Erdil
'Brushä!' The Mage called from the other room, and the boy's limbs trembled as he stood and trudged to the wooden door. At the last moment, he glanced back over his shoulder with terror in his wide eyes, and then he was gone. Färin dusted his worn clothing and searched the floor for his pack. The boy's innocence seemed like a farce to him, and he hoped never to lay eyes on the little rat again.
Ahh, there lay his pack in the dust at Denir's feet. From the ground he grabbed it, avoiding her poisonous stare and glimpsing the shade of her legs for a moment from where he crouched. What was wrong with him? Was he crazy? Obsessed? Why did this woman's alien body entrance him so? This moment in time should have had more meaning than a woman's glimpsed leg, Father's sake.
The bloody child from the prophecy stood a few feet away, and the end of a time was upon them. Why could he not leave the Apprentice be for a while? There was no answer to this question, and while he tried to look nonchalant and important, his eyes drifted to her shaded form every now and again.
Fathers and all the glorious heaves, he could imagine those crimson lips of hers hidden just past her hood's shadow. And the shape of her luscious hips was like a fingerprint on a dusty table, obvious under her cloak in the way it hung about her. Fathers. He had to stop thinking this way... this was improper. And what of Asrya.
Guilt hit him like an arrow, and the burn of ache spread from his chest as he recalled his rash commitment to her, and her young innocent love. What was he doing lusting over this creature, when she awaited him at home? No, this was enough. He would remember her curls, her... her, skirt?
Crap. What had been so attractive about her again? Somehow it was hard to recall. He tried to imagine her naked body on the forest floor, his hands rubbing the outside of her curved thighs, but when he looked up to see her pure heart-shaped face, Denir stared him in the eyes.
Thëlon's Ass, now he'd done it! With as much speed as he could muster, he crouched low, a lump forming in his pants. Crap, crap, crap. A bulge in his pants was embarrassing enough without being amidst strangers. Fathers, why did he always have to go too far. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nostrils, but images of a naked and delectable Denir assaulted him and his eyes flew open. This wasn't working.
The wooden door on the other side of the room opened, and the Mage spotted Färin crouching, pretending to dig through his pack for something. Desperate, Färin tried to find some excuse to leave the building. Cold wind and weather was just the thing for an inappropriate stand at attention from his... other parts. All he needed was two minutes.
Denir's hood moved a bit, and he spotted a glimpse of red. Okay, maybe five minutes.
'Färin, boy,' The Mage said, looking straight at him. Did the Mage know about his awkward predicament? 'You need to get out there right this instant. Avétk and the traitor await you.' Everyone in the room looked at him now. If he played it right, he would make it out without any further embarrassment. Before the telling bulge he held his pack and coat in a strategic placement, hoping in the Fathers' mercy that nobody would ask any questions.
'Yes, sir. I mean Kijs.'
On his way out, he met the girl child's eyes. At least he thought she was the one. He wasn't sure, but he guessed it was Emeline. The other woman was too boisterous and, well, not child like.
Emeline's green eyes stood out like gems on her pale skin, and something inside them put shivers on his skin. Something haunting and terrible lay there. Maybe he wouldn't need the cold to fix his problem after all. Into his soul her eyes seemed to pierce, as if she saw him and everything he had ever done wrong in truth. What was it with him and women today?
The cold hit him like a wave when his feet touched the snow. No longer concerned with the bulge in his trousers, he fiddled with his coat, trying to get it over his shoulders in time. It was a bare covering, and no protection against the howling icy winds. 'Mage?' he called, turning to face the man just as the door was almost closed.
The Mage opened it again. 'You want a coat, son?'
Färin shivered and ached down into his bones. He nodded, his teeth chattering.
'Here.' A thick fur coat flew from the Mage's other hand, and it dropped to the snow, slipping out of Färin's frozen fingers. Färin's fumbling hands struggled to get it onto his body, and then the warmth seeped into him, making him feel human again. He smiled, and the Mage nodded in approval and shut the door with a bang.
#
Avétk wondered what Durek was doing right then, while he, Färin, and the boy walked up a snowy trail in a desolate landscape. As far as he could tell, it was somewhere mid-morning. Durek would be warming up for practise with his students, crouching and bending as he always did until, as he called it, 'readiness had permeated his being'.
The routine of his time with Durek was something he missed, and Durek had always been there to help him when he had difficult questions to answer or choices to make. Their footsteps crunched down the snowy road. Cold sunlight from the sky was obscured by wind-strewn snow, dust, and smog. The pale morning light looked bleak and uninviting, and it did not sit well with him.
Sunlight should be bright and warm in his opinion. But why complain? Had he not long ago decided to take everything in his stride? Besides, a man as acquainted with death and violence as he was, was not deserving of warmth and gladness. This was his lot in life, just like the sordid task the Mage had given him.
Färin was to accompany him and the boy, and at the second bend in the road, Avétk would deviate from the path to the precise location the Mage had described, and there kill the child. Why was the prissy man tagging along? He hadn't the faintest idea, but he bore with the simpering man and his slower pace. Fathers, the wind burned his cheeks and eyes, howling like it was calling the moon back, all forlorn and heavy-hearted.
Maybe this was some form of test from the Mage, to see if Avétk and this Färin could work together, or elsewise he was trying to send their imminent fight away from its former close proximity to the women.
'So, Avétk is it?' The lordling jogged up from behind, but Avétk ignored him, keeping his eyes on the boy who walked ahead of them, shivering but clutching the ligt firmly.
'Listen, I want to apologise for my brash behaviour earlier,' Färin said, 'It was not proper, and though I have my excuses, I would much rather put it behind us so that we can travel amicably.'
Avétk smirked, but still did not make eye contact. 'Do I look like the amicable sort?' In truth, he just wished the man would shut up so they could get on with this sordid task.
'Well,' Färin started, 'I can't say what sort you are, but I feel it's important that we stand together. I mean, I don't even know where we're heading and what the plan is.'
Ahh, so that was why the man had changed his tone so quickly. Avétk grunted. His favourite response for pesky people who asked too many questions.
'Is there a plan?'
Avétk did not answer. Silence was so much more satisfying. Färin would just have to wait and see. Finally, it seemed he'd got the message and shut his mouth. On they travelled, down the winding road until they reached the second bend, where two Great Oaks towered into the sky, standing like obelisks in a windy, barren landscape, and marking the start of a wooded area.
'This way,' Avétk growled, and the boy stopped in his tracks, looking paler, frightened.
'Aren't we going to the city?'
'The Mage said we must walk this way, Brushä.' Fathers, what a pity this youth had to die. Avétk'd thought they'd connected in the cave, talking about women and love n' all.
Färin patted the kid's shoulder, turning him down into the woods while Avétk awaited them. 'Come on, boy. The Mage knows best.'
A little guilt sprouted where Avétk's heart should have been. This didn't feel altogether right, killing a little boy still at the freshest moment of his youth, with such potential in him. Another curiosity was why the Mage insisted they tie him to a specific tree deeper in, about five minutes' walk from the main way. That was strange indeed. But, Avétk didn't ask questions. That would be foolish.
As the Mage had said it, so it would be done. For all he knew, there was some sort of magic involved in all this still. Maybe the ligt had something to do with it. Right then he decided he would smash the things at the first opportunity he got.
Five minutes passed too quickly. How were they going to go about this?
Avétk met Färin's eyes, hoping that the lordling could tell something was coming. 'Let's take a break ey?'
Färin nodded. The three sat at the roots of a great grey oak, and Färin broke a loaf for them to share. 'Jus takin' a piss,' Avétk mumbled, walking to the other side of the tree. All he was really doing was stalling until he could think how he would tie the child to the tree without too much of a fuss.
Liquids from his body splashed onto the soil and he stared at nothing. There was no way to get around this; he'd just have to do things the hard way. 'Färin,' he said as he walked back round and sat with them. 'Do ya know how t' fight?'
'Of course,' he said, rolling his shoulders, 'my father is the Lord of Skävia. It's in my damned blood.'
Ah yes, now Avétk could place the arrogance. This man was not only a lord's son, he was the lord of the all the lords in the North's son—ruler of North Öldeim. Either way, he had the feeling that all of Thelön's kingdom was about to break open when he confronted this boy.
Avétk nodded and took out his dagger. The boy flinched, but Avétk put the knife to the crusty loaf of hard bread, carving out a chunk for himself slowly. As he chewed, the tension built and each of them looked at the other but did not make eye contact. He'd procrastinated enough.
With a quick sweep of his arm, he pulled Brushä into a choke hold, the dagger at his throat. 'Wait,' Brushä yelled and thrust his hands into the air, one clutching the strobing ligt. 'What the...' Färin leapt to his feet, his hands out ready to do something, but the lordling was unsure of himself. Perhaps at another time Avétk would've had a laugh at his expense, but he was not the sort for that kind of thing in moments like these.
'Against the tree,' Avétk said, 'and make it slow kid.' Brushä complied, and Avétk kept the knife at his throat. 'Get the rope,' he said to Färin. After a moment's hesitation, Färin complied.
'I hope you know what you're doing, warrior.'
Avétk spat in the dirt. Bloody rich folk knew nothing about the way things worked.
'Come hold the knife,' he said. The hilt slipped easy into Färin's soft hands, and Avétk wound the rope around the tree, looping it around Brushä's hands and feet, and pulling it as tight as it would go.
Sobs erupted from the child, snuffling and fat tears splashing down onto his chest.
'Hush, hush,' Färin said, but it was no use soothing him. They all knew what was coming. It was unavoidable.
When Brushä was properly tied to the tree, Avétk stood back and surveyed the scene. Next came the awful part. The Mage'd insisted that they get the child to confess and then cut off his head. The emphasis was put on it being completely severed from the body, and that the truth about the ligt had to come out.
'Right, Avétk said, 'spit it out Brushä. I know you lied about what happened in that cave.'
The sorrow left Brushä's eyes, replaced by something cold and empty, though a tear still wet his one cheek. 'You know nothing,' he said.
'I know that the ligt can't flash light in any hands but those of its creator.'
Färin's eyes went wide at that, and Brushä's mask of innocence fell away. A wicked sneer distorted his face. 'Well, now. Where'd you hear that?'
Though Brushä was young, his voice reminded Avétk of the raiders he'd killed in Ysvallëi—dripping with bloodlust. T'was too bad really.
'I want to hear you say what you did, Brushä.'
The white of Brushä's teeth appeared as his lips peeled away from them in a crazed grin. 'You want the details?' He licked his lips, and his eyes looked eager. 'How long he screamed and where I cut him?' The ropes held, but Brushä strained against them, his fingers jabbing the air like each was a knife.
'I sliced each of his fingers off one by one and poured blood into this here ball until he was dry.' A wicked laugh escaped the boy, sinister and queer. 'The Dark Woman helped me make all the preparations, just like she did with the others. You will never stop it; you can't stop the inevitable.'
Something wicked and evil was in this child. Avétk saw that the darkness had taken him, and at last felt at peace with what he had to do. 'I'm sorry it's come to this, kid. I thought you had potential.' Avétk pulled the axe out of it's sheath and came towards the tree. With wide eyes, Brushä fretted, swaying his head in all directions as if help might sprout from the trees. When nothing happened, Avétk smiled a sad smile.
'It's over Brushä. Nice knowing ya.'
The axe he lifted into the air and a spot of sunlight reflected off it's edge. Brushä dropped the ligt from his clutched fist.
Chaos erupted. Shards of sharp red glass and strobing particles flew in all directions, and in the same moment, black shapes appeared from the shadows. Crap. Somehow this child had called the enemy to him. They looked just like the ones who'd attacked them on the road to Ysbrug. Of course. Why hadn't he put things together earlier?
These attacks and challenges on their road had not been coincidental as he'd believed before. Each had been part of an orchestrated move against them by the enemy. This Dark Woman was after them, had been after them—and for how long! Maybe she had been after Emeline for much longer than these few days. For a moment, Avétk's heart stopped beating with terror. What if they attacked her while he was gone! Without her, his life would lose all meaning. These damned creatures stood between them, and he determined to carve a road through their hacked up bodies to get to her.
Woosh! The axe head swooped close to a dark creature's head and it hissed, leaning back in the nick of time. Apathy saturated Avétk's bones, and his natural instincts kicked in. Or maybe it was his curse kicking in.
With an intake of his breath, it seemed time paused and he counted each creature—fifteen of them—noting how one scowled as it leapt towards Färin with it's strange dark metal sword held high above it's head, and how another tightened its grip on its own dark sword as it approached him from the back to his left. With alarm Avétk realised three were heading to Brushä, relying on the chaos to conceal their intentions.
He exhaled, and the frozen moment spun on into normal time. Before he'd taken in another breath, his sword swept through a creature's upper right shoulder and blood exploded into the air. Under its pitch-black skin, it was pink and white and purple, just like any normal man. 'Aaaahhhh,' it screamed, but the scream came to a bubbling halt when Avétk's dagger slipped across it's throat. It fell into the snow, and two others took its place.
Clang! Färin's sword rang against a dark creature's.
Avétk turned and slammed his axe with both hands into the head of the creature who ran at him from behind. It stood stunned, blood pouring over its lips and into its open mouth. The creature's yellow eyes rolled back into it's head, and it started falling. With a quick sweep, Avétk turned back to the two, crouching just as the one's sword swept over his head, less than a hand's breadth from decapitating him. From below, Avétk kicked out, striking it's ankles with his heavy boot, and it yowled into the air and dropped it's strange sword.
'Yaaaaaahhhhhh!' Färin yelled from to his right. Avétk knocked the creature down with his fist while he watched Färin. A creature had pinned Färin to the floor with its sword at his throat, but his terror-stricken, adrenaline ridden body had responded with all its might, saving his bloody neck at the last moment with a hardy shove that sent the creature flying into the air. Spit and sweat spattered from Färin's terrified face. Avétk sneered.
Begrudgingly, he had to admit that this lordling had more bones to him than he'd thought. He dropped the axe onto the squirming man in the snow's head, not even looking, and its groans and shouts were cut off. Its friend breathed heavily.
The creature would not escape today. Death was coming. Leaping into the air, Avétk bared his yellowed teeth and growled low and loud as he fell on the man with his axe. It cut right through his head altogether, and his head peeled away to each side up to where his collarbone started. Blood bubbled and poured like a river over the man's chest, and each of his yellow eyes looked equally confused though separated by a huge gap.
These creatures were the Dark Woman's, but whether she created them with dark arts or whether they were fae bound by a wicked spell was hard to tell. But it didn't matter either way. Today they would all die. And Avétk promised himself that she would die too. Nobody had any right touching Emeline as long as he was alive.
*
Drip Drip Drip
Avétk watched blood patter from his elbow, axe held up. Butchered dark creatures lay scattered around him. Somewhere behind him, Färin lay groaning and huffing. The traitor child tugged against his restraints so much that his wrists bled. With teeth bared and gnashing, eyes wild, and nostrils wide, he struggled and strained, but he was unable to escape the Grey Oak or his fate.
'Thought you'd get away?' Avétk growled in a voice darker and emptier than his own. 'Nobody escapes me, foolish child.'
'You...' Brushä's eyes suddenly went wide. 'You're the Blackblood Cleaver!'
'That I am.'
The yellow of Avétk's teeth looked sinister, and blood marked the bottom of his lip. The axe once more gleamed in the air when he held it above his head, and then a sickening crunch, and Brushä's severed head rolled away from the tree.
Numbness crawled over his skin, and the blood smelled like paint, like something beautiful and decorative. Where was the other one? He spotted the lordling cowering on the ground. Nobody escaped The Blackblood Cleaver.
'Avétk?' the man said.
The Blackblood Cleaver did not answer, nor did he extend mercy. Each of his footsteps thudded towards the man where his pitiful form lay, and standing above him, he lifted the axe up to finish him.
'Wait. Avétk, it's me.'
Avétk growled, slurred the words in a deep hollow voice, 'death awaits you.'
From above his head he slammed the axe down, but the man was too quick, rolling away and grabbing his sword.
'Arrrggh,' Avétk yelled, frowning and snarling.
'Come on, warrior,' the man said, 'put the axe down. We don't have to do this.'
The man spoke words of peace, but his sword he held ready.
Avétk brought the axe down, quicker than a flash of light, and again the man dodged him. This was rare. Was he slow, or the man quick?
In his mind's eye, he saw the next moves the man would make, and his body moved of its own accord—before a second had passed—to block the man's sword, which headed straight for his chest.
Clang, clang, clang clang, their weapons sounded, echoing between the trees, and they danced just out of reach of each other. The man struck low. 'Ha!'
Avétk leapt into the air, and with all his might brought the axe down, so as to crush the man's skull, but the man, like a snake, slipped just out of his reach again.
Fury pumped though his body, and the rage shook his limbs. On and on they fought, the man retreating and Avétk always on the verge of killing him, but not quite.
The man's sweat dripped in the snow, and soon exhaustion showed in the way his sword would dip just an inch lower than before, would block the axe just a split second later. Time to finish him.
With a mighty swing, Avétk flung his axe at the man and knocked the sword out of his hand. The man fell to the ground.
'Avétk, enough of this. Snap out of it.'
Death would be satiated, blood would drench the soil. The axe he lifted into the air for a final, satisfying, crunching blow. The man cringed, held his hand out.
'Please, I must find Sheyå.' Avétk sneered, and took the breath that would power his swing. Begging never changed things.
'And what about the prophecy, the girl child. Emeline!'
Had the breath been knocked from him? The axe slipped out of Avétk's hand and fell a hand's breadth away from Färin's leg. His knees hit the soil.
'Avétk?'
Did Färin's voice hold pity? He didn't like pity, but the numbness had been knocked from him in such a blast, shocking him to his core. Had he been about to kill Färin?
'Did I...' His guilty eyes flicked to Färin's face.
'We're right,' Färin mumbled, glancing the other way. Sweat glimmered on his brow, and there was a tremble in his hands when he folded them over his knees where he sat.
'I...' Avétk's hands hung at his sides and he cast his gaze to the ground. 'I did warn you, lordling.'
No reply came from the lordling. Each sat on the ground, a few feet from each other, and the bloody corpses around them settled into the snow. After a time, Färin spoke. Avétk's eyes were trained on the ground, and he'd been counting the drops of blood that dripped from his sleeve.
'There was something wrong with that child. I am glad you killed him.'
Was this supposed to comfort him? Avétk snorted. They'd been dawdling enough, time was long past that they should return to the girl child.
'We'd best get back, then,' Avétk said as he stood.
In silence they travelled the road back to the little wooden shack, neither speaking of the horror they'd experienced. With snow, they each cleaned their weapons and clothing as best they could. The Mage hadn't wanted anyone to know about their mission to kill the boy, but in the state they were in, someone was bound to guess it.
The sun was high in the sky, the cold more biting, and the empty vastness of the windy plains more desolate. Dusty snow still stained the air, and the wind howled a mourning song, maybe crying for the loss of a young life or the stains of spilled blood.
PS
This chapter is dedicated to @Lyrica-Lee who helps with really important stuff all the time like who should die and who shouldn't...