Asabasha 20, 350 AOR
The eyes that follow his every breath are many things: incorporeal, unnerving, inquisitive. They aren’t overbearing, nor are they malignant, but every now and then, Cal Gray can sense a thin needle prod his nape, a frigid sensation that lets him know that he’s not entirely alone.
For better or worse, he can’t be certain.
It lingers, awaiting his every move, almost curious as to whether or not today was the day he’d take a left and round Suicide Hill to go to town, or maybe take the more efficient route and go right. Would he stop by Holt’s Homestead or walk through Strawberry Fields like he does every other Uudah?
Always curious, always inquisitive, and always bothersome.
They observe him as he eats, runs errands to town, and even when he bathes. They’ve been around since Cal could remember—since he was five and could understand such anomalies—so it was obvious he’d grown used to the feeling. But to say this anomaly was such would be redundant, for these eyes were a part of Cal. He knew these eyes like the back of his hand, always with him and always watching. There was nothing to get used to.
The only thing that pointed to the eyes not being normal was the fact that no one else around him experienced the same sensation. “An imaginary friend,” his mother had once said with an innocent smile.
But Cal never believed her, because why would a friend—much less one made from his own subconscious—grin when he retracts his obsidian sister daggers from their leather sheaths, cackle when he plunges them into his enemy, and sigh in pleasure when the life fades from the eyes of those he slaughters?
Even as his fingers dug into the neck of the man beneath him, the inquisitive eyes were watching. But Cal paid it no mind, tightening his hold as rain drummed around him, a torrent of thunderous applause, urging for the encore.
He gives it, never stopping.
The man grasped Cal’s arms, desperate to pull him off, but like Cal’s emerald green eyes, his arms remained unmoving, stolid while strangled gasps sputtered from the man’s clogged throat. Seconds later, the man’s grip weakened, his arms falling to the muddy earth as the light in his brown eyes ceased.
Cal held for a few more seconds, the sounds of battle with another faction muted as he stared into the face of the bandit beneath him. However, the shout behind him reminded Cal that there was no leisure in battle. There was no pause.
Whipping his head around, Cal noted the burly man before him, whose right arm was metal and supported a giant battleaxe, currently plunging right at him. With haste, Cal rolled out of the way. The burly man’s weapon cleaved the corpse of the person Cal had just killed in half.
If the poor bandit hadn’t died to Cal, he surely died then.
Usually put up into a short ponytail—now plastered to his face—Cal pushed back his light brown hair and grabbed the black-silver hilts of his twin daggers from where they rested on his back, their forearm-length blades curved like that of a wolf’s fang. At the same time, Metal Arm removed his axe from the corpse and turned to Cal, a maniac grin crossing his features before he crouched down and launched forward, the only thing he desired being Cal’s death and his village’s modest wealth.
Tightening his grip on the blades, Cal rushed Metal Arm as the latter swung down. Cal sidestepped the attack, spinning off the bandit’s side before sending a shallow stab aimed at his ribcage. With a grunt, Metal Arm swung wide, which Cal blocked by positioning his daggers like a pair of scissors that ate the axe’s blade. Metal Arm’s swing caught and carried Cal, spinning him in a circle until Cal tripped over a root and fell to the ground. Metal Arm’s attack persisted, and with monstrous momentum, he spun again, lifted the axe, and swung down.
Cal rolled out of the way, shooting up to his feet and instantly running back at Metal Arm, whose axe head was halfway in the mud. Utilizing that, Cal stepped on the shaft of the axe, forcing it from the bandit’s grasp, and then kicked Metal Arm across the face. The hulk of a man hardly budged though before he clutched Cal’s leg and threw him over his shoulder.
A sharp gasp shot from between Cal’s lips before he sucked down the pain and snapped his head over to avoid Metal Arm’s metal arm as it descended towards Cal like a lightning bolt. The contraption groaned, creaking with every movement, but more specifically, the rusted gap within the elbow. It caught Cal’s eyes.
A weakness.
Wanting to exploit it, Cal jammed his dagger into the gap. From the groaning of the contraption, as well as Metal Arm’s lack of ability to move it, it was immediately clear that Cal had succeeded. Metal Arm snarled, glaring at Cal before throwing his good arm at Cal in a desperate attack. The emerald-eyed teenager merely dodged the blow again before jamming his left dagger into the side of Metal Arm’s thigh. In a matter of seconds, before Metal Arm could react, Cal grabbed the left blade with his right arm, spun to face Metal Arm’s back, and proceeded to stab the hulking man multiple times in the back until the eighth one caused the bandit to fall to his knees with a final gasp, signifying his death.
Cal swiped his lodged dagger from the metal arm and sheathed the two blades before letting his head hang, taking a moment to inhale just one good breath. He did so; however, the air immediately left his lungs as he was tackled to the ground and straddled by a mad woman with a raised spear. She thrusted the spear downward, and with his right arm pinned between her leg and his side, Cal was forced to grab the shaft with his left hand, keeping it just inches from piercing his heart. Cal clenched his teeth, incapable of grabbing his weapons; however, she doubled her efforts, screaming at the top of her lungs as she attempted to push her weight onto the weapon. The weapon shook in Cal’s grasp, inching closer inch by inch as his hands, soaked from blood and rain, trembled, a reflection of his mind as he found himself knocking on Lady Death’s door with every grueling second that passed beneath the woman’s maniacal grin.
Then it stopped.
Her shouts, the weight of the spear, and his trembling hands—they all ceased, the reason why standing behind the woman as Cal’s savior pulled their own, much smaller, dagger from the bandit’s neck.
Cal sighed while taking in his savior’s rugged form.
Her hair—like silk and of a platinum blonde shade—was fixed into a neat bun while her milky complexion, now coated in grime, complimented her soft, icy-blue eyes. Renowned charm was replaced by merciless loyalty, proven by her white blouse’s lack of said color while her ankle-length walking skirt was torn along the sides, allowing her to move more freely, which in turn exposed torn white stockings that hugged her scraped-up legs.
As she gave him a hand, Cal looked over the many minor wounds marring Markstead’s Maid, her apparel befitting the name the townspeople gave her. “Are you okay, Bea?”
She nodded. “Papa is holding off the attack on the South Gate. He’ll be fine with Gordon’s assistance—the fat bastard loves this kind of thing.”
Cal held back the rare urge to chuckle. Instead, his gaze drifted to the opposite side of the dirt ring surrounded by towering oaks, where just over twenty bandits stood on the other end.
“Everyone! On me!” Cal ordered over the drumming rain and the reconvening enemy. Instantly, Cal and Bea were backed by their remaining allies—just three. Cal glanced at the closest, a lanky young man with brown hair and brown eyes. “Pierce, don’t get overwhelmed.”
“A-Apologies,” he said. “It’s only been a couple of months since I started using a sword. I—I won’t fail here.”
“You’re alive, and that’s telling enough,” Cal said as he crouched into position, drawing both blades with practiced ease and glancing to his other side. “Bea?”
“Ready,” she said, one foot forward and her body set to sprint.
Cal nodded, and as the bandits shouted from across the ring, nearly twenty yards away, both groups surged forward, meeting in the middle in a chaotic clash.
A quick parry to his first enemy allowed Cal to spin against their back before he stabbed the second bandit— a woman—in the stomach. When the woman dropped, Cal dropped to his knees, spun, and sent rapid stabs into the first bandit’s legs. The bandit cried out and fell to meet Cal at eye level. A quick slash to the bandit’s jugular sent him sprawling to both the mud and his death. With a merciful stab to the fallen woman’s chest, Cal had already dealt with two enemies.
He moved to the next, delivering shallow cuts to the enemies who his allies fought, which allowed the latter to take advantage of the openings he gave them. After saving Pierce by thrusting both of his feet into the back of the brunette’s attacker, Cal targeted a woman with a bow.
She was quick to draw, and as a result, Cal’s right dagger was knocked away as he attempted to swing at the projectile aimed at his chest. That didn’t stop him, however, for he quickly plunged his left dagger into her abdomen, leaving it there before grabbing her bow and twisting the string around her neck between the limb and heavy bowstring. Cal flipped over her and yanked the bow down. Her back slammed against his, and with a deathly grasp on the bow, he yanked down. She clawed at the string choking the life out of her—blood spilling from the laceration— but he didn’t quit, not until he felt her full weight rest against him.
Without a care, he dumped her aside, removing his blade in the process, and blocked an incoming swing of a sword before falling into a deadlock with the new enemy, their muscular build weighing on Cal and causing his legs to quake. A second bandit swung in from the right, their sword low and aiming for a diagonal slash toward Cal’s legs. With his adrenaline-filled mind moving first, he ducked, causing the bigger man above him to fall over… right into the sword of the second bandit.
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His decapitated head hit the ground, but Cal simply flipped the muscular man over his shoulder and swung wide at the last attacker, Cal’s intention lying in the gap of his armor in the side of his torso. It connected, though shallowly. But that was more than enough to cause the bandit to stagger backward, giving Cal a chance to pull back and stab at the bandit’s heart, protected by the leather defense.
However, the bandit slipped on the mud, and Cal followed. Despite that, with Cal’s blade still against his armor, he pressed down. As much as Cal, the bandit fought back. His hands grabbed at the sides of Cal’s face whilst the young man tried putting distance between them. The chaotic engagement could’ve worsened as the bandit targeted Cal’s eyes with his thumbs, but Cal clenched his jaw and brought his right hand back before bashing the dagger’s pommel. The blade’s tip pressed down further, and again, he smashed the dagger downward.
With every hit of the pommel, the bandit’s hands grew more frantic, grabbing at Cal’s face as he cried out in both pain and desperation; however, Cal didn’t stop, the motion practically engraved into his mind until the eighth hit left the bandit motionless beneath him.
The sound of battle around Cal ceased—it was safe to assume the battle was over—so he gave himself a moment to breathe, his inhales deep and frenzied as he clutched the leather armor as if he were trying to stay grounded to reality.
A squelch to his left forced him to look over.
It was Bea, her face covered in splattered blood. Markstead’s Maid looked up for a moment, soaked her face with the rainwater, and then wiped away the grime. Then she crouched in front of Cal and wiped at what little she could get off of him.
“Much better,” she said as she pulled back and grinned.
Cal closed his eyes and sighed before rolling off the bandit and looking up at Bea, whose face was just a few feet above his now. “You’re not dead,” he muttered.
The maid grabbed a clean handkerchief from beneath her uniform, her expression both triumphant and mockingly scornful before she continued wiping Cal down. “You think I’d die while dressed as I am?” She scoffed. “Know this, Cal Gray, Beatrice Meld will never die in such apparel, not for it is uncouth, but because a fighting maid is cooler than any knight or mage.”
Cal sighed. “You still think that, huh?”
Markstead’s Maid harrumphed before Cal picked himself up to a seated position and looked ahead. Bea followed his gaze to where Pierce and one other militiaman stood. At their feet, one of their allies, blood pouring from multiple lacerations along their back and torso.
They’d lost another.
Cal’s eyes lingered for a long stretch of silence, memories of a blood-covered forest beating itself into the forefront of his mind. Only when Bea softly called out his name did he look away. Glancing back at her, he was met with her comforting smile as she handed him his second blade. “The town’s gone quiet. Let’s go see Dirah.”
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Dirah Meld. Leader of Markstead, the adopted father of Beatrice Meld, and a veteran of the renowned Eldan Knights who safeguard the great kingdom of Elda—one of Wyze’s Three Great Kingdoms. One could easily tell of his past occupation by the man’s bullish build. With a broad chest, tattooed arms the size of an aged oak’s branches, and a scar that slashed through his once-gray left eye—now covered by a black patch—Dirah Meld was not one someone would wish to trifle with. His experience as a soldier and leader came with wisdom, but also a salt-and-pepper beard that faded into a wonderfully polished brown head, left to the elements as he went his day-to-day trying to keep the small farming village of Markstead afloat.
When Cal and Bea reached the key-shaped town, it was to see its leader helping lift a beam off a fallen citizen. The dozens of shops and homes that made up Markstead were only touched along the southmost road, where only a few homes were scorched and one had been destroyed completely. Left to the side was Dirah’s battleaxe, its handle made of sturdy, dark oak with two embedded lines of metal that twisted up to its enormous, double-edged head.
Bea grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder as Dirah clapped the dust off his hands. He turned to the duo, a smirk on his face as he took in their appearances. “Rough fight?”
Cal pursed his lips, annoyed at Dirah’s nonchalance while Bea grinned and slapped his back. “The captain did well. We all did. Nothing new.”
Rolling his eyes as the rain simmered into a modest mist, Cal’s eyes fell back on Dirah. “The girls?”
“Safe,” he sighed, his humorous expression gone. “The raid luckily didn’t come from the southeast, but rather southwest. Had they gone east or above Suicide Hill, I can’t say my answer would be the same.”
Bea’s countenance also shifted as her pink lips twisted into a frown. “Auntie Lisa would have handled them regardless.”
“Against a group of fifty?” Dirah scoffed humorously. “Even as a retired soldier herself, I don’t think the average Eldan Knight could handle such a crowd.”
“The raids are getting bigger, no? Bea inquired as she handed Dirah his weapon.
Dirah leaned against the butt of the axe as he looked across the town and its gathering citizens. He nodded. “Five years ago, there would’ve been maybe twenty, but now… What, fifty?”
“Ridiculous,” Bea grumbled as she drove the ball of her foot into the gravel road below. “The town population is declining, but the raids and their numbers aren’t. Doesn’t help that every other person in Markstead has already seen eighty summers.”
Dirah snorted before patting Bea’s head. “But if we weren’t here, who’d protect them?”
Bea grunted in understanding before she prodded Cal. “You’re being quieter than usual. Something wrong?”
Cal stared out of the South Gate, his expression hardened as the ever-watching eyes bore into his skull, their intensity greater than ever before. However, within seconds, it receded, as if the eyes were aware of their leaking enmity, and forced itself to stop.
Blinking the feeling away, Cal looked at the Melds. “Red Cove got attacked a week ago, yes?”
Dirah nodded. “And the faction advanced north right after.”
“To us,” Cal clarified. “However, that wasn’t them.”
Dirah nodded again. “These guys were wearing leather. Red Cove’s leader said their attackers were wearing plated armor. Plus it takes ten ten days minimum to travel between Red Cove and Markstead.”
“Meaning a second faction will be here any day now…” Bea muttered, thumbing her chin before looking up. “And with better armor and weapons. We’re not equipped for that!”
Dirah inhaled deeply. “We lost fifteen people today, eleven of whom were with the militia… We’re down to just over twenty.” Markstead’s leader fell silent before releasing an annoyed grunt. “Shit.”
“There’s no way for us to call for backup?” Bea questioned.
“The homesteads might be able to, but Red Cove can’t, and of course, Elda won’t either—bastards never helped us to begin with,” muttered the veteran who once defended said kingdom.
“Goodness,” Bea huffed as she crossed her arms. “Can’t catch a break. First, it was just our food and gold, but now with Cal’s bounty… By the gods, it’s ridiculous.”
“Thanks for reminding me that this is my fault,” Cal grumbled.
“Oh, poor baby. Don’t think I’m blaming you,” she said with a grin, poking the side of Cal’s face until he swatted her away. “The factions are never-ending, and we’re forced to fight. Whether you garnered that bounty or not, they would still attack. Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, sure,” mumbled Cal.
Dirah clapped his shoulder, a teasing smirk on his face. “What’s it gotten up to anyway?”
Cal deadpanned as he looked at his god-grandfather, questioning if he should tell him or kick the old man in his shin. He resorted to the former.
“… A hundred gold.”
The cyclops released an impressed whistle. “Ain’t that something? In my whole career, I had a single bounty put out on me and it was just a drunk I beat up. Ten gold he put on my head—pitiful bastard. I’m worth much more than that,” he harrumphed.
Cal rolled his eyes. “It’s not exactly desirable to have people come after you once a week. Someone broke in a week ago. Unfortunately for them, their information must’ve been wrong because they entered the wrong room.”
“You didn’t tell us about this!” Bea exclaimed. “Whose room did they enter?”
“Mother’s,” Cal simply replied.
A look of understanding flashed across both faces of the father and daughter pair before the former nodded solemnly. “May Lucius welcome that poor soul warmly.”
Bea mirrored his expression, both well aware of Lisa Gray and her abilities with the war hammer she once wielded as an Eldan Knight under Dirah’s command.
“That aside,” said Cal, running his hands over his face before pulling back his light brown hair into its normal ponytail. “What are we going to do about this faction.”
“I might be able to help with that.”
It wasn’t the weight of the arm that draped around his shoulder, the black cloak hiding the towering figure’s facade, nor the controlled power stemming off the man next to Cal that caused Cal to freeze; it was the calm, almost arrogant voice the figure spoke with, one Cal didn’t recognize as an ally, but as a threat.
Grabbing the draped arm, Cal yanked the limb down, attempting to flip them over his shoulder; however, the cloaked person twisted themself to land on their feet before swiping at Cal’s legs with a wide kick. Cal collapsed to the gravel ground while Dirah and Bea attacked. The veteran punched at the figure, but they dodged with quick movements, and when Bea came in from the right, the figure caught her fist before throwing her into Dirah.
At the same time, Cal picked himself up, unsheathing a dagger and stabbing at the figure’s abdomen. It connected, but only with the cloak, causing a tear to form in it before Cal reversed the grip and tried stabbing the enemy’s rib. The motion failed, however, once the figure grasped Cal’s forearm and squeezed down on it to the point that Cal dropped his dagger, which the figure then grabbed in mid-air before tossing Cal to the ground. With their knee, the figure pinned Cal’s arm to the small of his back, not allowing him to resist.
The figure twirled Cal’s dagger in their hands, and when Dirah and Bea took a step toward Cal, the dagger was immediately at Cal’s neck before the figure chuckled. Their voice, clearly belonging to a man, was utterly confident, its tone as calm and cool as an early autumn breeze.
“I’ve seen hundreds of cities and towns in my travels, but this might be the first one that attacks its visitors. Very interesting, I must say. Is this a Wyzian custom I’m unaware of? It’s been a while since I’ve visited.”
Cal attempted to escape, but the man merely tightened his hold. Cal winced at the death-like grip as Dirah took another step forward.
“Who are you?” he questioned, tone sharp. “Are the dead your allies?”
The cloaked man took that moment to look at the light destruction around him, as well as the corpses on the ground and the gathering crowd. Face still shrouded by his cowl, Cal could not see the man’s expression; however, something in the way he was without a response, and the way his grip on Cal loosened noticeably, told Cal of his lack of amusement at the sight. It was a split-second observation, gone in the blink of an eye as the cloaked man looked back at Dirah.
“Hardly, Lord Meld.”
“Then release my godchild and tell me who you are and why you’re in my town.”
A second passed, the two men staring at one another before the pressure on Cal’s arm released, allowing him to scramble away and back up to Dirah and Bea. The figure then tossed Cal his dagger, which Cal promptly sheathed after easily catching it. The entire time, Cal did not allow his eyes to leave the mysterious man before him, and just seconds later, the figure’s hand reached up to grab the cowl.
His lengthy fingers clutched the front of the hood before pulling it back, revealing calm electric blue eyes belonging to a man no older than thirty. A whole head taller than Cal, well over six feet tall, his hair—like coal and swept back aside from the tousled front—fell to the tops of his ears, parted in the middle to reveal admittedly sharp, handsome features. Like the cloak was nothing but an illusion, it faded away like smoke to the wind, showing off the expensive, full black suit the blue-eyed man wore. Ornate embroidery decorated the lapel, sleeves, and eccentric black vest beneath; the pants and shoes he wore shared the same color and rich quality, all of it giving him a more imposing air with his youthful, nonchalant aura.
He was confident, he was young, and in just the few seconds that they fought, Cal could tell that he was powerful. So it came as no surprise when he stepped forward and nodded his head, an easy smirk on his face with that calm, confident tone. “My name is Julius Airetore, and I have something I wish to discuss.”