Chapter 20: Death of a Dreamer.


    Living in the woods was everything Cain had ever wanted in her life. Well, that was a lie. Everything Cain had wanted was to have everyone leave her alone, stop speaking to her and never ever dare to bother her with eye contact.


    Sadly, that wasn’t achievable, so what she had to settle for instead was living in the woods.


    She liked to think herself a self-sufficient individual, she hunted what she ate, lived where she built and shat where she dug. All in all it was good living.


    There was one thing, however, that she couldn’t get for herself and that was the experience of watching a good brawl. Stradale had them once a week and it had been a while since she’d lost some good money on bets, so she’d made her way to her favourite town.


    Cain knew something was different from the moment she stepped in, maybe it was the air or mood but the energy of the town was wrong somehow. It made her instinctively wrap her fingers around the handle of her blade.


    Market stalls were deserted, upturned and destroyed. It was like a particularly large Face Eater had run through the streets wreaking as much havoc as was possible. Knowing the proximity of the Dark Forest behind them, it was not entirely out of the question.


    A woman hunched over her ruined stall. Cain recognised her, Mariam, she sold fish and haggled quite doggedly while doing so.


    “Mariam.” Cain called out.


    The woman flinched like she’d just been flogged, whipped her head around and relaxed at the sight of Cain. Tears streamed down her tired eyes and she desperately tried to wipe them off as they relentlessly fell. “Granny.” She greeted.


    “What the fuck happened here?” Cain asked, finding this a more unacceptable time than most for pleasantries.


    The woman’s lips trembled and Cain could tell she was still coming to grips with it all. “I… The Light Breather, he’s punishing us because of the Light Breather…”


    Cain was patient as she listened to Mariam speak, the woman needed several pauses to calm herself and a few more to sob. When she’d finished what Cain had grasped shocked her, which was quite notable as not very much shocked old granny Cain.


    One hundred years in Hell would do that to you.


    It seemed that Nero boy had been the Light Breather. She’d known there was something off about him, not many people started off that powerful while seemingly knowing nothing about Might, he’d tried to hide it and she had let him think he’d done so successfully, even going over the fundamentals of how his abilities worked, just to prevent him from being forced to ask.


    Yes, there was something off about him, but there was something off about everyone so who could blame her for not investigating him further? People just kind of sucked.


    The Chieftain obviously wasn’t happy about the whole ordeal and it seemed he was planning an execution tonight. Selvas, the cold-eyed hunter girl had begged him to hold off on executions, she’d promised to bring back the Light Breather’s head in five days… Well they were on the fifth day now.


    Cain wondered how Selvas had even managed to keep her own head. The Chieftain was not a particularly kind Demon, and if this was how he treated people who so much as shared the same town with Nero, then she expected something grizzly for the woman who was practically his best friend.


    No, Selvas is a smart girl.


    She’d have probably leveraged the fact that she was the only person who could bring him in, of the fifty Mighty in Stradale, she was the most powerful.


    Save from her father, that was.


    Footsteps drew Cain’s attention behind her


    A half dozen men stood side to side, a mixture of guards and hunters. Each had their weapons out and eyes hard. Surely they were the ones responsible for doing the Chief’s dirty workly, likely the hunters had recently been hired by the Chieftain to ‘maintain order.’


    “Miss Cain-” the closest guard began. His name was Arnold if she was remembering correctly. “You are under arrest for colluding with the Light Breather, by order of the Chief.”


    With bladed weapons, thick wool and gruff voices, Cain was sure they must have cut quite an intimidating sight to the citizens of Stradale. But Cain was not a citizen, and she was quite hard to intimidate. She was a Cain, and by the trembling of their hands she knew they understood at least in some part the weight of that name.


    They were Might infused, all guards and hunters were, one didn’t need Might to terrorize civilians, but it helped. And it didn’t matter, they’d die all the same.


    “A sword through the testicles.” Cain hummed and elaborated only when she saw the confusion of the men’s faces. “That’s how I’ll kill each and every one of you, not because I have to, in fact it would be quite tedious and somewhat dangerous to deliberately avoid attacking armed men in any place but their balls, but that’s what I’ll do if you take one more step towards me.”


    They shuffled gazes between one another, each urging the other to be the first one to charge forwards. None took the bait, and soon the guards were jogging away nervously.


    Huh. It seemed men did really like their balls, funny that, she didn’t have any and she reckoned she got on just fine without them.


    Afternoon had come, and the bliss was gone. Four days, the Chief’s reward had lasted Tommy four whole days. It was far less than he’d hoped for but far more than he’d had in his entire life.


    Trikitax they called it, because it was extracted from the blood of a Trikite. Tommy didn’t understand how exactly that was done, but he figured it didn’t much matter now.


    It was all gone and Tommy was left with a wicked headache in its wake. His stomach turned wrongly and suddenly he found himself emptying the contents of it onto the ground.


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    He was in a ditch somewhere in Stradale. Tommy couldn’t remember how he got there. That was no surprise, he couldn’t remember much of the last few days really.


    The little he did however made him wish he hadn’t.


    Tommy pulled himself up from the gutter and stumbled onto groggy feet. Above everything else, he was hungry.


    He looked around to find his town upturned, the once-cramped streets were almost empty as not a single person wanted to be caught in the fury of the guards.


    Most of who remained were those with nowhere else to go, or people who had no choice but to be working outside today.


    Eyes fell on Tommy from open windows; angry, hateful and venomous eyes. Word had spread about what had happened, each and every one of them knew it was his fault that Stradale had become a prison.


    Tommy couldn’t help but remember what Nero said, that he was going to tell his secret no matter what. He hadn’t believed him when he’d said it, but then time passed and his craving grew worse, gnawing at him like a rat desperately trying to escape his skin.


    He took another look at the scornful eyes, and through the shame, guilt and regret that plagued him, Tommy realised one terrifyingly striking thing. He hated them. Tommy hated them all. He knew he had no right to, he had wronged each one of the people in this town all for the purpose of quelling the beast.


    Yet there had also been times before that, times when he asked for help, begged for it in fact and he was cursed at, spat on and kicked at.


    Perhaps he had deserved it, the two people who had helped him, he’d wronged, Gunther when he destroyed his lab and Selvas when he stole from her.


    Neither had sought out revenge, and that was perhaps what stung the most. The feeling that they had simply come to believe he couldn’t help himself but be cruel, so why get angry? One does not hold malice for a rock when you stub your toe on it.


    “They’re going to kill the Potion Master.” Someone called out from behind.


    Tommy turned and saw the source to be a man, a labourer if he was correct. Old man Albert. He had arms like tree trunks and a frame like a boulder. The man stormed towards Tommy, each step more furious than the last. “They’re going to kill our healer, who’s going to take care of my girls, who’s going to take care of all of us, you didn’t think about any of that did you?!”


    “I-” Tommy didn’t know what he was about to say, and he wouldn’t ever know as Albert’s Mighty fist knocked the thoughts out of his head.


    Tommy was on the floor, unable to tell the difference between up and down. The world was spinning and his head pounded like galloping hooves.


    Through drifting eyes, Tommy saw Albert move on him again. He raised his arms to block, but the farmer was far quicker. His fist connected with his temple and Tommy’s world went dark.


    Gunther woke up in a cold damp cell. Three days and he still hadn’t accepted that this wasn’t some sort of dream, at most a sick joke.


    He’d wanted to die hunched over a parchment weakly scribbling down ingredients to soothe a cough. Not in some gory display put on by a mad tyrant.


    It was still all so much to accept.


    Nero, the young lad, had been the Light Breather. From the stories he’d heard as a child, he’d expected the God of Hell to be rippling with muscles, have long flowing hair and boast a jawline that could cut diamond clean.


    He just looked like a kid.


    Brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin.


    A good kid, naive, hard headed, shady and too smart for his own good, but a good kid nonetheless.


    Well, good if one ignored that he was the reason Gunther was in debt and about to be executed.


    He still didn’t know what to think about it all.


    No, that was a lie, he was furious at the bastard for antagonising Tommy and even more fucking furious at the moron for beating up a guard.


    But he felt guilt too.


    Perhaps he wouldn’t have done what he did if Gunther didn’t yell at him.


    He couldn’t help himself, he was just, so, so tired.


    Well, he’d be getting his rest soon, that much was certain.


    He was making mental bets on which way he’d be executed. Beheading was number one, the Chief liked to make a demonstration, and severing a person’s head from their neck in front of a crowd was a classic that very few tyrants could resist.


    Second was hanging. That one was less visceral than the spray of blood that the former would include, but there was just something about the sight of a man’s leg kicking out desperately while he turned blue in the face that made people think twice before betraying the law responsible.


    Coming in last would be something creative and horrifying. Perhaps he would tie his legs and hands to fresteeds then have them dash in different directions.


    That one, Gunther reckoned, would be the best.


    But he doubted the Chief had the brains to come up with something as complex as that. In fact he might even find his end at the tip of a cudgel, so stupid was the Demon.


    He heard the door to the cellar open and a deep fright crept into his soul, banishing all distraction and leaving him with the overwhelming awareness of his own mortality.


    Heavy footsteps made their way down the stairs until he could see the figure who’d come to deliver him his death. He had skin the colour of paper.


    “Hello Executioner.” Gunther greeted.


    “Healer.” The man nodded back. He unhooked the keyholder across his belt and began searching for the one to his cell.


    “You’re from the other world, yes, the physical realm?” Gunther asked.


    “I am.” He said.


    “Tell me.” Gunther began. “Is it all they say it is, are skies blue? Do we humans rule?”


    The executioner slid the key into the hole and pulled it open. He set his eyes upon Gunther. “It wasn’t perfect, in fact it was far from perfect. But it was leagues better than this shithole.”


    Gunther drew in a breath and nodded. “I would have liked it there, I think.”


    The bigger man said nothing, instead he turned and gestured for Gunther to follow him. Gunther hesitated, then did so.


    Together, the pair made their way up the stairs in a deafening silence.


    Gunther squinted as they emerged onto the surface. It was night, but when contrasted against the darkness he had been cast into, the lights of Stradale were still bright enough to assail his senses.


    Gunther felt something grasp him, the Executioner by the strength of his pull. He stumbled, nearly fell but managed to keep upright enough to follow.


    When the pain in his eyes had subsided enough, Gunther opened them to find himself up against a platform. The execution platform. He’d witnessed one being carried out here as a kid, a beheading. Funny to think that that was the reason he had become a surgeon.


    And now it’ll be how I die.


    He looked behind him to find the Chieftain sitting comfortably on a chair. He met Gunther’s eyes and scowled as if he had personally wronged him somehow.


    Gunther didn’t even have the energy to reply with an expression of his own.


    “Climb up there.” The executioner’s gruff voice came.


    Gunther followed his gaze to find a stool propped right beneath a noose.


    His method of execution would be by hanging.


    Ah, so option two then.


    Slowly, yet far more quickly than he’d have wished, Gunther made his way up the stool. The executioner fastened the noose around his neck


    Below him was a crowd, citizens of Stradale, some faces he’d healed, all faces he recognised. Their eyes were sorrowful, sobbing, already in the first stage of mourning.


    His people. What would happen to them when he was gone? Nothing great. Shame, he’d fooled himself into believing he could somehow protect them.


    He couldn’t do that while he was alive, and he certainly wouldn’t be doing it in death.


    Gunther closed his eyes and waited for the stool to be kicked out from underneath him. People often did shit themselves during hangings, Gunther hoped that wouldn’t happen to him, it would be quite embarrassing.


    What a thought to go through a dying man’s mind.


    And no one will ever get to hear it.


    Gunther heard himself sniffling, then sobbing. He didn’t want to die, he was scared, terrified, helpless, so, so utterly helpless.


    “Just fucking do it already!” He screamed, wanting to get the torture over with already.


    But it didn’t end.


    He opened his eyes and found out the reason why.


    The crowd which once had eyes set upon him had their backs turned now. There was murmuring, whispers and then the mass of people began to part.


    Nero, the Light Breather, emerged into it. In his arms was an unconscious Selvas. He looked haggard, like he’d been through the nine circles of Hell and back. “I’m here!” He roared. “No one else needs to die.”


    “Guards, seize him!” The Chief roared.


    Oh, Nero, you stupid, stupid boy…