly smiles around him widened. The man on the platform unwrapped his head. Underneath, where his right eye should have been, was a metal plate spanning from his brow to the top of his cheek. “Consider yourself lucky that I’m only taking one today. And don’t worry. We’ll find use for your sudden burst of agreeability. Later. There are some who pay a high price for highborn flesh. For now, there is work to be done.”