A loud thump startled him awake.
Luric’s body reacted instinctively to the sound, curling up into a ball with both arms raised to shield his head from more blows. It took him a moment to realize he was still alone. No one had come to get him yet. A shaky sigh escaped his chapped lips, partly because of relief, partly because of anguish. He had barely woken up and already he was on the brink of tears again. But he was hurting all over, he was cold, he was hungry, and so, so scared.
They can’t do this, he thought pathetically.
There was some commotion coming from upstairs, people talking animatedly, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Though that might’ve been for the best. He didn’t want to hear what they planned on doing to him.
Luric sat up slowly, mindful of his broken ribs, and started to look around the room again. He had done so ever since they had locked him up down here, inspecting every nook and cranny of the cellar, turning over every object within his reach in hopes he could find something – anything- that could help him. If he didn’t come up with something soon-
I’m going to die.
It took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from dissolving into a wailing, trembling mess. He had to stay calm and make use of every second he had left until they came for him. He had to think of a plan. But nothing had changed since he had fallen asleep. Luric’s mind still drew a blank while his eyes searched the room from corner to corner.
There was nothing in here that he could use; just an old, rotten stand with shelves full of nothing but cracked and empty pottery, a bunch of moldy, wooden boards thrown haphazardly in one corner, and large wine casks that he couldn’t open and were too heavy to lift.
The only remotely useful thing he had found was a rusty hammer, but his enthusiasm swiftly dropped when it became clear that he had no way of holding it. They hadn’t been content with only shackles around his wrists, so they stuffed his hands inside a thick leather bag filled with linen bathed in holy water. To keep him from sprouting claws, they said. He didn’t even know how to do that. Same with his teeth. Priest Santr had taken another piece of cloth, drenched it in holy water, and shoved it so far down his throat he was afraid he was going to throw up and then suffocate. To keep his fangs from growing back, they said. He didn’t know how to do that either.
Then they had tied his mouth to keep the cloth there and thrown him in the prayhouse's cellar. But not before giving him another beating. The priest had been against it, but only because he was afraid the men - his assailants - could catch something by touching him. Apparently, he was also contagious, and could leave them cursed. Luric wished he knew how to do that.
There was one more item down here with him, but he didn’t even consider going near it. Couldn’t even bring himself to look at it properly. He didn’t want to see the stern, condemning eyes stare back at him. The painting was obviously very old, with the colors having faded away for the most part, but the figures depicted there would still be immediately recognizable to any Alcsenian. Sitting on his throne and judging silently was Protector Baar, with the young Suin on his right, and wise old Meherth on his left. He knew this image better than the back of his hand; it was found in almost every book at school, on icons in every household in Runrick, on all four walls of their prayhouse. This image used to be so commonplace, a constant presence as familiar as it was frequent. All his life, grown-ups had told him that when in need, to look towards Protector Baar for guidance, towards Suin for courage, and Meherth for wisdom. Now they told him that he had no right to do so; no right to ask for protection because he was something the Three Great Men protected real people from. Lord Baar wasn’t his protector, not anymore. He was his executioner.
The voices were clearer now, closer, accompanied by the sound of heavy, stomping footsteps growing louder and louder. They were coming for him.
Panicking, Luric looked once more around the room and made a decision. He quickly approached the stand, found the largest, heaviest vase, held it between his forearms, lifted it up, and smashed it against the floor. He then examined the broken pieces of ceramic and chose the sharpest fragment he could find. He maneuvered it with his feet, holding it up with the blunter side pointing towards him, and pushed it against the thick leather bag tied around his hands. He pushed lightly, trying not to have the piece break apart even more, until he could feel the intrusion through the thick materials, and had his fingers clamp around it as hard as he could to keep it steady. The sharp, pointy edge sticking outward.
The wave of relief he felt at this tiny accomplishment was abruptly cut short with the resounding clank of the cellar door being unlocked.
Luric’s first thought was to hide, but his only options were to either huddle behind the wooden stand or crouch between the casks. And he knew it would be pointless, because the entry was well above the basement floor, atop of a staircase, giving them a good view of the entire room. It would be foolish to think that they wouldn’t be able to spot him easily in a few seconds, and those extra seconds would serve no purpose other than to anger them even more. No, the only measly chance he had was to take them by surprise, which meant not retreating, as they probably expected him to, but attacking.
He ran up the stairs and went right to the door. He kneeled so he wouldn’t immediately be in their line of sight. Luric knew he wasn’t being fueled by courage, but by fear and desperation. And anger. He hadn’t paid attention to it before, - too much pain and grief stifling everything else- but it was there. With each shaky breath he took he became more and more aware of it, and the harder he focused on the jagged end of the shard sticking out of the leather bag, the hotter it burned inside his chest. He tightened his hands even more, making sure his hold was firm, so that he could deliver a proper thrust.
He briefly wondered who it was going to be. Was it Piltrim that was unlocking the door? He had been the one with the key last time. He had stood quietly by the side as the others beat him, before locking him up. He hoped it was Baliger. That hideous man had been the most eager with the thrashing, not even caring what the priest had said about potentially catching a curse. Lurichad heard people say Baliger was not right in the head, and now Luric got to see – and feel – the depths of his depravity up close. Why was he not down here, tied up? The man had actuallyenjoyed beating the shit out of Luric when they caught him. Had even tried to convince everyone to hand Luric over to him, so that he’d gut him open, like he did with his pigs before winter. Yes, he hoped it was Baliger.
Whoever it ended up being, they would have to use both hands to push the heavy door open, which left the stomach an easy target. If he could manage to wound the first person enough so that they’d fall over and cause the others to jump back in fear at the sight of him, then he could try to make a run for it before they’d get their bearings. He was lucky they hadn’t thought to tie his legs as well. He’d always been a good runner; he was one of the faster kids in Runrick and even wounded, he doubted there were any adults that could keep up with him at full speed. He only had to reach the woods before they caught him; no one would follow him in there so close to nightfall. Not anymore.
They were taking their time, talking nervously among themselves. He could understand them now. Baliger was there; he was trying to convince them to let him have few minutes alone with Luric. Piltrim and Suisel were there too, arguing fervently against it. Were there only three this time? Suddenly all of them went silent. He heard light footsteps come to a halt. Someone else had joined them.
“Our apologies, Sir, we didn’t mean to take so long. We’ll get’im right out,” he heard Piltrim say with a trembling voice. But to whom? It couldn’t be the priest, because Piltrim didn’t call him ‘Sir’? Was it the Chief? No, Chief Slatrim wouldn’t have been so quiet.
There was a creak as the door finally began to move.
It was Piltrim pushing it.
His right arm came into view as the amber light from the torch behind him started spilling into the room and around Luric. He was sitting in Piltrim’s shadow, so he didn’t get spotted right away. He had to make his move before Piltrim’s eyes could adjust to the darkness, but just as he started to tense his legs, Piltrim got grabbed by an arm and shoved to the side.
Storming inside now was Baliger. He was the one holding the torch, so when he entered, the entire platform Luric was on lit up.
“Where are ya, ya little-”
And then Baliger saw him. In that split second Luric noticed Baliger’s expression change from fury to surprise, and he understood he had to act before it settled on comprehension. There was something else Luric noticed; one hand was busy with the torch, the other still pushing Piltrimbehind him. His entire stomach wide open.
Perfect.
He lunged.
Luric forced every muscle in his lower body and propelled himself forward, arms stretched in front of him and pointed directly at Baliger’s big, fat belly. Despite everything, he closed his eyes as he heard Baliger’s grunt of shock turn into a scream. He didn’t feel the shard go in, but it must have, because Baliger stumbled backwards and fell to the ground holding his stomach. There was a brief flash of white as the torch got whipped around and then dropped to the floor, shadows twisting and convulsing along the walls of the hallway and then freezing still in long, dark strokes when it stopped rolling.
As he had hoped, Piltrim and Suisel glued their backs to the wall to get as far away from him as possible. With the poor lighting they probably thought that he had managed to get his restraints off and had attacked using his claws or something. He had to move before they realized he was completely defenseless now. The shard had shattered to pieces when he stabbed Baliger with it. He could only pray enough of it got lodged in Baliger’s flesh to keep him writhing on the floor.
There was a figure standing in the middle of the hall a little further away, the light not quite reaching them. The mystery person. And they didn’t seem at all shaken by what had just happened before them, giving no sign of whether they intended to withdraw or come at him. Which meant Luric would have to push past them to get out. It was risky, but he had no choice.
Luric sprinted, rushing straight towards the figure. If he could gain enough momentum he might be able to intimidate the person into moving out of his way, or he could trick them into thinking he was about to ram into them, and then, at the last second, plunge into the space between them and the wall. He’d decide when he got there.
Not even four steps into his run he felt something grab his ankle, making him lose his footing, and fall face-first to the hard floor. When he turned to look behind him he saw Baliger’s face grimace back at him.
Kick it! he immediately thought. Kick his fucking teeth in!
Luric drew his right knee up, prepared to punt the ugly bastard right in the nose, but Baligerraised his other arm and grabbed his right leg too. He tried to wrench himself free, only Baliger’shold was firm and painful. Without letting go, Baliger got up on his knees, grunting and swearing, then dragged Luric’s body underneath him. There was no blood on his tunic. The stab had done no real damage.
I should’ve gone for his throat!
Baliger braced one large hand against Luric’s neck, not really tightening, but letting his entire weight push down on his windpipe. Luric looked up at him, trying desperately to hit Baliger’sface, his neck, his armpit, any soft, vulnerable place he could reach, but with the thick leather bag constricting his movement the only thing he could manage were weak, dull punches against his chest that resonated pathetically in the hall. The right side of Baliger’s face was glowing from the light of the discarded torch, blotches of red marring his cheeks and forehead. He was staring down at him like a mad man, eyes large with fury, the whites visible even in the darkness. He curled his lips back in a fierce snarl, revealing his crooked, broken teeth. Luric had seen drawings of demons before, and none had come close to what was before him now.
I’m supposed to be something worse than this?
“Ya think ya so smart, ya little shit!? Think ya got me, huh!?” Baliger growled.
Luric had been so focused on Baliger’s face that he hadn’t notice the fist looming above it until it hit and smashed his head against the floor. There was no pain at first; the punch hadn’t made him lose consciousness, but it must’ve have knocked his senses out of whack because for a few moments white was all he saw, heard, and felt. But the pain inevitably came, and the lack of air made him see everything through a thick haze he just couldn’t shake off. He was about to pass out.
Maybe it was better this way. If there was no longer a way for him to escape, then maybe he should at least not be awake when they killed him. He could just silently slip away into the darkness now, instead of kicking, screaming and crying at his captors. He wouldn’t have to see them drag him around the square, all of them mumbling, judging and rejoicing as they witnessed his death. People he’d grown up around. Who he’d known all his life. Who he had talked with, shared meals with, and had done chores for in order to get them to like him a little. They hadn’t been forgiving to his kind Mrs. Carshtin, so Luric should not expect any mercy for him. The townsfolk had always been mistrustful of him; the strange, sickly looking orphan that lived at school. And now they finally found their reason to get rid of him.
No, he wanted to be awake. Through all of it. To watch them as they watched him die. And if there really was something in him that could leave behind a curse, then he hoped with every fiber of his being that it was listening, because Luric wished them all the misery and heartache in the world. It was only fair.
He started struggling again, and put the last remnants of his strength and energy into thumping his fists against Baliger’s face. One black eye, that was all he was asking for. But his feeble flailing only pissed off Baliger even more, and his face somehow managed to distort further into grotesque fury. He raised his fist to strike Luric again, and this time Luric knew - knew from the way Baliger coiled his arm all the way back, to the way he balled up his hand so tightly that he could practically hear his skin creak, to the way he was shaking with anticipation - that he wasn’t going to survive this. Even if the force of this punch wasn’t going to splatter his brains all over the floor, Baliger was going to hit and hit until there would be nothing left of his head. He had seen what this man did with his pigs.
So much for cursing them to their faces. He wished he could do it from here, but right now he couldn’t even scrunch up enough malice to wish frog warts on them, because what he felt as he stared up at the large, fat fist that was about to end him was tired, defeated and sad.
He saw the fist twitch, and Luric closed his eyes.
Please, just let one be enough!
But the hit never came.
Luric felt Baliger’s body shake, and go suddenly still. He heard him give a disgruntled cry.
“Wha -?”
Luric opened his eyes. Above him he saw Baliger’s upper body twisted upwards, no longer facing him, head turned to look up at … a man. A man Luric didn’t recognize, but then again, he couldn’t get a good look at him from his position. He was standing right next to his head and towering over Baliger, who was blocking most of his view of the stranger. The figure from before?
Luric gazed up along the line of the long, black coat of the man, all the way up to his shoulders where his dark shape blended with the shadows on the ceiling. He followed it to the black-clad arm that had sprouted from his coat and was now gripping Baliger’s fist and keeping it in place.
A harsh, hoarse voice spoke.“What do you think you’re doing?”
Before Baliger could answer, another arm shot out, grabbed Baliger by the back of his tunic, hauled him up and tossed him out view so suddenly it took a moment for Luric to register the change in scenery. He barely had time to appreciate being able to breathe again, before the man turned and bend over him. He was now staring at an unfamiliar long, pale, hollow cheeked face scowling down at him.
The man gave him a brief one over as if to assess the damage and then spoke again, just as harshly. “You’ll live.”
He saw an open palm descend on him and Luric closed his eyes again, but all he felt was the stranger’s fingers close around the front of shirt, grabbing a handful, and then hoist him up on his feet. From the corner of his eyes he caught Baliger’s form crumbled on the ground, staring bewilderingly up at them.
“Can you walk?” the man asked.
Luric didn’t know; he couldn’t test the strength in his own legs because the stranger was still holding him up by the shirt, so high that his toes were barely touching the ground. Even slightly bent as he was now, the man still looked about twice Luric’s size, and Luric wasn’t short for his age. All he could do was stare at him, too afraid to move.
The man’s frown deepened as he then lowered his head to have a better look at Luric’s face. He groaned at the sight of the gag, and with one fast, sudden movement ripped it off. But Luric still couldn’t talk; the cloth had been lodged so tightly and so far down his throat he wouldn’t be able to get it out without the use of his hands. The stranger looked at him again, sneered, and shoved his fingers in Luric’s mouth to take out the material. As he felt it slide out he heard Piltrim’spanicked words. “Sir! You sh-shouldn’t!”
“Shouldn’t what?” came the gruff response. The man held the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, and looked at it in disgust. “What is this?”
A second of confused silence and then Piltrim spoke again “Priest Santr said it was to keep‘imfrom turning.”
“And how in the fuck is a scrap of cloth supposed to do that?”
“It had holy water, Sir.”
The man shook his head and casually threw the piece of cloth at Piltrim, who recoiled as if burned.
“Backwater morons,” he heard the man grumble. And then all his attention was back on Luric. “Can you talk, boy?”
Luric had been coughing and massaging his sore jaw, not sure if he could still feel and move his tongue, so all he could manage at that moment for an answer was “Ah-uh…”
The stranger just shrugged. “Good enough.” And then grabbed him by the scruff roughlyandstarted pushing him.
Luric was so dizzy he couldn’t tell which direction they were heading. Did the man plan on throwing him back in the cellar? Everything was going by in a dark blur, and if it hadn’t been for the hold on his neck he probably would’ve tumbled over. Hurried steps along the hallway, up a short flight of stairs quickly, a shove, and then daylight hit him in the face.
After two days of darkness, even the gentle late afternoon sunlight illuminating the nave of the prayhouse was enough to hurt Luric’s eyes, and he needed a few seconds to clear his sight.
The first thing he noticed after he blinked the tears away was that the house was full of people, and everyone was staring at him. The second thing the noticed was that the crowd was very distinctly split into two groups. On the right side, standing almost in a huddle towards the center of the prayhouse and gaping horrified at him were the townsfolk. On the left, closer to the entrance, were several other strange men, all dressed with the same black cloak the man behind was wearing. The third thing he noticed was…..
Blue.
A brilliant, bright blue, such as he had never seen before in all his life. Not on the petals of field flowers, not on expensive paintings in the merchants’ houses. He was so taken aback by the intensity of the color that at first, he didn’t even realize what it was that he was looking at. Or who he was looking at.
The color belonged to a long mantle that was hanging off of the shoulders of a tall, slim figure. On top of those shoulders glimmered a crown of golden locks brought up in a fancy-looking bun like he’d seen in pictures of city ladies. Girls around here sometimes tried to imitate the style, but to him they always looked as if they were wearing nesting hens on their heads. Nothing like the neat, dignified twirl of clean, glistening tresses he was seeing now. The woman had her back to them, and she seemed to be studying the chipped-off murals on the wall in front of her.
The man behind him spoke. “I brought him, my lady.”
The woman - no, lady - finally turned. She wasn’t young - well past marrying age - but she was still the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Two long ringlets of hair were flowing down her temple and brushing against pale, defined cheekbones. Her features were sharp, but there was a delicateness to them that somehow made her seem both dainty as well as imposing. She had a long, straight nose, and her brow was decorated with thin, arched eyebrows. Her chin was pointy and slightly protruding forward, and her lips were a peach colored line that was barely visible on her otherwise ghostly white skin. But her eyes were large and round, soft with kindness and understanding when she looked at him.
That, most of all, shook Luric to the very core, and for some reason, felt the need to latch onto her like a lifeline. But he didn’t know her. He didn’t know any of these people. The only people he knew were the ones on the right side of the room, and they all wanted him dead. Who were they? What was going on?
The woman tooks a few steps towards him, but stopped when Chief Slatrim’s voice blared through the room.
“Careful, m’lady! We roughed’im up well, but he may still be dangerous.” He extracted himself from the group of cowering people reluctantly, but mindful not to get too close to either the lady or Luric.
Without taking her eyes of him, the lady answered the magistrate. “Yes, I can see you did quite a number on this poor boy.”
“This ain’t no poor boy, m’lady. It’s the demon child we told you about. Shulffa’s fuckin’ spawn, right here in our town. Pardon my language.”
She did turn to look at him at that. Not just at Chief Slatrim, but at all of them. And then she turned back to Luric for a brief second, before raising her eyes to address the man standing behind him in a stern, commanding voice. “Take off the shackles.”
Shocked murmurs broke out among the townsfolk, men, women and children shifting frantically and looking at each other in worry. Chief spoke again.
“I-is that wise, my lady?”
“Fear not. These gentlemen I have with me are the most experienced warriors when it comes to dealing with a Blighted.”
“Blighted?”
She turned back to the magistrate, and smiled at him. Coldly. Luric couldn’t help but feel that she was subtlety mocking him.
“It’s what people like him are called in our profession.”
“But - I don’t understand. He ain’t people. That’s a monster.”
The lady just stared at him quietly until Chief Slatrim started to look uncomfortable and averted his gaze, as if he was ashamed of something.
Slatrim had been town magistrate since long before Luric had been born. A single-minded and inflexible old man that held the entire town in his firm grip. He was unusually short and skinny for a north-born, with ashen skin that reminded Luric of dried up tree bark, thin grey-white hair, and small, beady eyes that were only really visible underneath those heavy wrinkled eyelids when they lit up in anger. To Luric, he had always looked ill and weak, but what he may have lacked in physical capability he more than made up for in fierceness and fortitude. Luric had seen hunters and wood men that could have picked him up with one hand cower before this stern gaze and admonition.
There weren’t many people in Runrick that would stand up to him, and only Priest Santr and the head-merchant Olvic had the power to sway his mind. Like when Slatrim wanted to close downtheir school because he saw no reason for Runrick's children to waste their time on being taught things they’d have no real use for, like reading and studying numbers, instead of helping their own parents around the household and learning the family trade. Mr. Carshtin had vehemently opposed him, but it had been Priest Santr’s argument that everyone should have the privilege to read Baar’s book whenever they wished, and Olvic’s reasoning that it would help with collecting taxes correctly, that ultimately settled the matter. But he had never forgiven the teacher for his public opposition, and the consequences of getting on the magistrate’s bad side had been dire.There was no doubt in his mind that Chief Slatrim had a hand in Mr. Carshtin’s death.
But the person Chief Slatrim was facing now wasn’t someone he could intimidate, and it was obvious he wasn’t used to dealing with people that were above his station and demanded humility from him. The lady was clearly a noble. Everything about her, from her fine clothes, to her poise, to her mannerism spoke of the power and wealth of the midland and southern provinces, possibly even the capital, and that alone was enough to make any small town lowborn bow their head. The group of armed men hovering protectively around her probably helped too.
It was obvious to everyone in the room that she was the one in charge here.
But Slatrim was nothing if not persistent, and he wouldn’t back down so easily.
“Forgive us, m ’lady. We have thrown away the key. We wanted to make sure there was no way for him to get out and he was supposed to remain with those until we were sure he was dead. For the safety of my people.”
Another long, uncomfortable pause.
“I see. How very cautious of you.” And then she turned back to Luric and her smile took on a hint of mischievousness. “Mr. Visloc? If you please.”
A surprised grunt came from behind him. “What? Now? Here?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
The way the hand on his nape tightened momentarily made Luric think that the lady’s words were merely a courtesy rather than an option for the man. The man - Mr. Visloc? - grumbled, and he could’ve sworn he heard the word “bitch” somewhere in there, before he stepped around and turned to face him. He was standing so close that the width of his chest filled up Luric’s entire view. He was hunching over slightly with his back to their audience, almost as if he wanted to shield Luric from their scrutiny with the size of his body alone. Luric stood completely immersed in the man’s shadow. He gathered his courage and raised his eyes to get his first good look at him.
The man looked even scarier in the light than it did when darkness had muddled his features. He was the tallest man he had ever seen, and Luric had lived all his life around tall and big-boned people. But it wasn’t his size that Luric found most unsettling. Everything about him seemed somehow elongated, including his face. It was long and drawn-out, with deep hollow cheeks and a prominent hook nose. There were deep wrinkles around his mouth, and the way his lips were drawn up in displeasure made it very clear that those weren’t laugh lines. Thin, greasy tendrils of mud-colored hair were hanging around his face and off his shoulders in a disarranged fashion. What struck Luric the most, however, were the man’s brows, or more precisely, his lack of eyebrows; what he had instead was a protruding brow ridge that seemed to be etched in a permanent scowl. He had never seen a person without eyebrows before, and it made the man’s already alien-looking visage even more frightening. Inhuman, was the word that came to mind, but he tried to will it, and what else it implied, away. Underneath the heavily furrowed brow were two large eyes, each dotted with strangely small irises; like little black pinpricks that fixed him in place with the intensity of their stare. Eyes like that would usually hint at an unstable mind, but despite everything, the man didn’t strike Luric as mad. Just really angry, and that was only marginally better.
“You better keep quiet, you hear,” the man growled and then hunched even more, raising his shoulders slightly and dipping his head further. Suddenly Luric got the impression that rather than trying to cover him, the man was trying to shrink and hide himself behind his own mantle.
And then he felt a rumble.
Where exactly it was coming from he couldn’t tell, but his body responded regardless. An unexpected agitation rose up inside of him and he started shaking violently, breath caught in his throat. He knew now what this was. Luric had yet to come to terms with it, and as much as he believed he didn’t deserve to die because of it, he at least accepted that there really was something wrong with him. Something wrong in him. It always started in the pit of his stomach and spread from there uncontrollably all over inside his chest, radiating outwards until he felt it in the tips of his fingers. Sometimes even further than that. The last time he had felt like this was right before they found him. He had been hiding behind a pile of logs when he sensed the townsfolk surrounding him, and the closer they came, the stronger the sensation got. Instincts he couldn’t quite understand or control were warning him then, and they were warning him now too.
He had to get away from this person at all cost, but before he could dart backwards two large hands clamped around the cuffs, and he froze. Large, as in larger than they had been before. And way whiter than they were supposed to be. They looked corpse pale, with bulging blue veins snaking towards and between large knuckles. The fingers were so long he could have sworn they had one too many joints now.
And that wasn’t the worst of it. He felt something shift above him, a movement his awareness deemed so unnatural it made his skin crawl. Without looking, he knew the man was still hunching over him, and had not moved a single muscle, and yet there he was, somehow rising further in height. He kept his eyes glued to the hands, too afraid to witness whatever it was that was happening over his head. With his vision pointed downwards, he caught sight of the edge of the man’s shadow moving, its girth growing in size. The man was turning. Into what, he didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. If this was how they decided to have him killed, he’d rather not have his last image in life be that of a grotesque monstrosity.
Unlike with Baliger, he didn’t even attempt to struggle against this, and closed his eyes for the second time in frightened resignation, waiting for whatever it was that was about to happen to be over.
“Oh, will you stop being so god-dammed dramatic.”
The voice still sounded the same. Still deep and hoarse and human. That was somewhat reassuring. But before he could start mulling over the meaning of the man’s words, a loud sound pierced the silence. A powerful crack, and then he felt cold pressure around his wrists. Maybe the man had broken his arms and the pain had yet to reach. But what followed wasn’t pain. Instead,he felt a gradual warmth replacing the clammy coldness, and a series of small metallic clings resonated as pieces of something were hitting the floor around his feet.
He opened his eyes.
The hands were back to normal. Still large, still dirty and calloused, but normal. The warmth was coming from the man’s palms that were now wrapped directly around his skin. Laying in pieces on the ground were his shackles. The man then gripped the sides of the leather bag tied around Luric’s hands, and in one try, ripped the material in half.
Luric stared at his bruised and swollen limbs in amazement.
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The man – Mr. Visloc - straightened and turned around to reveal Luric’s form to the lady.
“Happy?” he grunted in annoyance.
She only smiled in return.
“Oh, mother’s love, why would they do that?” a woman wailed. Mrs. Lasre, the butcher’s wife?
The sight of him out and unbound had sent the townsfolk in a frenzy, some running to stand closer to Baar’s shrine, others making a start towards the exit, but stopping when they realized that the lady and her group of men were standing between them and the door. Luric would’ve been lying if he said that he didn’t get any satisfaction from watching them shake and whimper pathetically like that. His eyes didn’t linger on them for long, and instead were drawn back to the lady’s dazzling figure.
She was watching them too, her head slightly turned in their direction, glancing at them from the corner of her eyes. She seemed to take some delight in their discomfort as well. When her eyes glided back to look at him her smile widened; he felt like they were sharing a private joke.
It was Priest Santr’s turn now to disentangle himself from the gaggle of squirming people. He stepped forward boldly, back stiff and head held high, all the while throwing a steely glare in Luric’s direction.
“Please forgive us, my lady. We are a community of poor and simple mountain people. We are so often at the mercy of the forest and the darkness that dwells within it, and with only our faith and this house to serve as protection. The king’s well-meaning oversight seldom reaches us, and we are often left to fend for ourselves. I had heard from my brethren in Pelase about an official decree to inform the prelacy of any apparitions and cursed men, and I did send a letter a few days ago when the boy’s true nature revealed itself. We just didn’t expect to receive any help so soon and chose to take matters into our own hands so no more of our people could fall victim to him. This is …the only way we know how.”
“And just how many have fallen victim to him?”
The lady’s prompt and dispassionate reaction to his little hardship tale left the priest a little flustered, and he paused for a moment to consider her question. He licked his lips nervously and stuttered a reply.
“There was – well, that is - he hasn’t yet, uhm - oh, Carshtin! He-he killed the teacher. The man that raised him, accepted him as family, was eaten by this wretched creature.”
“LIAR!”
It felt like he had made the very walls shake with the force of his outburst, but he knew that it was just his own flesh that was trembling in uncontrolled rage. Something was rising in his chest again, but this was a familiar sensation that he recognized and understood well. And it was human. He had been living with muted anger lingering in the depths of his soul for years, occasionally lapping at the edges of his consciousness when things got bad, but he always tried to snuff it before it could consume his mind. Mr. Carshtin had always told him a clear and calm head was what separated them from the brutes that always picked on him, so he tried to live by his guardian’s rule. Also, when you’re small and weak you can’t afford to act up whenever you want. Stay quiet, stay alive. But staying alive was off the table now, so what use did he have now for impulse control?
It was just too much. The pain, the fear, the cruelty, the unapologetic unfairness wrought upon him by these people, and now hearing this out-right brazen lie accompanied by murmurs of agreement whispered behind the priest. Did they expect him to say nothing? To stand by quietlyand docile, as they spouted their self-serving bullshit? Not this time. This time he’d let the flames run rampant through him, because Luric didn’t care anymore about how all of this would end for him. This entire miserable debacle had been an unending lineup of agony and despair, and every time anything that gave him hope presented itself, it was quickly followed by a blow that left him reeling in disillusionment. Like these strange people that took off his restraints and smiled kindly at him.
They were sent by the clergy, or some other high and important people, but apparently, they were executioners too. They just had nicer clothes. This meant that it didn’t matter what he said, how he said it, or if it was true or not. His fate was already decided. Luric couldn’t keep the bile raging inside from spilling out anymore, so he might as well have this one final moment of catharsis.
Every eye was on him now, and he met their frozen stares with fearless accusation.
“You fucking liars! How dare you!? You killed him! All of you! You beat him! An defenselessman! Then left him bedridden, and abandoned him to die alone and in pain.” With every blared word in their direction, he saw them draw back in terror more and more, as if being the target of his verbal barrage alone was dangerous. He enjoyed watching them squirm. It was the least they deserved. He couldn’t hurt them with his claws and fangs, but he would settled for seeing them piss themselves like this.
He then turned to the lady in blue, eyes wide with desperation. For some reason he wanted forher to know his side of the story, regardless of what she intended to do with him.
“All I did was scratch someone. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know I could - that I had these… They were pushing me around and I got angry. But it was an accident, alright?! I didn’t know I could – change . But they didn’t care, so I ran into the woods to hide. They told Mr. Carshtin they would help him look for me, but they only wanted to lure him away from the town to beat him up. They told everyone I was the one that attacked him, and no one came to tend to his wounds because they all thought I had cursed him too. Chief Slatrim and Priest Santr! They killed him! They hated our teacher because he wasn’t as stupid as them, and people started to want to listen to him more than them.”
Luric was breathing hard now. He had poured every ounce of his anguish filled heart into his outburst, and the ferocity of his cry had rendered his abused throat raw with pain. He felt liquid build up in the back of it and wondered if he had somehow managed to rip something inside that was now bleeding. But he wasn’t done. He wanted to continue yelling at them, to have them cower before his fury. To make sure they would have nightmares about him for the rest of their lives.
That’s right, I need to place a curse on them!
He had no idea of how it worked, but he was pretty sure that they didn’t either. If he told them that he had placed a curse on them, they’d believe him, and he’d leave this world knowing that they’d fret and agonize over what great misfortune would befall on them because of him. And it would, regardless of whether he had these powers or not. It was only a matter of time until something terrible would happen, because life around these parts was harsh and bleak. Some sort of disease, a landslide, a long and devastating winter that would take many lives; he had lived through trying times himself in his twelve years and he had seen how people reacted. They would think it was Luric’s vengeance damning them. They would think they had make a mistake in killing him, that they should have left him alone instead, and they would blame Slatrim and Santr for bringing this upon them. That thought alone gave him some comfort.
He fixed them with the most hate-filled glare he could muster, and though it hurt to talk he drew in a deep breath and pushed the words forward.
“I hope you all will get to feel the same pain that you’ve caused me. No, I want you to experience it tenfold. To have everything taken from you, to be beaten down and spit on, and have no one to come help you. You idiotic, heartless bastards.” They were writhing and whimpering - he could even hear someone sobbing - and a desperate plea for someone to stop him from continuing. It only spurred him on. “May the rest of your pathetic, miserable lives to be filled with only agony and rotten luck. Oh yeah, and death too.” He finished with a bitter grin. “It’s only fair.”
He hadn’t felt so exhilarated in forever, the satisfying thrill washing over him and leaving his skin tingling. He didn’t want it to be over. He deserved more of this. It wasn’t just about what they’d done to him these past few days, they had treated him like crap all his life.
Orphans were outcasts, touched by misfortune from birth, and no one really wanted them around. Especially the unfriendly, pale little boy that fell ill so often. Years of pent up frustration couldn’t be compiled into a few spiteful words; he had opened the floodgates, and the discharge felt amazing. What else should he say? What was the worst thing he could tell them? Oh, yeah!
“May Shulffa’s eyes be forever on you, her talons picking at your threads, your tears her nourishme- ”
Something hit him in the head, hard and loud, and he tumbled backwards landing on his behind. Bright pain flared sharply at the side of his temple where the object had struck, making his eyes tear up behind tightly shut lids. Had Mr. Visloc punched him to make him shut up? When he opened his eyes he saw the tall man look down at him in surprise and the whip his head in the direction of the townspeople. Next to his feet was a small rock, just barely larger than a pebble, round and dull, but it had been thrown with such a force that he thought it might have left a dent in his scalp. He sat there, a hand on his throbbing head, looking at the rock, stunned.
And just like that, all his momentum fizzled out and disappeared, leaving behind a state of utter bewilderment. He could already feel it slowly being replaced back with the dread of his impending doom that he had come to know so well these past few days, and it brought with it tears of shock and crippling fear. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, not yet…. He couldn’t afford to look pathetic now, lest it take away from the impact he hoped his words had had on them.
It was out of sheer curiosity that he looked to see who had thrown the rock. A boy around his age had emerged from the huddle and was glaring at him.
He should have known. Who else could it have been, aside from Runrick's brave little champion?
True to his self-proclaimed righteousness, Buck stood imposingly between him and the people he had come forth to protect. His face was set in a grim and confident expression, slightly upturned to stare him down, but the wideness of his eyes betrayed the courage he was trying to exude with all of his body. Nevertheless, he had come far closer to him than either Chief Slatrim or Priest Santr had dared.
Whatever Luric thought about the boy's obnoxious sense of self-worth and his childish dreams of gallantry and heroism, Buck at least did all he could to live up to them. He was everything Luricwas not. Spirited, hardy, overly passionate, but in a way that most found charming instead of annoying. His antics were tolerated, and even applauded, because he was an amusing and honest kid. And he was brave.
Last year, he had illicitly participated in Suin’s trial, a contest meant only for the young men of Runrick as a rite of passage into manhood. Buck had jumped in the ice-cold waters of the recently defrosted lake before anyone was able to stop him, but then had swum faster and surer than any of the older boys, and won. He was the one to retrieve the wooden sword and bring it back to Priest Santr. His face and behind got slapped thoroughly for his insolence, and he was made to stand there in the cold late winter air, wet and naked, while they tossed Suin’s sword in the lake again and until one of the young men brought it back. He hadn’t been as fast as Buck, though.
His parents, the priest, Chief Slatrim, and other grown-ups, all had severely chastised him, but Luric had also heard them praise him under their breath. A child had to be disciplined, be respectful of his elders, but boldness was an admirable trait if it was backed up by strength and skill. Luric had looked at Buck while he had been standing there, freezing and bruised, and noticed that the self-satisfied smile never left his lips, even as they were turning blue from the cold. He was cocky. Buck never backed down from a challenge and could hold his own in a schoolyard fight. He had all the makings of a fine northerner, and would grow up to be a great man. All the adults said so. Even his parents had given him a name that preordained how he would turn out: Buckcrown. It suited him well, even if it was a little old-fashioned and presumptuous.
In a way, Luric looked up to him as much as he resented him. He was funny and fun to be around, and everybody wanted to be his friend. Luric was no exception. But Buck and his friends barely knew he existed.
He would often look forlornly at their hassle and horseplay in the schoolyard, trying to convince himself that he didn’t want to be asked to join in. He’d pretend to read his book at the base of the large beech tree, but he’d glimpse at the other kids more often than not.
He and the other orphans didn’t fit in so well, even though the school was technically their home. Mr. Carshtin never differentiated between his wards and the other kids during learning hours; everyone was his student then. Being a little friendlier with the host would’ve been a nice courtesy, Luric often thought sourly. And unless a serious fight broke out, Mr. Carshtin never intervened in the children’s dealings. He gave advice, he encouraged you, but he wanted you to learn to deal with your peers on your own. That was his way. Which is why Luric also never went to Mr. Carshtin when someone was picking on him. Izver, usually.
There were plenty of kids that were mean to him, but Izver was his only real bully; a brash, impetuous brute that tried a lot to be like Buck, only he was completely unlikeable. If you didn’t look too closely, Buck and Izver might appear to be best friends, always together, with the same ideas and attitude, but Luric did look closer and therefore knew better. Izver was jealous of Buck. Under the guise of camaraderie, Izver would always challenge Buck to games that pitted one against the other. He rarely won. And every time he failed to match up to his rival, Izver looked for someone to take out his anger on.
Luric wasn’t his favorite target, but he went after him often enough. Luric would sometimes even provoke him, because Izver’s favorite target was Sivale. Sivale was an orphan like him; a meek and gentle boy that never did anything to deserve anyone’s ire. He might even consider Sivalehis best friend of sorts, even though he knew they hung out together mostly because no one else would. Outcasts of a feather.
And Luric could run. When he was in good health, Luric was a fast runner. Faster than Izver in any case, maybe even faster than Buck. One of the few times Buck had talked to him was when he had literally run Izver ragged around town chasing after him; Luric had thrown a mud ball at his face to get him to back off of Sivale. Buck had complimented him for his speed and for sticking up for his friend. As much as he was ashamed to admit it, it was one of the best moments of his life. Buck noticing him and praising him. He went on to imagine getting closer to Buck, maybe even challenging him to a race. If he won, he might win Buck’s respect too. Or even his friendship. He might become friends with the other kids as well.
Luric fancied himself a cerebral loner, who didn’t need the companionship of rowdy brats, but one lousy compliment had turned him into a giddy, hopeful fool.
Come to think of it, this was how it all began. Trying to get Buck’s attention again. Weeks went by and nothing changed. Luric was still sitting alone at the base of the tree, Buck running around completely oblivious to his existence. It was painful, having all his hopes shattered like that. If he had only known how much worse things could be, he would’ve stayed put under that tree. But no one could’ve foreseen the turn of events, so he made the wrong decision. Luric put his book down, walked out of the shadows and into the center of the schoolyard.
He was feeling great that day. In fact, he had been unusually energetic for a while now. Maybe he was finally growing out of those strange bouts of weakness that struck him so often. He was heading for Buck, who had stopped running to look at him as he approached. Luric was finally going to issue the challenge, race him, and win. And then everything would change for the better. He was certain of it.
But before he could even raise his hand in greeting, a violent push from behind sent him flying.
Most were already giggling by the time he removed his face from the dirt. When he turned around he saw Izver. “What ya think ya doin’, ya little sheep shit?! Go back t’ya tree!” And that’s what he should’ve done. Kept his mouth shut, and left. What he did instead was shoot up to his feet, and push Izver back, hard.
Izver was a little shorter than him, but broader, sturdier. Imagine his surprise when he saw Izveractually stumble backwards until he fell just as gracelessly. This time they all gasped, including Izver. Then the giggling started, and Izver face turned red from rage.
“Ya gonna pay for that, Lulu!”
Gods, he hated that nickname. He was going to make Izver regret calling him that. He was going to make him regret everything he ever did to him. Luric was done running away, done with staying quiet and hidden because people were uncomfortable around him. What had he ever done besides get abandoned as a baby and then be sick all the time? None of that was his fault. Izverwas mean and rude and stupid, yet he had more friends than him, had better clothes than him, had a real home and parents that loved him despite his ugly, bloated mug.
It’s not fair!
Izver got up to his feet and rushed him. He knocked into Luric and both went tumbling down. It occurred very late to Luric that he had no idea how to fight, and Izver was always in one skirmish or another. He was also heavier, so Luric couldn’t push him off. All he could do was bring up his forearms to shield himself from the onslaught of random punches Izver was blindly throwing at him. When he got tired of that, he grabbed Luric by the hair and started shaking.
Luric didn’t know what to do. Between the pain and the fear and the shame he had no time to think of a way to escape. If he tried to hit Izver back he’d leave his face wide open for his punches. What if he lost an eye? He wouldn’t be able to read anymore.
Izver started pulling even harder, dragged him by the hair until his upper back arched away from the ground. He was being held up by his hair alone, and it felt like the skin on his head was peeling off. It was too painful, and he instinctively lowered his left arm to brace his elbow on the ground in order to support his own weight and relieve some of the tension; his right hand clutched Izver by the arm that was pulling him. And then Izver slapped him. Not a punch, a slap.
It was strange; a slap didn’t have the strength and damage potential a punch did, yet there was something about the impact of an open palm against his cheek, and the sharp, burning, stinging imprint it left behind, that made Luric feel it more acutely than the dull, throbbing pain of a punch. He hated getting slapped. There was something inherently humiliating about a slap. He even found the sound of it vulgar and infuriating. No matter the circumstance or how well-deserved it was, a slap always made his stomach burn with indignation. And this time was no different.
Izver didn’t stop at one, though. He was no longer interested in inflicting physical pain. He wanted to taunt now. He slapped Luric again.
“What was that?”
Slap!
“Ya wanna say somethin’?”
Slap!
“Go on, whoreson, I’m listening.”
Slap!
“Though, for ya sake, it better be an apology.”
Slap! Slap! Slap!
Insult to injury, tears of frustration were starting to well up in Luric’s eyes, and he couldn’t stop it. Izver’s grin widened at the sight of them.
“Awww, what’s the matter? Thought ya were supposed to be brave now.”
Slap!
“Go on, say something!”
Luric wanted to call him a wretched pile of dung and then spit in his face, but he also wanted this to be over. If he laid there quietly, Izver would eventually get bored of him. But he was not going to apologize. Never. And Izver wasn’t letting up so easily.
“Say you’re sorry!”
SLAP!
“Say you’re sorry!”
SLAP!
“Say you’re sorry!”
SLAP!
The acid in his stomach burned and then spread to his chest. He felt a strange shiver come over him, yet oddly enough, his body wasn’t trembling. It was like a vibration underneath his skin.
The muscle in his shoulders and upper arm tightened, and he then felt that tension run up his neck and in his jaw. Luric clenched his teeth so tightly he was afraid he was going to shatter them. For some reason, they felt bigger than before, his tongue also not quite fitting inside the cave of his mouth as neatly as it should. It made him draw his lips back.
That’s when he heard Izver scream.
He jumped off of him, ripping his wrist from Luric’s hold. He scurried away, face pale and eyes large with panic. Luric blinked in confusion, but took his chance and got up to his feet before Izver could recover from whatever had spooked him. That’s when he noticed Izver cradling his arm protectively to his chest; the arm that Izver had been holding him with.
Thin rivulets of red were flowing down from four identical and evenly spaced puncture marks. Right where Luric had been clutching him.
There’s no way I could’ve done that, he had thought while raising his right arm to look at his fingers. He couldn’t have the strength to get his blunt fingernail -
They were sharp.
They were long.
As were the fingers.
And the span of his palm.
This wasn’t his hand.
But it seemed to be attached to his arm that was attached to his shoulder that belonged to his torso. He tried to get his fingers to move a little, and sure enough, the hand before him complied. But there was a disconnection between what he was seeing and what he was feeling. This isn’t mine. This isn’t me. He grabbed it with his left arm, almost as if this was a costume glove and he wanted to tear it off. The left hand wasn’t his either. Same sharp nails, same long fingers.
“M-Monster. MONSTER!” yelled Izver.
What? Where?, was Luric’s first thought, but Izver was looking only at him. He turned around. Someone had to help him. Someone had to go get Mr. Carshtin.
The kids that had gathered around all flew backwards in fright when Luric turned to them. Some screamed, some ran away, but most where just standing there, looking at him with the same terrified expression Izver had.
Wha- did something happen to my face too? When when he tried to speak his teeth got in the way, and what came out was a spit filled gurgle that scared even him.
He brought up those hands that weren’t his to his face to feel around his mouth and found thereteeth that weren’t his. He had been right, they were bigger. And sharp. Fangs? WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?, was what he meant to yell, but an inhuman wail was what he heard.
And then.
“Auntie was right,” someone said breathlessly. Luric looked up to see Buck staring at him. He had come a little closer now, standing between him and the other sniffling, whimpering kids. His face showed the same kind of terror the others were wearing, but his eyes held a shine of fascination as they ran over his changed features. But it was his next words that broke Luric.
“Ya really are a cursed child of Shulffa. That’s why ya don’t have any parents.”
A cursed child. A bastard of Shulffa. That couldn’t be right. No! He wasn’t. But then how could he explain this? Was this really the reason he had been abandoned? Or did he even have real parents to begin with? Didn’t he read that monsters were spawned from darkness? Or were those the shadow critters he was thinking of? He couldn’t remember. He read so many books about legends and lore and mythical monsters, and his mind was reeling. But there was something he did remember clearly, and that was what people did when they came across someone like this.
When he heard one of the kids yell for help, he ran.
He ran, and ran, and ran.
Then he hid.
Then cried until he fell asleep.
The next day, he heard them come for him. Heard Mr. Carshtin call his name. By the time he reached them, Mr. Carshtin was already on the ground, unconscious and bloody. He watched them carry him away from behind bushes, too much of a coward to do anything else.
He creeped back to his school and into Mr. Carshtin’s bedroom where he was lying alone and unattended to. Nobody came to care for him. Luric sat there helplessly and watched the life of the only person he had ever loved expire.
He had cried again, loudly and bitterly. That’s when they heard him. He ran again, but not far this time. He stood close to town, because he needed food and he didn’t know how to hunt. He stole an egg here, a loaf of bread there. He managed to evade them for a while, but eventually, they caught him.
And just like he remembered correctly from his books, sentenced him to death. ________________________________________________________________________________
He had finished telling his tale between sobs and hiccups, no longer caring what anybody thought of him. No, that was lie. He was ashamed to look at Buck. And the lady. He stared at his legs splayed before him. He hadn’t bothered to get up. Probably didn’t have any strength left for it anyway.
When the room grew quiet, he heard a girl’s voice whisper desperately to her parents. “Mother! Father! Make him take it back. Make him take back the curse”, before she started crying again. Ogette. She was Olvic’s daughter, and the prettiest girl in Runrick. She and Buck were also sweet on each other. Ah, so that’s why, he thought bemusedly. The hero had jumped in to protect his fair maiden. Classic Buck.
But he would never take back his words. Never!
As if on cue, Olvic’s voice boomed through the room. “Ya know how to do this proper, right m’lady? How to kill the beast and cleanse us of his curse?”
No, no, no. He wasn’t going let them get away that easily. This was all he had left. At least let them live on in fear. He was owed that much. “I’m not taking it back,” he said weakly, but knew everyone heard it just the same.
“There is nothing to take back, I’m afraid.” Luric looked up, and stared at the lady. There was a lightly mirthful expression on her face. “There is no curse here. Your kind can’t do that.”
What?
“Do you mean that, m’lady,” Priest Santr asked in a hopeful tone.
“It’s a popular misconception among the common people, but I assure you, Blighted can’t curse or infect other humans.”
The sound of relief he heard coming from the townsfolk cut him to the very core. So, he wouldn’t be granted even this tiny bit of vengeance. He lowered his head dejectedly and tried to tune out the merriment that followed the lady’s words. Everyone quieted down instantly, though, at what she said next.
“They can rip them to shreds, though.”
Luric blinked, not quite comprehending what she meant. The townspeople seemed equally confused.
“M’lady?”
But she wasn’t talking to them anymore. Instead she addressed the strange man standing next to Luric.
“So, what do you think, Mr. Visloc?”
Mr. Visloc shrugged. “I’d have to get a good look at his arsenal, but from what I’ve heard, it seems to be the usual. Claws. Fangs. Maybe a tail.” He then looked at him and smirked. “The boy got one hell of a thrashing before my very eyes, and I didn’t feel him turn. That’s always a good sign. It’ll be easier for him to learn control if he doesn’t change skin at the slightest provocation. Yeah, I can work with him.”
The lady brightened at that. “That’s wonderful!”
Wait, work with him?
“I don’t understand, m’lady.” Chief Slatrim came forward again.
Her smiled dimmed a little. “Of course, you don’t.” And then she did the last thing Luricexpected to see. She extended her arm and called Luric to her in a kind, reassuring voice. “Come here, my child.”
Apparently he didn’t react fast enough, because the man picked him up by the scruff again and shoved him unceremoniously towards the lady. He stumbled and staggered his way to her, butstopped before he was within arm’s length of her.
He didn’t know how honest her invitation was. Either way, people like him weren’t supposed toget too close to a person of high status, blighted or not. But then she closed the distance herself, and placed a gentle hand on his head.
He froze at first. The only time he came in physical contact with somebody else these days was through a punch or a kick. He had forgotten what a caress felt like. For some reason, he felt like crying again. When she gave him an understanding look, the feeling got even stronger. She then reached around to lightly grab his shoulder so she could turn them both towards the townspeople that were staring at them, dumfounded.
“Allow me to explain,” she started. “I am Duchess Berjeen Archvel, Blood of the King, and the founder and head of His Majesty’s Institute of Occult Science and Affairs. The decree you mention was issued by His Majesty on my behalf. Our objective is to find individuals of … his nature, and employ them.”
There was too much to process at once. Where to start? She wasn’t just a noble, she was a duchess. She called herself Blood of the King; only those who were directly related to him were allowed to do that. He was standing next to royalty. And she founded an Institute of….Occultsomething? For…for people like him. To employ?
Did this mean -
“Ya not gonna kill ‘im, ma’am?”
That was Chief Slatrim asking the one question that really mattered, but Luric was too busy looking at the lady – Lady Archvel. He wondered when she was going to disappear and reveal that it had all been just trick of his mind. Or a dream. Because this couldn’t be real. He had lived with fear for his life for so many days, had seen his demise in his head over and over again, that her next words nearly shattered him.
“No. As I said, we want him to join us.”
“The monster?!”
“The Blighted,” she corrected.
A harsh murmur tinged with shock and disbelief erupted among the gathering. This wasn’t what they expected. This wasn’t what they were here for. This wasn’t what was supposed to be done.
“But - we thought you were here for- but, they’re not supposed to be allowed to live. Protector Baar says so! ” Chief Slatrim again, Priest Santr joining in to agree with him.
“Yes, we are devout followers of Baar and his teachings. He clearlys tell us to -”
This time Lady Archvel’s voice turned a little severe, as if she was losing her patience with them.
“I assure you, we have received approval from your spiritual leaders as well, and they have given us their blessing for this endeavor. If you do not wish to take my word for it, I will gladly bring you to stand before both the First Disciple of Baar and Our Majesty himself. You can voice your complaints to them in person, my esteemed gentlemen.”
Luric had never seen so many faces pale so fast. Chief Slatrim and Priest Santr’s in particular seemed to take on a light shade of blue.
“No, my lady, my duche - your highness, uhm, we were just - ”
The lady’s graciousness waned and her tone was sharp when she cut him off. “You should consider yourself fortunate that we got here when we did. Judging from the preparations outside, you were just getting ready for the execution. A highly barbaric one, I might add. I believe the decree clearly stated that you were not to take any action against a person you deemed unnatural, simply report your findings and then wait for official aid. Had you killed him without our consent, you would’ve been charged with disobedience of a direct order from the king.”
Now they were sweating instead. Priest Santr tried to defend himself one more time; behind him he saw Olvic grab him by the robe and whisper urgently through clenched teeth “Be quite, yafool!” The priest pushed him away.
“I did read it carefully, Duchess Archvel. It also clearly stated that we were allowed to defend ourselves from it, and that killing was permissible if our lives were in danger. They were. He already killed one.”
Luric opened his mouth to throw that accusation back in his face, again, when he felt the Duchess’s hand tighten briefly. He got the message and kept quiet.
“That’s not what happened, according to him.”
And that’s when Chief Slatrim momentarily forgot to be humble and scared. “You believe Shulffa’s bastard instead of us?”
“You really don’t seem to understand,” her smile was back in place, but it was cold. “His life is worth more to our king and country than this entire town put together.”
Luric wished he had been clearheaded enough to think of looking at the others as this was being said. He wished he had seen the exact moment the Duchess’s words sank in. As it were, he was having difficulties wrapping his head around what was happening himself. He was still struggling with one notion.
I’m going to live.
Luric did look at them after a while. These were the people he had grown up with. He had helped Mrs. Bilbad around the house when she had broken her leg; he had been there with the other kids to dig out old man Pipperic when the snow had buried his little house all the way up to the ridge of his roof; he had helped Mr. Carshtin care for Gulvan and his family when they all came down with a strange fever, when even the doctor didn’t want to come close to their house out of fear of catching it; he ran errands for Mr. Likik, the butcher and Mr. Erd, the pharmacist, for the egglersand pie makers, and sometimes, even for Chief Slatrim himself. He did all of that in the hope that they might start liking him a little more and he could become a proper part of the community when he was older. But none of that had mattered.
Yet he had never felt more cut off from them as he did now, with him over here and all of them standing together at the other side of the prayhouse. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t mind it. Better yet, he liked it. On this side was the Duchess, and Mr. Visloc, and her other guards. This side had important, powerful people, far more important than Chief Slatrim or Priest Santr or the head-merchant Olivic could ever hope to be, and they wanted him to be a part of it. He stood above them and could, Luric realized now, look down on them.
“Well then, guess we will take our leave now. We have a train to catch in Pelase. We would’ve stayed a little longer to rest, but I think you made it quite clear that you don’t want this little boy around anymore, so we will take him off your hands sooner rather than later. Luric?” He turned to her startled. “Is there something you’d like to say to them before we go?”
Yes, so much. Or rather, he felt so much, but he couldn’t find the appropriate words to express them. Should he accuse? Should he deride? Should he mock them? Should he ask the lady to sic her guards on the townsfolk for what they did to Mr. Carshtin or would he be overstepping his bounds? There was too much going on in his head and heart; aside from bitterness, there was also this new sensation of relief and elation that was coming over him, and the contrasting emotions were leaving him a bit dazed. Afraid he was going to end up saying something frivolous or stupid, he just shook his head.
“Alright then.” The duchess then put her hands on his shoulders and turned them around towards the exit without so much as offering a nod in parting to the magistrate and the priest. Luric just let her lead him wherever she pleased. Two of her guards rushed to open the doors for them. A carriage was waiting outside. It was pristine, gleaming, heavily decorated and clean, and looked severely out of place in the mud- and shit-caked town square stretching behind it. There were other townspeople gathered around it, and even more loitering around near the middle of the square. They all stopped to look at them when they walked out of the prayhouse. That’s when Luric saw it; a large pile of dried up branches with a long wooden pillar jutting out of it. Ah, so this is how they were going to do it.
He had wondered about this, about how they had been planning on killing him. Deep down he had truly believed he wasn’t going to survive, even when he was fighting for his life.
He looked at his pyre, at the people that had gathered around it. Everybody had come to watch the show. First in line were Izver’s parents. When they saw him, they started yelling. “Bring’imhere! Let us light it. For our son, to cleanse him of his poison!” The crowd was cheering. They cheered, and they roared, and they hurled insults at him. Behind him, he could hear Chief Slatrimand Priest Santr trying to get them to stop, but they were still inside the prayhouse so no one else could hear them.
That was alright; Luric could bring the rest of the town up to speed.
“IF YOU WANT TO SEE SOMEONE BURN GO AHEAD AND LIGHT YOUR OWN ASSES ON FIRE BECAUSE I’M NOT DYING TODAY!”
He was going to have a sore throat for days probably, but the memory of the abrupt hush that came over the square was going to be his source of joy for far longer than that. The light chuckle from the duchess and the brash laughter from Mr. Viscol pleased him too. The other guards, the ones he had yet to properly look at, seemed amused as well. He was going to like being with them.
Then, a moment of inspiration. He turned around to look at Chief Slatrim and the others.
“I may not be able to place a curse on you all, but I still hope either Baar or Shulffa damn you in my place. I don’t care which.”
And with that, he turned around to walk down the steps towards the carriage and didn’t look back once. Once inside he started wishing he had, though. He wanted to see what Buck thought of all of this. Had his self-righteous confidence disappeared too? Was he afraid and ashamed of what he’d done? What did he think when he saw that Luric wasn’t the villain of his own little story of heroism? Luric would wonder about that for years to come.
The duchess climbed inside, sat on the bench opposite of him and signaled to the coachman to go. The other guards were mounting their horses. It was over.
He was safe and protected. He wanted to smile, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to thank the duchess for saving his life, but she was conversing with Mr. Visloc, who was riding next to her window, and he didn’t want to interrupt. Then, as they drove out of the square, they passed right next to the pyre and Luric got a good look at it. And though he knew he shouldn’t have – because he was safe, and protected, and leaving Runrick to never return – Luric still broke down and cried.
Back then he was certain he was never going to see this place and any of them ever again. Had he known he’d find himself standing in front of this prayhouse years later, only seconds away from coming face to face with the people that still haunted his nightmares every so often, he would have tried to come up with better parting words. As it were, he had to make due with referencing what he had said. He wondered if they would remember it. It had been over ten years after all.
He was a little angry at himself for being nervous; he was older, stronger, and richer than any of them. There was nothing they could do to him anymore. Moreover, they needed his help. This was their punishment. This was his vengeance. With that conviction, and a little annoyance at having forgotten to change his mud-splattered boots and pants, he barged into the building. The screech of wooden doors being pushed out of the way seemed deafening in the sepulchral room. Every head turned to look at him.
And there they were, the demons of his past.
“So, guess both Baar and Shulffa were listening that day.”