Chapter Eight // I Would Wish It All Away

The storm had yet to begin.

But oh, you could feel it coming.

The sky above was rumbling incessantly and the dead leaves were descending in slow, nonsensical, maddened pirouettes and Zekval and Illina were laying together at the base of a great tree, hands interlinked, silently taking in the great and terrible majesty of the approaching tempest.

As he often did, Zekval had offered to take Nageth's patrol shift - and, as was often the case, it had been partly an excuse to spend some time alone and secluded with Illina. They were both at home in the forest, cursed or otherwise - Zekval was an exceptional tracker and Illina was nothing short of a born hunter. They felt most at ease in clearings such as this, on the farthest possible outskirts of the Voshtarri village.

"So..." Illina trailed off, turning her head. Their eyes met. "How was the food last night?"

"There was food...?" Zekval trailed off, visibly confused. "Last night...?"

"Don't be an ass," Illina smirked, to which Zekval gave quite an exaggerated and long-suffering sigh.

"How many times do you need to hear me say 'the food was amazing?'" Zekval asked. "The food was amazing, Illina. The food was amazing. The food was amazing. Am I there yet?"

"You're getting closer," Illina replied, a content smile on her face as she nestled against his side and closed her eyes. "Maybe just one more."

"One more?" Zekval asked, skeptical.

"Hey, Zek," Illina intoned. "How was the food last night?"

The exile pretended to consider.

"Meh," he shrugged. "It was alright."

"Everyone's a critic," Illina sighed, opening and rolling her eyes. The two of them chuckled quietly, for a moment, and then Zekval's fingers were brushing up along the side of her face. Not for the first time, the exile was looking down at this woman and wondering how, just how he could possibly have been so blessed. He loved Nageth, of course - that was his brother after all - but what he felt for Illina was something else entirely. That was his entire universe right there, her face gently cupped in his hands.

"Seriously," Zekval said, after something long and silent and meaningful had passed between their eyes. "That was a good night."

"It was," Illina agreed. "Even Arha came out and socialized, for a bit."

"You know..." Zekval trailed off, and his gaze was unfocused for only an instant before returning to her waiting eyes. "Used to be that I didn't have good nights."

"I know," Illina said quietly, squeezing his hand. "Your old village."

"Yeah," Zekval just nodded. "I didn't...I just didn't belong there. It never felt right. It was like I was living in the wrong body, living the wrong life. But this?" He looked down at her again and suddenly there were tears welling in his eyes. "This is where I'm supposed to be. Right here, right now, with you." And then he really was crying, and Illina held him close as he cried tears of joy and relief and of an old, long-held sadness.

Finally, he pulled back - eyes still red - and smiled, running his hands through her hair.

"I love you," he said, and he meant it with every fiber of his being, and just as Illina said the same in return his eyes flicked to the left.

Just for an instant. Not even a fraction of a second.

"You ass," Illina smiled, wiping a tear from her own eye as she laid even further back. "Getting me all worked up, first thing in the morning..."

Above, the clouds were swirling now. A harsh wind was beginning to pick up. The distant rumbling was growing louder by the minute.

"Ah, shit," Illina muttered, sitting upright. "We should probably head back inside - or grab some cloaks at least. Of course the stupid rain-"

"Hey, Illina," Zekval said suddenly, and without warning he was pressing in close and Illina let out a little gasp and then they were up against the tree and her heart was pounding with excitement and anticipation both.

"Hey, Zekval," she chuckled. "What's on your mind?"

"Nothing much," Zekval said, giving her perhaps the slyest smile she had ever seen. He leaned in even closer, and Illina could feel the heat of his breath against her face. "There are strangers watching us, by the way."

There was a sudden ringing in Illina's ear.

"I-what?" she asked, confused – because the human brain could only shift so quickly from bliss to alarm. "What are you-"

"I want you to count to thirty, then run as fast as you can," Zekval said, his voice still low and sultry as he rose to his feet. "Find Arha. She'll know what to do."

And then, before Illina could say another word, Zekval was dusting himself off and clearing his throat to speak.

"You might as well come on out," he called, beckoning with one black-gloved hand. "I can see you all plain as day."

Slowly, Illina too was rising to her feet - and now her eyes were going wide as the shadows separated from the trees, revealing themselves to be hooded, green-cloaked men and women, all of them faceless and terrifyingly still. One by one, their sleeves parted, and a dozen worm-bone daggers were revealed - a simple, unmistakable promise of violence soon to come.

Then, another figure emerged between them. He was a pale, lanky young man, his black hair hanging in messy strands over crystal-blue eyes and by the cruel cant of his chin and the subtle curl of his lip it was clear at once that this was a man completely and utterly without sympathy.

Silently, Illina began to count.

Zekval, by contrast, just hooked his thumbs through his belt-loops and gave a Second Eltok a casual smile.

"Kelsen," Zekval said, inclining his head. "It’s been a while."

In truth, Zekval’s heart was pounding like a drum and his skin had gone clammy and his entire body was trembling but still he forced himself to remain calm - because Illina was here, and there was quite simply nothing in that entire wretched world that mattered more than keeping her safe. Questions such as 'how did Kelsen find them' or 'was the village in danger' didn't even begin to cross his mind. There was simply no room for such thoughts. There was only Illina. There was only keeping her safe, at any cost.

"I remember you," the Second Kelsen replied, after a moment. Those words were followed by a cruel and crooked sneer. "You were one of her lackeys, weren't you? The little coward."

"That's right," Zekval smiled, keeping his voice calm and steady. "I was the little coward."

"Well then, coward," Kelsen said, clasping his hands together. "I don't suppose you or your woman know where Arha might be, at this particular moment?"

A drop of water hit Zekval's forehead and rolled down the side of his face. A premonition of the deluge soon to come.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Zekval drawled, " but Arha's been dead for months now. We buried her-" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "-right back there, in the field."

Kelsen's sneer only grew.

"We’re going to do this the hard way, then?" he said. The Second Eltok reached down, patted at his knives. "That works for me. I think I'll start with-"

And then Illina bolted, right at thirty, just like Zekval had told her. One of the Outriders moved to intercept and then in the blink of an eye the man was stone dead, collapsing to his knees with one of Zekval’s throwing-daggers embedded in his heart.

"Take your eyes off me for one second," Zekval snarled, drawing a pair of long, straight-edged blades, "and you're dead, just like him." And every eye was indeed on Zekval now as he flipped his knives into back-handed grips, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing his left foot back.

The circle of Outriders was tightening. Illina was long gone, now, but they had no intention of allowing their remaining prey to escape.

That was fine by Zekval. Running was the last thing on his mind.

"Who do you think I am?" the exile demanded, his eyes darting from one Outrider to another to another. Not one would be forgotten. Not one would be forgiven. "You people are just assassins. I'm a warrior – I am a fucking Winnower!"

He straightened, squared his shoulders, and stared Kelsen dead in the eye.

“You’d run, if you had an ounce of sense,” Zekval declared. “But you wouldn’t get far.”

And then, unbelievably, the exile’s heartbeat began to slow.

His pulse steadied.

His head cleared.

And what washed over him then was neither fear nor fury nor panic but understanding, in that moment, that he was the right man in the right place at the right time. His entire life had been leading up to this. It was an almost-euphoric moment of total and perfect clarity.

For the first time since he could remember, Zekval felt not even an ounce of fear.

"An exile is what you are," Kelsen sneered, unimpressed. "And soon you’ll be a corpse. So I'll ask you one more time, corpse - where is she? Or..." he trailed off. "Perhaps we should just raze this village to the ground and find her ourselves?"

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"You’ll never even get close to my village," Zekval answered coldly. His muscles tensed, prepared to move - to spring forward, to explode into motion. "I won’t allow it."

"Is that so?" Kelsen laughed, clasping his hands together. Then, slowly, his sneer faded, and Kelsen’s face was a mask of utter contempt as he reached up and snapped his fingers.

“Shut him up,” the Second Eltok ordered.

As one, the Outriders surged forward, their cloaks billowing wildly in that maddened, tempestuous breeze - and then Zekval was a blur, blades gleaming and eyes blazing and heart alight with cold, deadly conviction.

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"Help!"

Nageth opened one eye.

"Hey! Someone! Someone please help!"

Nageth opened both eyes and sat forward, blinking away the lingering fatigue – a remnant of what had been an exceptional morning nap. He yawned, rose to his feet, and rolled his shoulders, feeling the joints pop and crack as Illina tore down the hill ahead of him.

"Illina?" he called, unhurried, scratching at the back of his neck. Winnowers were hardly prone to panic, and this was doubly true for the steady-handed honor guard. "What's wrong?" All around him, Voshtarri were glancing up or exchanging looks of quiet confusion and concern.

"Nageth!" Illina cried, skidding to a halt just centimeters from where he stood. She whirled around, jabbed a finger straight up the hill. "There's danger, there's danger-he, Zek, there, there were men-"

"Slow down," Nageth said - well and truly concerned now as he put a hand on the woman's shoulder in an attempt to steady her. His brain was waking up in real time, now, and the danger was dawning upon him. "Hey? Talk to me, Illina. What's going on?"

"We're under attack," Illina said, suddenly finding her focus and staring right at Nageth with wide, defiant eyes. "There were at least a dozen of them. Zekval's fighting them alone. There was a man - Zekval called him Kelsen, he-"

"Kelsen?" Nageth blurted out.

And then old, long-dormant instinct took over, and Nageth the Voshtarri - Nageth, who worked construction, who was great for a drink and a laugh, who worked twice as hard as guys half his age and could always be counted on to offer a helping hand - was gone. In his place stood Nageth the Winnower, a man whose very soul was stepped in violence and suffering, and it was Nageth the Winnower who pulled sharply away and vanished inside his hut.

A moment later the door quite literally blew off its hinges and Nageth was storming up the hill with sword and shield in hand.

"Find Arha!” was his only command. And then he was but a receding figure in the distance, moving at incredible speed and vanishing into the treeline just seconds later.

Illina turned - met a half-dozen confused, panicked faces.

And then she, too, took off running.

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Nageth was running, running, running, his body but an automated machine as his mind whirled with terrible, terrible thoughts and a moment later he was crashing into the clearing, boots impacting heavily against the forest floor, and then his eyes were wide and his jaw was hanging slack.

There were easily a dozen green-cloaked corpses strewn madly about, nearly all of them with cut throats or precisely-placed stab wounds. Zekval was no frontline warrior, no duelist – but it was clear to Nageth in an instant that this was the hardest his brother had ever fought in his entire life.

Yet still it had not been enough.

Zekval lay there amidst a heap of dead and dying, his own chest rising and falling with pained, shallow breaths. He was drenched in blood, his body marred by truly countless cuts and stabs and scrapes, and both his favored daggers protruded like stalagmites from his chest. They, too, rose and fall with every agonized breath.

Nageth didn't say a word - but he was at Zekval's side in the blink of an eye, cradling his adopted brother's head as he stared up with glassy and unfocused eyes.

"Nag...geth...?" Zekval wheezed, his brow furrowing with pained confusion. His voice was but a hollow rattle, now.

"I'm here," Nageth breathed, holding his brother close. Tears ran freely down the sides of his face. "I'm here, I'm here."

"I didn't...I couldn't..." Zekval coughed, and there were tears in his eyes, too. "I tried so hard..."

"No, no, no, no, no," Nageth whispered frantically, shaking his head. "You didn't do anything wrong, Zek. You didn't do anything wrong. I should've been there, I should've-" He shook his head even more violently. "Fuck, you don’t deserve this. You don’t, you don’t…"

"He..." Zekval coughed, his face a mask of pain. "Kelsen, he..."

Oh.

Kelsen.

That’s right.

How did that go, again?

From the top, now.

Kelsen had Arha exiled.

Nageth went with her.

Zekval went with him.

And that was how they had arrived here.

And despite it all, Nageth had been happy.

And Zekval had been happy.

And now, Kelsen was here.

And Zekval was dying.

And Nageth couldn’t do anything about it.

THIS WAS ALL KELSEN’S FAULT.

Nageth's hands tightened into fists.

THIS WAS ALL KELSEN’S FAULT.

There was a ringing in Nageth's ears.

THIS WAS ALL.

KELSEN'S.

FAULT.

Nageth was possessed suddenly by perfect clarity, and so he turned his head and saw so easily the trail of bloodied, broken branches. He knew at once exactly where Kelsen was and exactly how to reach him. He knew at once exactly what he was going to do to him.

Abruptly, Nageth rose to his feet.

"Nageth..." Zekval trailed off, following Nageth's eyes and seeing what his brother intended. "Wait...don't..."

"It's okay, Zekval," Nageth said, his voice eerily calm. "Arha's coming. You're going to be okay."

"Don't..."

"It's okay," Nageth said again. He glanced over his shoulder - and though his eyes were still streaked with tears, his face was alight with a hatred the likes of which Zekval had never seen before. "I love you, Zekval. I'll be right back."

"Wait-" Zekval choked out again - but his words were lost in a spasm of agony, and so Nageth simply turned and left, stomping along that bloodied trail with a truly single-minded look in his eyes. And his mind was vacant save for one thing and one thing only:

Rage.

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Dimly, distantly, Arha could hear that Olta was saying something.

"Everyone, to me!" the goat-man shouted, pacing back and forth and directing his subordinates with short, sharp gestures. "Tess, Kevas, I want you two on the eastern side! Dack, Veso, at the west! Darren, get Hiega and get Seko and then get everyone to the longhouse! We are under attack!"

As the Voshtarri scrambled to obey, the door to one of the neighboring huts flew open, and out came a freshly-awakened Makran, somehow looking even more wild and disheveled than usual. Her head snapped around on a swivel - from Olta, still delivering orders to his adolescent militia, to Arha, and in her wild eyes there was a simple question. Did I just hear that correctly?

“It’s Kelsen,” was all Arha could manage, alongside a weak nod. Her mind was quite literally on fire.

"Then what the fuck are we waiting around for!?" Makran demanded, and then she was gone, all but tearing up the hill on all fours with a hatchet in either hand and the look of a maddened animal in her eyes. And without thinking Arha was right behind her, one hand clutching the hilt of her sword tight as a hot wind swelled and the reeds whipped wildly to and fro.

Behind them, Olta was yelling for them to stop, to wait – telling them not to go alone - but even if Arha had heard him, she wouldn't have listened.

She had no fear of death. This was all her fault, after all.

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Nageth was a man who rarely lost his temper.

His oft-repeated axiom, you see, was all things will pass in time. And so, well, what use was there in getting upset? Amongst a people governed by fiery and spur-of-the-moment emotions, he was a uniquely calm and steady presence, and to Arha he had been even more dependable than Grakke himself. That was the thing, you see: in a pinch, one could always count on Nageth to make the smart decision.

But then he had come to live among the Voshtarri people. And he had, without realizing, come to love that life – because it was through that life that his brother, Zekval, had finally found the peace and tranquility he had always deserved.

Poor, poor Zekval. Upon their first meeting Nageth had found him huddled in a corner, broken and bloodied. As a young neophyte, Nageth’s empathy had not yet been entirely beaten from him and so he offered the weaker man a hand, helping him to his feet. And they had talked, and they had become friends, somehow, and lacking any other cause to which he could devote himself Nageth had decided he would protect the weaker neophyte at all costs. And it was Zekval, a year later, who had first dubbed Nageth his brother.

Zekval, who had come so far. Funny, confident, intelligent Zekval, whom Nageth grew prouder of with each and every passing day. Zekval, who was currently drowning in his own blood, who already had the eyes of a dead man and who whimpered miserable, desperate apologies.

And so, for the first time in well over a decade, Nageth had lost his temper.

"Kelsen!" he bellowed, and here in the Blackwoods his voice was all but a supernova, obliterating the silence that had long held dominion over those miserable woodlands. "Show yourself, you fucking coward!"

As the former Winnower stalked deeper and deeper, the forest around him grew darker and darker, and now the shadows were all but pressing in against his skin. Everything was still and everything was quiet and then, with a loud plop, a raindrop impacted against the tip of Nageth’s nose. Then came another. And another. And soon it was raining hard and there was a chilled, ethereal sort of mist running along the forest floor.

Nageth couldn't see them and couldn't hear them but he could most definitely feel them – restless figures shifting between the trees, slowly but surely encircling him. There was always something just in the corner of his eye, just at the edge of his peripheral vision.

Nageth did not care. All he saw was red.

"Come on!" he hollered, as one of the shadows detached itself from the trees and raced to Nageth like a phantom, unseen and entirely without sound.

The dagger was but a hair's breadth from Nageth's neck.

Without warning, the exile whirled around, smashing the Outsider's face with his shield and shattering the man's teeth. And as the assassin fell backward, Nageth stepped forward, grabbing a fistful of cloak and yanking the man back onto his waiting sword. Blood and entrails alike ran down Nageth's legs and he snarled, uncaring, jerking his weapon free and discarding the dying Outrider like useless offal.

"I said come on out!" Nageth thundered again, banging sword against shield. "Come out and die a warrior's death - just like your father!"

The rain was falling harder and faster. And as Nageth continued to stalk forward with wide eyes and hot breath more and more shadows were peeling free from the darkness, racing from all directions to a man who was more than happy to meet their charge.

The first assailant came from the right, and in one motion Nageth gouged him open from throat to groin. The second came from the left and Nageth turned partway, ramming his shield once against her stomach and once against her windpipe. The third came from behind and Nageth felt a white-hot flash of pain in his side as he whirled around and slashed the man's throat down to bone.

"Kelsen, you fucking bastard! You fucking coward!" Nageth screamed, yanking the dagger free from his side and hurling it into another Outrider's chest. Again, the exile started forward, but this time his gait was hobbled and unsteady.

A dozen shadows came all at once.

Nageth was roaring and bellowing like a wounded animal as he fought, killing another after another after another even as their blades bit deep and his sword was ripped from his hand - when had he even lost it? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. He fought them with shield alone, smashing and bludgeoning and breaking the bastards with his bare hands. Bones crunched and joints tore and skulls shattered and Nageth was screaming and screaming and screaming all the while.

"Hragh!” the exile bellowed, sending a trio of Outriders leaping back as he swung his bloodsoaked shield in a wide arc before him. There were a half-dozen circling him cautiously, now, all wary of the maddened beast drenched in the gore of their fellows. Drenched in his own gore, too, for Nageth was bleeding now from countless wounds and his breathing was laborious and heavy and his eyes were but bloodshot pinpricks. His blood felt like molten lava in his veins, and slowly but surely his body was beginning to shut down.

It didn't matter. None of it fucking mattered. Nageth had enough strength for all of them and so, impossibly, he rose on shaking legs once more and took one almighty, indomitable step forward.

And then he saw him, standing there just a hundred feet back - Kelsen, watching from the darkness, one hand clutching at his bloodied shoulder and the other steadying him against a fallen tree. His expression was one not of malice or sardonicism but of raw, primal fear.

This was the man who had ruined their peaceful lives for nothing.

Nageth's eyes went wide.

And so, with a wordless howl Nageth called upon every ounce of power remaining in his mighty, broken body, and shot forward, intending to do nothing less than slaughter every living thing that stood before him. All he could see was Kelsen’s face. All he could hear was the roar of the storm. He would not be stopped. He could not be stopped.

He made it three steps - and then he felt cold steel slide across his throat.

And then his strength was gone.

Nageth fell to his knees.

The blood was running like a waterfall down his chest.

And all that rage was slipping, slipping away...

His heartbeat was beginning to slow.

His face was resting upon a bed of dead leaves.

And the sound was dimming, and the sensation was fading...

And this long, strange dream was finally coming to a close...

And nothing hurt.

And it was all quite gentle, really.

Nageth smiled, then, despite it all. He smiled and he thought of his brother.

And then he thought no more.