“Whenever he had a sword in hand, he was enthralling. He danced and swirled and it was beautiful... I cried when I saw it the first time, for I had never known death and slaughter could be so elegant. I said to myself – I want to paint it.

-Haelio”

* * *

The henchman

“By Viera's tits,” Gerald grumbled, “if this one gives me nothing...”

...I'll keep searching because that's what I'm paid for, he concluded as his anger instantly died. Nothing to complain about, as long as there was silver at the end of the day. Still, his excellency Phiramel was working him hard, making him go through every single apothecary or herbalist in the city.

He glanced at the shop's facade for a second and entered. The old apothecary sized him up, and his frightened eyes betrayed his understanding of the situation – indeed, Gerald wasn't exactly an ordinary customer.

“Hello!” the unordinary customer greeted merrily as he combed his disheveled hair away from his face and gave a smile of sorts, the one he had been practising in order to pick up ladies. Ladies loved smiles, as opposed to whores who preferred silver. As he still had very little in the way of friendly smiles, but possessed a well-supplied purse, for now he comforted himself with whores while dreaming of ladies.

“W-w-what c-can I do f-for you...” the old man muttered weakly, and Gerald knew that his charming smile wasn't there yet. Or perhaps it had to do with his thick beard, his mean brows, and the goddamn sheathed sword dangling from his belt?

Bah, whether they're intimidated or charmed, it's all the same thing. They cough it up more easily.

“Seen any suspicious fellow these past few weeks? One that would buy, say... tons of hemlock, night berries... strychnine, cobra venom... and...” He rummaged through his bag and took out a list, but he didn't feel like reading it out loud for what would have been the twelfth time. “Eh, all manner of snake venom, truly.”

The apothecary stared at him with big eyes, perhaps surprised that the bandit-looking Gerald could read, or perhaps because it described exactly a customer of his. Gerald sniffed something fishy and stepped forward, resting his palms on the counter. The old man glanced sideways, and Gerald couldn't help grinning in satisfaction. Finally.

He slipped a couple of silver coins in the apothecary's hand, and gave him an insisting look.

“Err... W-well... There was a young man asking for such things, recently...”

Gerald's smile widened. “Recently?”

“T-three...” He cleared his throat, but he sounded more like he was choking on his own saliva. “Three days ago, p-perhaps? Actually, he came here several times before, b-but... it was the first time he bought that many poisons.”

“Hmm. What's he like, this young man?”

“He looked... quite young, not older than fifteen I'd say... But tall for his age. Though not as tall as milord here,” he said with an awkward laugh, which abruptly stopped as he noticed Gerald's glare. “Errm... Dark hair, piercing eyes...”

“Good. Anything else?”

“...He had a sword, and wore a red doublet, if I recall. Oh, oh! I remember seeing the Feanir crest on his sheathe.”

Now, now. Interesting. Gerald forcefully grabbed the paling apothecary's hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you for your time.”

He stepped out and walked the streets until he reached the temple. Atop the stairs, servants were cleaning a red-stained floor, probably from that old man's execution that took place this afternoon. Shame I was busy working. Gerald didn't care much for politics, but like everyone else, he enjoyed a good old execution.

He gave one last look at the darkening grey sky before entering. Nasty clouds, it would rain tonight. Inside, he took the stairs and went to the last floor. Little maids and pretty priestesses all stole uneasy glances, but he was used to it. It had gotten worse ever since the chosen had been the target of an assassination attempt, but nobody really ever tried to antagonise him. They must have figured no assassin worthy of the name would walk around while attracting so much attention.

He always gave them his kindest smile, of course.

Gerald arrived at the gardens and knocked on Phiramel's door. A servant came to open him and motioned for him to enter. “What news do you have?” the high-priest immediately inquired.

“Got a description from an old apothecary near the craftsmen guild. He bought everything there was on the list.”

“And?” Phiramel insisted with a tinge of annoyance in his voice.

“Right, err...” Gerald sniffed loudly. “Young man, fifteen at most... Dark hair, red doublet, sword with the Feanir family crest.”

Phiramel's eyes, still fixed on the papers laying atop his desk, widened and immediately shrunk under a worried frown. For a moment, he said nothing, and Gerald simply stood here, waiting for any sort of answer, wondering if he had done something wrong. “Did he act alone, or...” Phiramel mumbled, “is it Leon? No, perhaps on Laurentius' orders...”

“Your excellency?”

“Gerald,” the high-priest said, “gather whatever men you have. Put discreet watchers around the Feanir estate, have the family followed. I want to know where they go, who they speak with, what they eat, even the colour of their shit.”

“As you command, sir.”

“Also,” he kept on, “the man you just described is Astrael, a Feanir squire. Find him. Keep an eye on the gates. If he already left the city, take your best horses and catch up to him.”

“For questioning, sir?” Gerald asked with professional detachment. “Or silencing?”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“I'd like him alive, but kill him if you must.” Phiramel exhaled deeply. “If he resists my orders, that'll be proof enough anyway.”

Dark hair, Feanir squire. Astrael... Then Gerald realised. That's the chosen's bloody brother... He wasn't sure what to think about all this. Gerald had never been one to bother himself with morals and whatnot, especially considering his line of work, but the hero's family? Wouldn't that be like going up against the gods?

But then again, his excellency was the high-priest, a devoted servant of Xito. Surely there was a reason for this. Perhaps Gerald's boss guessed he needed a greater motivation, and so he offered one. “I'll triple your pay for this one,” he said.

Suddenly, Gerald found himself a new god to worship in the marvellous entity that were silver coins. Can't buy things with faith, after all.

He bowed and quickly left the priest's room, found the men he had posted in the temple, and went to search for the rest of his band in an inn. He passed the orders, had subordinates looking for the squire in the temple, sent watchers at the gates, at the Feanir mansion, and made arrangements with some spies to follow Laurentius Feanir and his sons Leon and Timenon.

It didn't take long for reports to arrive. Less than two hours in, he learned that people in the temple had seen the lad going out with luggage and all, that he had gotten a horse from the Feanir stables, and that some dark haired rider with red clothes and a fancy sword had just passed through the southern gates.

“Let's go boys,” Gerald said, getting up and clapping his hands. Five men should be enough. “I want Paulus, Vic, Barric and Don with me. Get some rope, fasten your sword belts and hop on your saddles – we're going on a hunt!”

“Aye, boss!” Paulus cheered and combed his long hair. Barric showed his rotten teeth with a large smile, and the muscular Don grunted.

“The rest of you, you keep watchin' the town and report to me when I get back. Carius, you're in charge in the meantime, and you'll inform his excellency of any development regarding the Feanir family.”

Carius scratched his balding skull and nodded. They mounted and departed for the south. It started to rain, and it would be getting dark real soon. Not the ideal conditions for a hunt, but Gerald and his men had no choice. The target had a head start and they couldn't afford waiting till the skies cleared up, else they'd risk losing him for good.

At the gates, Vic the ginger questioned the guards and confirmed that someone whose appearance corresponded to Astrael's went south. Gerald thought for a bit and studied his mental map of the city-state. Does he mean to follow the river and reach the sea? If he manages to get on a boat and escape, his excellency will have my head...

Fortunately, their horses were a strong breed, and Gerald and his riders were lightly equipped. They should be able to catch up, especially if the squire's horse was burdened with luggage. They rode for what must have been an hour or so, and eventually they left the rocky plains surrounding Callir and followed the forest-surrounded road. This was the one the slavers used to transport their merchandise from Callir to the nearest port. The shortest way, as to avoid tiring the slaves too much and keep them in good physical condition.

Gerald didn't like this road. Ambushes could be easily set up, and if Astrael was aware he was being pursued, he could prove quite dangerous, even alone against five riders.

Thankfully, that didn't seem to be the case – there he was, a shadow riding in the night, and he seemed to be in a hurry. But if they all kept the same pace, they could certainly reach him if he didn't notice them too soon. Gerald spurred his horse forward, and bellowed to his men, “Get him!”

He thought he saw the squire turn his head, and for a moment he feared the target would steer his horse toward the forest and try to escape through it. Chasing someone on horseback in the Callirian forests was bad enough, and with the night and the rain here, Gerald wasn't confident he could capture him.

But strangely enough, the rider seemed to have stopped – the flank of his horse facing Gerald and his men, it looked like he was observing them. What's he doing?

Barric drew steel and pointed his blade toward the squire as he passed Gerald and rode in front of the group. Wanting to scare him a bit, perhaps. And yet he was still here. He took something out from his bag, and half a second was enough for Gerald to understand. “Barri-!” he meant to warn him, but Barric became a flash, flying backward from his horse with a crossbow bolt stuck in his head, before falling and rolling on the mud. “Shit!”

“Fucker,” spat Paulus through clenched teeth. The group didn't stop, Gerald unsheathed his sword and bent forward while his boys did the same. No capturing alive for this one. And now the squire was spurring his horse toward them. You think yourself a bloody jouster, eh?

Gerald took the vanguard as his riders formed an arrow, but he saw the squire aiming at their flank. They passed each other – Gerald swung horizontally, the squire dodged. He heard something slashing behind him, then a crack and a scream, and when he glanced back he saw Paulus on the ground, stuck under his bleeding horse.

“Don,” Gerald hurriedly commanded, “Help him!” He feared that the damn squire would turn back and finish off Paulus while he couldn't move, but he did nothing of the sort. Instead he kept riding away, stopped again, sheathed his sword and spanned his crossbow.

He's playing with us, he realised. Maybe we can use his cockiness and trick him...

“Mercy!” Gerald bellowed, “We just want to talk!” His men stared at him with confused eyes but understood quickly enough what he was trying to do. The rider approached cautiously, crossbow in hand, pointing his small weapon toward them. It looked like it packed power despite the unusual size, and it was attached to his belt, so that after firing he could immediately drop it and wield his sword.

“Leg's probably broken, boss,” he heard from behind, and he simply nodded without looking back. Paulus' groans of pain were enough evidence.

“We'll get you out as soon as we're finished with him,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on the target.

Once the squire was at reasonable distance, enough to be heard speaking through the rain at least, Gerald could clearly see his face. His wet hair were as dark as anyone else's, but there was no mistaking the sharp eyes and the mocking lips.

“Apologies,” Astrael said with a shrug, “I can't spare you much time. Whatever business you think you have with me, I'll make it quick for everyone – either get lost, or die.”

He let himself being surrounded by Gerald's two remaining riders. Is he that confident? The mere thought that Astrael had the skills to back up this arrogance made him shiver. Because from what he had seen, it wasn't far-fetched.

“We don't wanna hurt you,” Gerald said with a welcoming gesture. “Just let us escort you back to Callir. By order of his excellency Phiramel.”

“And if I refuse?” he asked nonchalantly.

He stared at Astrael for a moment. Gerald then glanced at his men and made sure they were ready. He swallowed loudly and gave an awkward smile as he steered his horse slightly to the side in order to have a clear swing on the lad. “...We just bring back your body.”

“Then come at me, you dumb bastards!” he yelled with an eerie smile, and fired his crossbow.

Gerald instinctively threw himself sideways, and the bolt pierced his right arm. He fell in the wet dirt while his horse ran away. Fucking hell... He closed his eyes for a moment, not daring to touch his arm, but forced himself to see again. He had no time to care about his wound. He heard clashing steel and neighing horses all around him, and he got to his feet just in time to watch Vic's horse collapsing, blood flowing from the mount's neck.

Astrael was like a demon – a sentient tornado, Gerald would have said. Quick, accurate, deadly. He pushed back Don with each strike, and Gerald could see the weight behind Astrael's skillful slashes. Yet he was probably not nearly as muscular as Don.

Gerald snapped out of his dizziness, lend a hand to Vic who fortunately hadn't been injured in his fall, and grabbed the sword he had dropped. By the time he looked up, Astrael had already thrusted his blade through Don's heart. He glanced to his remaining two foes, smiled once more, and dismounted.

“Oh, you're left-handed,” he simply stated with a tinge of disappointment in his voice, as he saw Gerald holding his weapon with ease in his left hand. The bastard must have assumed that a wounded right arm would be enough to incapacitate him.

Vic closed in and began with an overhead slash, and kept pressuring Astrael while Gerald tried to sneak up behind him. But he seemed perfectly aware of their tactics, and with nimble footwork, managed to always have Vic standing between them. There wasn't a split second during which he wasn't in control of the fight.

Damn it all, Gerald thought before attempting a careless charge as Vic was forced to take several steps back. He landed a swing on Astrael's sword, but with only one hand it felt like it had no power to it. Astrael parried effortlessly and dodged Vic's attack. Then immediately kicked Gerald in the nuts so hard he fell to his knees, while he slashed at Vic at the same time. The blade caught the ginger on the hand and made him drop his weapon. Three fingers fell in the mud, blood pissing from the knuckles. Astrael thrusted, fast as lightning, and Vic collapsed on the ground, gurgling and clawing at his throat.

Gerald raised a weak guard, but Astrael sent his sword flying away with a swing of his own. As the squire buried his blade in his stomach, Gerald felt the tears flowing and his gritted teeth shattering. He saw Astrael's face up close – his mouth wasn't smiling anymore, nor were his eyes.

Cold eyes, that was all. As cold as the air that Gerald breathed with difficulty. Cold grey eyes that echoed his shivering limbs, the icy rain on his nape, running under his clothes, the freezing mud covering his knees, the sharp steel slicing his flesh once more as the sword was taken out of him, and the biting pain... The pain, the pain, the pain. Now he was laying in the dirt, and could only watch silently as Astrael put the injured horses out of their misery, before nearing Paulus, who had been watching from afar all along, powerless. Paulus begged, implored, vainly punched his dead horse, and finally screamed right before the squire slit his throat.

Gerald no longer cared. He only wanted to sleep. Now he couldn't see anymore... But when he heard Astrael's footsteps approaching, he couldn't resist letting out his bitterness.

“You'll hang...” he muttered in a weak voice, tasting the blood in his mouth. “We know your face, your name... You'll be hunted down...”

“Hmm. I better change my name, then.”

Gerald heard the sound of a sword cutting through the air, then nothing.