Arc 21: Three to Go
“When you take a life – when you kill – it changes the way you see other people. You know how fragile they are now; how easy it would be to reach out and just...
Some people, it makes better. It makes other worse. You don't know which you'll be until it happens.”
- Baran Mondari, Commander, 51st Galmash Infantry (Ret.)
- - -
A day and night pass before the Windrunners notice that one of them is missing.
They don't handle it well.
“Where?! Is?! He?!”
The words echo in the tense, terrified silence, punctuated by the dry, splintery snap of woven wicker breaking under stomping boots. Dark, deep-set eyes shine with a malicious glee, gleaming from a face flushed with anger, as the crowd flinches with every grinding twist of his boot heel. His tattoo crawls up the side of his thick neck, the curls of wind hidden in the lice-ridden mat of his beard. He is the largest and loudest of them, the other two stood silent nearby.
They face the crowd with weapons in hand. One, thick-armed and sullen-eyed, lets a knotted club swing loosely in her hand. Her tattoo is in plain view on the back of her hand. The other, rangy and stoic-faced, holds a loaded crossbow. His is not. They're stood between him and the crowd, coddling the large one while he throws his tantrum. With a phlegm-flecked screech, he tips a stall over. It crashes deafeningly to the ground, pulling a startled scream from someone, somewhere.
I can't see who. It's hard to look away from the point of that crossbow bolt, glinting in the afternoon sunlight. It's harder still not to see it punched through Juliana's chest, dripping blood.
Sweat shines on the large Windrunner's broad, flat face. He hawks and spits on the sundered pile, booting loose timbers from his path with what he must imagine are powerful, commanding kicks. They more closely resemble a child's outraged stomping. He poses; arms crossed, chin lifted, mouth set in a sneer. “One of – you –,” he casts his eyes over his audience. “knows where he is! One of – you – did something! You saw something!”
He stops here, as if in expectation of being answered. He is not. Few dare even look at him. The smith, the one I followed to his home, does. He glares back, fury held in every tense line of him.
The Windrunner notices it. He's offended by it. His dark, deep-set eyes narrow, sneer curling to a snarl. He plans retribution for it, cruel and violent. “You,” he points, “you know something. You saw it, didn't you? Tell me.”
The smith says nothing. He could say much. My encountering Connall happened in front of his house. I grab the hilt of his knife, of my knife, where it is belted to my hip. He could spare himself whatever bloody, painful doom approached him. All he has to do is speak; and speak he does, growling through gritted teeth, “If he's anything like you, he got what he deserved.”
There is a moment where no one breathes, where I strangle the hilt of my knife, and where dark, deep-set eyes go wide and round with shock and affront. The Windrunner charges the smith, flushed face twisted with rage and gaping, phlegm-flecked mouth screeching. The sullen-eyed woman follows behind. Her rangy fellow does not. He keeps his crossbow pointed at the crowd, holding them in place while the other two punish the smith for his defiance.
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The smith is broad, his arms thicker than the woman's. His anger is in every line of him. He could fight. He might win. Instead, he stands still as the large Windrunner's thick, short-fingered hands grab his shirt and tries only to pull away before the woman smashes the club into the side of his face. The sound it makes is like the baskets breaking: a dry, splintery snap!
His head jerks to the side, blood blooming, bright and red, on his skin. She strikes him again, and again, and again. When he shields his face, she hits his sides and his stomach. When he curls up, she hits his back. She drives him to the ground, hitting and hitting and hitting. The large Windrunner watches, gleeful. The rangy one watches, careful.
No one does anything. The knotted club rises and falls, a gleeful smile widens and deeps, and no one does anything. There are at least a dozen people here, myself included. Any six of us could end this, but none do. It's fear that holds us still. For them, it's fear that they'll suffer the smith's fate or worse, be made to watch someone they love suffer it.
For myself, it's fear of the crossbow. It's fear of the sharp point of its bolt, glinting in the afternoon sunlight, and the memory of Juliana's dying eyes. The knotted club rises and falls. A gleeful smile widens and deepens. No one does anything.
- - -
The beating comes to an end, the smith silent and bloodied on the ground. The sullen-eyed woman kicks him a final time before stepping back, harsh breaths hissing through her nose. She swipes the sweat from her brow as the large Windrunner imperiously sweeps his chin from side-to-side, deep-set eyes glittering with satisfaction. He got what he wanted.
“One o' you knows,” he declares, “an' we're gonna find you; s'only a matter o' time 'fore we do. What we did t' this mouthy bastard's gonna be – nothin' – compared t' what we do t' you, I promise you that, I – promise – you – that.” The smith groans. The Windrunner kicks him, then smiles cruelly at everyone else. “We'll be seein' you.”
Then they leave, sweeping out of the center square without looking back. A sharp bark of their distant laughter shatters the stillness. It leaves the quiet intact. The dozen or so people, myself excluded, hurry to leave. Friends and neighbors, people who've known each other for years, now look from the corners of their eyes and wonder; Is it them? Did they do it? Is this their fault?
It's not. My fingers ache. I realize I'm still strangling the hilt of my knife and force my fingers to relax, curling them until the ache fades. I killed Connall. I buried his corpse in the woods, at the base of a gnarled tree. If there is any fault left after the Windrunners are given their due, it goes to me.
The smith pushes up onto an elbow, spits a mouthful of bloody phlegm, and groans. His face is a garden of bruise-blooms, cuts on his brow, cheek, and scalp weep red, and one of his eyes is swelling shut. He flinches when my shadow falls over him. Squints up at me with his one working eye. I kneel beside him, cobble-stone digging into my knees. He tenses but relaxes after moments pass and I don't start hitting him.
“Can you stand?” I ask.
He considers it. “Prob'ly not.” He tries sitting up. It goes so poorly that he ends up flat on his back. “Ow. Definitely not.” Groans again. “Bitch broke my ribs.”
Guilt lashes me, spills from my tongue. “I'm sorry.”
He grunts. His cuts bleed, streams of red flowing over his bruise-garden skin. “Thanks.”
My eyes track over the length of him as he lay there. I don't know how to fix broken ribs. I don't know if the pain they're causing is hiding something worse. “Why'd you do that? Why'd you provoke them?”
He opens his good eye, the other now fully swollen shut. He knows me. Recognizes me. It's there, plain as day, in the depths of that bleary green eye. “Why'd – ” he coughs. Winces. “ow – why'd you?”
“I...” I clear my throat, drag my whispered answer past knot and thorn. “I hate them. I – I hate them all.”
“Why?”
The knot returns, guilt and anger and hatred. This time, I swallow it. “They killed someone I cared for, someone I – I loved.”
Something too small and sad to be named twists his mouth. “They do that, don't they?”
“They do,” I answer, quiet and hoarse. My eyes sting. I blink until they stop. I sniffle. “If – if I helped you up, do you think you could walk?”
“Definitely,” he says, then lifts his hands.
I take them, wrap my fingers around his wrists, and pull him to sitting. From there, I duck under his shoulder and lift until he can get his knees beneath him. The pain of his broken ribs stops us there for a moment. He pants and gasps while it fades, sweat mixing with blood on his skin.
“Ready?” I ask.
He nods. “Ready.”
With a massive heave of effort, we get him standing. He groans and curses and leans heavily into me. We stagger, but we hold. One step at a time, we leave the shattered center square of Amberdusk town. One by one, we get closer to our goal.
The rangy one, I decide, with the crossbow. He's next.