"Night Slayer!"
A man belted the words as Masis passed, rapping him on the back as he went. The man's wide smile, so full of hope, so genuine, begrudged one onto Masis' face. Smiles still didn't come naturally to him. He would smile, its glow warming him for a moment, before bitter memories assaulted him. How could he be happy when his family had not been avenged? His smiles always faded into grim lines.
Almost all the Shadows in the colony had taken to calling him Night Slayer. Almost all. Skinner had kept his distance ever since that night. He would exchange pleasantries and a few brief words, but no longer engaged Masis in the longer conversations he had come to enjoy. That gruff, weather-beaten wisdom. His matter-of-fact logic. His overarching need to protect those around him. That one act separated them somehow and Masis could not get the older man to confide his misgivings to him.
Wilo had started to descend. No more than four fingers of light remained of the day. Hotter than previous days, Werold had thickened the air with her heavy, damp exhalations, sticking shirts and trousers to everyone's skin. Even more than usual the colony reeked of unwashed bodies.
Masis had come from the latrines, the only partially enclosed structures in all of the colony, offset from the main settlement by at least half a Bolae field's distance, so as not to contaminate the area with its putrid odor. No one lingered if they did not have to and Masis had even jogged until he had cleared the miasma that surrounded it.
He headed straight to the pavilion. More shouts of Night Slayer echoed after him. He just shook his head. What he had done had not been achieved alone. Whomever had thrown that rock had afforded him the moment he needed to make the kill. No one would acknowledge having done it. Not a single person. Masis had his suspicions though—Kyla. She was the one person or creature that he could think of that could have possibly surprised a night wight. But he had no proof. But the mere thought of her made him reach for one of his seaxes, gripping it until his skin ached from the pressure. The green-eyed she-wight had to die. She would die for what she had done to his family. But Kyla would die as well. She would die for what she had not done.
Coming under the cover of the pavilion's overhanging eaves, Masis angled toward the basin of water reserved for washing hands which was refreshed every day. Linen shirt already rolled to his elbows, Masis plunged his hands into the cool water and snatched a handful of sand from its bottom to scrub his flesh with. The fine grit scraped away filth and skin alike.
Strangely, only one other person occupied the open space. Skinner sat with his back to Masis, slumped, seemingly occupied with the grains in the wooden bench upon which he sat. His nails, unseen, chipped away. The flexing of his shoulder and the noise the only evidence of his action. A task of distraction.
His hands now clean, Masis made to leave without disturbing the man from his thoughts. His step light. His breath practically held.
"I told everyone to leave the pavilion," said Skinner, not turning, but freezing Masis in place. "Told them I needed to have a word with the great Night Slayer."
The man turned, throwing a leg over his bench so that he sat staring directly at Masis.
"Night Slayer," he said, face blank. "Did you know they're calling you that? Did you?"
Masis shrugged. His eyes never locked with Skinner's for more than a moment at a time. This was not the Skinner Masis was accustomed to. His voice quavered as though unsure of itself but still it held the menace of coherence bordering on lunacy. Eyes that normally shined with an easy crusty nature, dug at him with a sharp aspect. A proud back normally erect, sagged. This was another man entirely.
"Skinner," said Masis, carefully, gently. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong he asks," said Skinner. "Ha. What's wrong? Don't you have a single brain in your head or did all them fancy tutors rob you of all your senses when they was praising you to the skies, hoping your daddy would reward them for their bilge filled words? You know what's wrong."
Masis could not move. Those words from a man he had come to respect had seized his muscles. He could hardly take in the dense air.
Skinner slapped the bench he sat on. "Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about."
Masis made no reply. The only thing registering was the smell of the rusty cauldron in which all their meals were prepared. Rust and grease. Corroded metal and blackened fat.
"Maybe you are just that daft," said Skinner. "Do you have any idea what they'll do now? Did you pause for even a second to think about what might happen now that one of those things is dead?"
The night wight, Masis thought, his face clenching in confusion. This is about the night wight?
"I see that you didn't," said Skinner. "That dumb look on your face tells me everything I need to know."
None of Skinner's words had reached a volume capable of escaping from beneath the pavilion. Each syllable came out in tight control, a hushed growl to keep hungry ears from eavesdropping.
"All this because I killed a blasted nightling," said Masis, finally finding his words. "I thought you would be happy. At the very least, content knowing fewer people are going to die because one less wightie will be stalking the nights."
"Happy?" Skinner paused. His face wilted, dumbfounded. "Happy? Did the Grand Duke, the very Forest Lord of Asthurn, himself, ask if I was happy about him killing a wightie right here, in the middle of the blooming Shadow colony, where every single soul is marked for death by the nightlings no less? Am I happy? No milord, I am not happy. Not one bit."
"I saved someone." Masis shot back, his words hardening. "What did you do? Oh, wasn't that you I saw just sitting here on that very bench just hoping that the nightling wouldn't choose you? Pleading to both Mona and Mani above you wouldn't have to die that night. Content in the knowledge that if not you some other poor wretch would have to die to satisfy that monster's appetite."
Skinner leapt from his seat as though it burned him. "And what happens when another wightie comes and smells that rusty patch of death? That's not the bleeding kettle we've all been smelling these past few days. Oh, no. It's that thing's mark, screaming out to any other of its kind that might wander into this death camp for revenge. And when the next one or maybe two come sneaking in here like thieves in the night, what do you think they'll blooming do? Shake our hands and kiss our cheeks thanking us for what we've done? There as like to kill every one of us to make a point. What do we matter to them? We're nothing but cattle in their eyes."
Stepping closer, Masis hissed out his next words. "So, what do you want us to do? Just sit in our hovels every time they come round and hope we aren't chosen but perfectly content that another is taken in our place? Where is the hope in that?!"
"Hope?" asked Skinner. "You think you have given these pathetic blighters hope? All you have given them is false hope. The idea being that whenever a nightling comes sticking its nose around here, you, the great Night Slayer, will be here to kill it. But we all know that ain't gonna happen. You're not gonna stick around and be these wretches' guardian. You're too bent on revenge and death to be worryin' about anyone that might actually still be livin'."
"Oh, I care," said Masis. He jabbed a finger into the taller man's chest. Skinner slapped his hand away. "I care enough to do something for these people. I've shown them that the blasted nightlings can be killed, that they aren't invincible as everyone has thought. I've shown them that their nightmares can be beaten."
"We all know... well, at least I know, that you got lucky, very very lucky, that night. If it hadn't been for that rock, you'd never have been able to kill that wightie and it would have claimed some poor soul just the same. So, go on Masis Domrae, go on, and give these people hope, but don't come cryin' to me when it all comes down around your ears."
At this point, their harsh voices had drawn the attention of many outside the pavilion. Some had gathered in small groups, whispering and muttering to each other behind their hands. Most showed concern. Others displayed open apprehension. Hostility manifested on a choice few. Those individuals plucked up enough boldness to approach, taking sentinel-like positions at the hefty posts that held up the structure.
"Anything wrong there, Skinner?" asked one of the men, his face begrimed like his clothing, but not enough to hide the Shadow mark, a quarter woven moon that cradled his right eye.
"Nothin'," said Skinner, biting off the last syllable crisply. His eyes never left Masis. "Me and young Ramesto here were just having a bit of a word about the other night's goings on. Nothin' to worry yourself about, Ekkehart."
"That's good," said Ekkehart. "Now, I think you should be standin' away from Master Ramesto. We don't want nothin' to happen to you or him, now do we?"
His words spurred three of the other men to march up behind Skinner and plant themselves within an arm's reach. Skinner's eyes darted away from Masis to Ekkehart and the other men in his field of vision. His head turned not enough to see the men behind him but enough to acknowledge their presence. Skinner's eyes finally went back to Ekkehart, though his feet did not shift.
"What do you think you're doing, Ekkehart?"
"I'm keepin' you from comin' to blows. We don't want Night Slayer here to get hurt now would we?"
Skinner straightened into his full height and faced Ekkehart. "Night Slayer? Don't tell me you've bought into this load of codswallop as well?" He jerked about to look each man in the face. "Have you all lost your ruddy minds? Do you have any idea what will happen because this boy killed a bleeding wightie? They're as like to kill us all now just out of spite."
Each of the men's bodies tensed with the questions. They rolled shoulders, cracked knuckles, and shuffled feet, but remained dumb. They offered up no words to answer Skinner's keen questions.
Masis backed away from Skinner, abandoning him in the midst of the four men and hated himself for it in the same instant. His stomach's bottom dropped out with his cowardice. Skinner's words might have stung but his father would have said only the truth stings and lies tickle. In truth, Masis hadn't considered what his actions might mean for the rest of the colony, how his choice might have decided inadvertently the future for more than just himself. Had he just failed the Shadows as he had his family?
"And how are the nightlings gonna know?" asked Ekkehart, still calm but tight as a bowstring. "Are you gonna tell them the next time they come callin' just out of spite? Just because this here lad did what you never had the guts to do? Would you really be that petty?"
Skinner's breath came in short, quick huffs. Sweat beaded on his brow. His head flicked between each of the men trying to divine something in each of their faces. Sanity, perhaps.
Masis forced his way back between the two men, their bodies and clothes befouled with grime.
"Really, gentlemen, there is no need for this," he said, hands out as though settling a horse. "It was nothing but a bit of a disagreement between Skinner and myself, that's all. Nothing to get everyone riled up over. All we need do is shake hands and part friends."
No one moved. The men kept their eyes on Skinner. Unflinching. Saccade-less. Hard.
Skinner's eyes never went to Masis. He kept them trained on the men around him, assessing them, their stance, their slightest twitch. His fingers fidgeted against the side of his leg.
"There's no reason for you to worry, Night Slayer," said Ekkehart. He casted his eyes briefly to Masis. "We're just doing what needs to be done."
Masis went to open his mouth again, but Ekkehart had completely turned from him. Not just his body, but all of his attention, all of his faculties, his reason, moved away from Masis, a clear dismissal. He saw it in the man's face and stance, and, briefly, in his mind, he Saw it in the man's light. The words in Masis' throat caught, as the men moved back in front of him.
"Ekkehart, don't be a fool," said Skinner. "You know I wouldn't tell the wighties nothin'. Don't you remember? I'm the one that put things right here. Before I came to the colony, there was killings and rapings. I gave you all order and protection. Months and months of it. I'm the one that did that, not that boy over there. What has he done? I ask you, what has he really done? He killed a single blooming nightling. One. I've given you peace."
"There's no denyin' that you've done your good," acknowledged Ekkehart. "That you have. But is it really peace what you gave us or just a little less fear? Sure, we didn't fear nothin' from each other, but that didn't mean every night we didn't huddle in those huts and pray to Wilo, Werold, and anythin' else we could think of to protect us from the nightlings. That boy did what no one else would do, includin' you, Skinner."
"The only reason the boy actually killed that wightie," said Skinner, driving his finger downward as though to secure the point into the ground, "the only reason he is still alive right now, is because it didn't just kill him." Skinner's boots squeaked in the dry sand beneath the pavilion. He thrust his finger out at each of the men in turn. "I know you all saw the same thing I did. That night wight was runnin' from him, there's no other way to describe what we were seein'. You all know just as well as I do that a wightie is more like to kill you than anythin' and just for lookin' the wrong way at it. That he-wight just didn't want to hurt the queen of the night's precious little Shadow."
All of the men but Ekkehart casted their gazes down acknowledging the common truth. Ekkehart's eyes shone manically, lit by the creeping smile that spit his lips. It revealed brown, craggy teeth.
"But don't you see, Skinner," said Ekkehart, his voice quavering, "we can use that. We can use that to fight the nightlings."
Skinner's fingers stilled. He took in a single deep breath. He settled back on a single leg and crossed his arms.
"How under Wilo's great light do you expect to make this work for you?"
"Can't you see, Skinner? None of the blighters will want, will dare, to hurt the queen's little darlin'. They will all run from him like that one did the other night. We know they can be killed now. All we have to do is let the boy do what he did last time, distract the wightie long enough for the boy to jump it, and that will be that."
Skinner's face had become as flat as still water.
Masis did not follow suit. His mouth hung open. His breath had all but stopped, though his heart beat itself against his ribs, while his eyes widened.
That's what they want? he thought. They just want to use me.
He had not been fearless facing that night wight—his hatred had simply smothered fear's voice as it had told him to flee and survive. His face stiffened with his thoughts. He snapped his mouth closed. Saret's plea rang in his head. Oh, he would still kill night wights. He would kill any that he could. Eventually, he would have the queen's very head, but he would not stay in this dingy, dung heap of a place just to serve as these cowards' personal guardian. They just wanted to use him but do nothing themselves.
Clenching his fists, Masis made to protest, but Skinner's next words stopped him.
"How can you be so daft, all of you, to think that that will work again?"
Ekkehart's mad gleam faded. A frown darkened his face and concealed his mucky teeth.
"Besides, what happens when the great Night Slayer leaves?" asked Skinner. "We all know he means to leave and seek his mighty revenge on the very queen of the night herself. What do you plan on doin' once he wanders on out of here, kill the nightlings yourself?"
"Well, I... we will... we could," stammered Ekkehart, nonplussed for a moment until he burst out thrusting his confusion aside. "Where is he going to go, he's a bleedin' Shadow?!"
"Ekkehart, the boy chased after a wightie for Wilo's sake." Skinner finally turned his eyes on Masis, holding his hand out as if to encourage a reexamination of Masis' person. "What are you going to do, keep him prisoner here and only unleash him when a wightie comes creepin' round, like a dog chained up until let loose on some trespasser?"
Shaking his head as if to dislodge Skinner's logic, Ekkehart's movements became more and more frenetic. He growled from between his teeth.
"No!" bellowed Ekkehart. His potent breath reached even Masis. "He's one of us! He has no place to go. No one will let him in. No one will come near him. They'll hiss and spit. They'll kick dirt in his face. He's a bleedin' Shadow! This is the only place where he can hope to survive."
During the tirade, Skinner had stared at the ground, as though to weather it. His head shook sadly. With a sigh, raspy like the last bolt from an archer's quiver, he reeled his head back up.
"And what will you do when the queen of the night, herself, comes callin'?" he asked. "What will you do then? Because believe you me she won't be afraid to do more than touch the lad. She'll kill him without so much as a second thought. What will you do when you have no Night Slayer to protect you?"
Having recovered from his outburst—wiping away a random strand of spittle off his stippled chin—Ekkehart simply snorted out a short laugh.
"When was the last time the great queen of the night graced us with her presence? Do any of us remember a time when she actually appeared, herself?"
He turned to look at his fellow instigators. Each shook their head in turn. One sputtered out a cough.
"Besides," said Ekkehart, "the last Shadow with her mark, years ago as I remember you tellin', wasn't claimed by the queen, herself, oh no, some underlin' came and fetched that poor wretch for her because the dainty queen couldn't be bothered to come to our humble dwellin' and bless us with a visit."
His smile returned, triumphantly. He heaved out a great breath as though he had just finished a momentous labor.
Skinner unfocused his concentration from those around him. He faced out toward the circular colony, as though he gazed through the men.
Masis followed the direction of his observation.
Some of the Shadows walked about, some sheltered beneath their lean-tos, while others made their way back from the nearby stream with full buckets to fill the water barrels sheltered under the pavilion. Some actually smiled. A laugh—truly a rarity—sounded out. Heads, not all downcast, nodded in conversation. A little whisper of voices trickled throughout the place. Even the air seemed fresher, less polluted somehow. In the failing light of day, all the Shadow marks stood out, most looking like black tears that stained each person's face, an oily marring of their new found hope.
Ignoring Ekkehart and his cronies, Skinner refocused on Masis. He gestured to the people within both of their views.
"Their lives are in your hands now." He paused as though something had struck him. "I guess you really were born to rule and now that your da is dead I suppose it is only right that you do."
He pushed his way past the men with little resistance. The gruff, graying seamen trudged away as though leaving a wake, head down, arms sagging, back hunched, shoulders slumped. Masis could not recall a time when Skinner had not been anything but commanding and controlled. This was not the same man. This was his wraith. A mere shell.
"Don't worry, Night Slayer," said Ekkehart. His voice snapped Masis from his observations. "He won't be bothering you anymore. You have my word on that."
The man thumped Masis on the shoulder several times before heading off with his posse. Each of the other men offered curt nods to Masis, muttering Night Slayer under their breath. Deference that they never would have given him days ago. One act had changed all.
Masis turned back to Skinner. He had not stopped in his retreat when he reached the stone, ringed structures. Head still down, steps slow, he left the colony's confines behind. His feet carried him up to the top of a slight rise not far from the colony's boundaries. He stopped to look back. His eyes roved about until they fell on Masis and then with a single shake of his head he descended out of sight.
Masis remained under the pavilion not moving. No one moved towards the cover. They left him there alone as the last finger's worth of sunlight died away. Moving up beside one of the great poles holding up the shingled roof, he leaned into the wood, pressing his Shadowed cheek into the grains. Had this timber come from Asthurn? Was this the only thing he could hope to find to remind him of his home, his family, his former life? Would he be denied the vengeance his family deserved by the wiles of scheming and cowardly men?
Why did I ever come here?
His flesh conformed to the contours of the wood, dips, ridges, and hollows warping the skin that harbored his black reminder. His hands moved up on either side of the beam until they pressed into the wood just under his head. Weathered, moist, spongy from decay, his palms started to conform to the grains as well. A heady scent of mold and aged lumber crawled into his nose. He preferred the crisp, solid smell of fresh cut boards after being milled, the sawdust piled under the saws and clinging to the clothes of any close by, a cologne any man could wear with pride, knowing that hard work had gifted it. He would never smell that again. He would never brush wood chips or sawdust from his person again. Nor would he ever wander Asthurn's cool, verdant climes again. Instead, he had to live with this moldering hunk beneath his fingers, gray with age, a mockery, a poor reminder of his ancestral seat, his lost future, his family.
He slapped the wood. The sting vibrated up his arm. He clenched his teeth, grinding them together until his jaw ached. His mouth burst open as a wild yell spurted out, ragged and hot.
Heads swiveled towards his outburst. Seeing who it was, they quickly turned their attention elsewhere. None moved to aid him.
Pushing away from his support, Masis sagged, his mind exhausted, his heart aching, his body spent, his soul all but falling in on itself. Shuffling forward, he made for his bed, his cloak spread out beneath one of the moss covered lean-tos. To his left Wilo sank into Werold's embrace to consummate the day. The sugary pinks and tender reds of their passion went unadmired by Masis. He stumbled into his hutch, falling onto his belongings, with no care to how he landed or where he lay. His cheek rested on his cloak's fine material, now made rough from travel, its dusty smell a reminder of the miles he had gone, how far he was from his home and those four graves where rested his mother, father, and sisters. Tears swelled to the brim of his eyes. A single drop welled in the corner until a blink pushed it over the bridge of his nose. It rolled along his skin until it reached his cloak where it was absorbed into the travel-worn fibers.
I am a fool. Ekkehart is right. Where could I possibly go? Masis' thoughts dimmed in the tear blurred light of nightfall. Sleep began to steal purpose from his thoughts.
"Night wights! Night wights!" a voice screamed out.
The scream shocked Masis back into wakefulness as he grabbed for his seax.
*DON'T FORGET TO VOTE*