The Somd

3. The Face Thief

For the first time Ashyem caught a glimpse of the Somd's terrified face, and in his final conscious thoughts, was surprised by how young the man was – no older than thirty summers.

His dark beard was thick and his face was filthy, and a wide scar cleaved his left eyebrow in two, just like his own.

The knife took the breath from his lungs. He felt for the blade's shaft protruding from his chest and his fingers came away dry. "What... What have you done?" he spluttered. "Wh- ... Why?"

"Because I had to," the Somd replied in the same tongue. It was only now that he understood the dying man's words as if they were his own. "I have no choice, and you ... well, some things should not be saved."

The Somd placed Ashyem's hands over his breastplate and combed his soiled hair off his face. If there was one last thing he could do for the man it was to let him die with some dignity after his hours of torment.

As soon as he removed the knife from Ashyem's lung it would fill with blood and his heart would seep until it stopped. Until then Ashyem would stay alive on adrenaline, if only barely.

Somd Irdrinjall bent over the dying man and, with genuine sadness, muttered, "Let go," in his ear. He yanked his blade from Ashyem's flesh, but did not linger long enough to watch the man sputter and die, not now that day had broken.

When the Somd finally reached the darkest depths of the forest, he was weak. Alone, he threw back his head, exhaled and slumped to the ground before a gentle brook, letting his weary knees sink into the mud.

He bent closer and brought a little water to his new face. First to his scarred brow, letting the coolness of it trickle down his broken nose, and then soothed the rest of his burning skin.

He let his hands drop again into his lap, though recoiled when they came away trembling and covered in dirt and blood that was not his own.

His muscles were drained, as if he'd been on the run for days, and there was a growing ache in his lung. He pulled his cloak around him more tightly and wept, inches from the brook's gently tumbling surface.

The sooner the fallen warrior died, the shorter the Somd would suffer his death alongside him. It would soon subside if he waited it out – it always did – but he was not a young being anymore and one moment, exactly like this one, could well be his last.