Chapter 23: Perhaps Death Is the Reward For A Life Badly Lived.


    It was all turning to shit, and that was a light way to put it. The people turned on the Chief, forcing their way past the guards in the aim to… Well Tommy didn’t know exactly what their aim was, all he knew was that they moved like a tide in the town centre, causing far too much chaos to be ignored by the guards.


    ‘They’re trying to protect Nero and Selvas.’ He realised. It was a dumb move. The pair were most likely going to die, today and here, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. All this would do was make it worse for those left alive.


    And things quickly got worse still.


    The guards drew their blades and without a hint of hesitation, tore into the mass of bodies like they were cattle to slaughter. Shrieks of panic flooded through the crowd and it did not take long for the united front to become a disorganised field of hunted men and women.


    Some fled for their lives, more than he expected stood their ground and fought for it instead. Most who did the latter fell to cruel blades. Justice was no match for Might, courage even less of one for armour.


    A child threw a rock at a guard. It bounced harmlessly off the guard’s head, but not harmlessly enough to avoid the man’s rage. He turned to the child with a fury in his eyes more fitting for animals and swung his blade down at the boy.


    He leapt back, dodging somehow, but not before earning a shallow cut to his side. An arc of crimson flew through the air and was drunk in by the sand. The boy cried out, slipped, fell on the ground and was in the process of rushing to his feet when the guard moved in to finish the job.


    ‘The Chieftain will have our heads for this.’ Tommy realised. He should leave, use the chaos to pack his things, loot what he could and make his way as far from Stradale as his legs could take him.


    It was all logical, self preserving, all right, and yet his body was moving before he could tell it not to. His fist was what met the guard first, slamming into his face, crunching into bone and leaving the bastard’s head to snap back.


    The guard stumbled backwards and stopped in a daze. Bloody teeth fell out of his mouth and he looked at Tommy like there were several of him. The man’s face was wrong, misshapen. One of his cheekbones, Tommy realised, had actually caved in. He’d always been strong, even with the starvation and addiction.


    “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that to you bastards.” Tommy heard himself growl his words out rather than speak. His heart beat like a drum, his arms vibrated with a raw adrenaline fueled animation. He was terrified, more terrified than he’d ever been. But he was doing the right thing and that was a different type of feeling altogether.


    Tommy doubted the guard saw the strike that sent him into the ground coming, but his hunter friends did, and they were eager to avenge their colleague.


    Three of them charged at him, and Tommy moved quickly. He rushed for the closest one, blocked his strike by the wrist and met him with a headbutt that left even his head ringing from the impact.


    The man dropped like a sack and that left two coming up behind him. Tommy surprised them with a wild elbow swing behind, it made contact, but barely, only doing enough damage with its glancing, clumsy impact to send one a step backwards.


    The second’s axe was already coming for him and it was only his enemy’s poor footing that allowed Tommy to keep his head when the hunter slipped. The weapon’s edge left a gash across his ear.


    And the remaining two bastards circled him, cruel blades already coated with blood yet leering gluttonously for his.


    He backed away, reached towards his belt for his dagger and couldn’t find it. Must have lost it, or must have sold it. He didn’t know, the past few days had been a blur, and now wasn’t the time to focus on that.


    The downed guard’s blade was a few steps behind him, and Tommy knew any attempt to run and grab it would have the two others descend on him like vultures. He only had his fists and he wasn’t exactly confident in how much help they’d be against such a number’s disadvantage.


    Things were getting worse too, because it was just that sort of day. The hunter he’d headbutted was getting up slowly, stirring and groaning while doing so, but getting up all the same.


    “I’ve been looking for an excuse to put you out of your misery Tommy.” One of them said, They had a thick beard to cover up parts of a scar that ran from their ear to their chin. His eyes held a repulsion to them that Tommy recognised well.


    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    Not from him, but from everyone in Stradale.


    To be honest, he didn’t remember him all too well but given Tommy’s record it wouldn’t be stretch to assume he’d wronged him somehow.


    That was sort of what he did best. Wrong people.


    But today would be different, today he’d do something right.


    Or at least he’d die trying.


    The situation was already dire, and with the third one rising, Tommy knew he had to act fast or it would become hopeless.


    He charged for the scarred hunter with a roar, the suddenness of it was enough to spark a light of panic in the man and leave him stunned.


    Tommy grabbed his axe by the length and used that as leverage to lean in for a headbutt. The man lowered his head to the strike barely connected and for a terrifying moment the pair were locked in a struggle while his friend charged at him.


    Tommy tensed his muscles, grit his teeth and tried one last time to pull the axe from the man’s fingers, but to no avail. His footing was all wrong, grip too, and he was running out of time.


    He let go of the guard’s axe just as his friend’s sword cut into the space between them.


    Tommy earned a cut to the arm for his sluggishness and he dripped fountains of red onto the dirt. The pain hissed like the kiss of hot steel and it took everything in him to retain his wits enough to dodge back from another terrible slash.


    He stole a quick glance at his hand and it told him he was losing blood and doing so quickly. He wasn’t going to last long, and to make matters worse, the third hunter was back on his feet with eyes screaming for revenge.


    ‘I did my best.’ He told himself, but even he knew that wasn’t true. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was at his best. Trikitax made eating an afterthought both when he had it in his system and when he was trying to get it in. The comedown made him feel like shit and piss mixed into a perfectly distributed bowl.


    He couldn’t even remember what normal felt like.


    With Might like his, what could he have achieved if he put himself to honing it?


    ‘I guess I’ll never know.’


    The three hunters circled him now, a pack of predators preparing for a feast, No, not predators, scavengers. None of the three seemed overly eager to risk their neck by diving in for the kill. They would rather hang back and let the other two do the heavy lifting.


    ‘Well, that or wait for me to bleed out and die.’


    Tommy’s knees felt like candlesticks. They melted under the burning weight of his torso and he fell onto them, only managing to prop himself up by his hands.


    That, it seemed, was enough to urge his attackers.


    The scarred hunter moved in with intent. Tommy saw it all happen but he seemed oh so far away and helpless to do anything about it. His killer raised his blade and brought it down like a Demon’s judgement.


    He closed his eyes, too much of a coward to face his own death. But when he opened his eyes, it was not oblivion that stared back at him.


    Granny Cain’s blade held the man’s axe in the air. For a moment, all was still, the two struggled for control, if one could call an encounter between a Face Eater and a flea a struggle.


    With an effortless flick of her wrist, Cain twisted the axe out of his grip. With the next she was swinging her blade down at him.


    The last thing the scarred hunter did was gurgle as blood spilled from the gash in his neck.


    The other two were running then, not a moment passing before they did. Only mad men fought Cain.


    Only madder ones hoped to escape her.


    They didn’t make it very far, but their cries did.


    The wrinkled woman flicked her blade sharply and sent an arc of blood onto the dirt.


    She looked at Tommy like she’d just caught him ogling her, and he would have thought the revulsion in her was due to him being an addict who’d wronged half of the people in stradale already. But he and everyone else knew that Cain simply did not like people.


    “You’re not very good at this fighting thing, are you?” She sniffed.


    Tommy rubbed his head. “I’m… I’m bleeding out.”


    “Case in point.” She said as if he’d just informed her they’d be having mild weather today. At the very least, the woman walked up to Tommy.


    She got on a knee, reached into her satchel and drew out a red rag. On it Tommy could see black runes etched into the surface. “A waste of perfectly good healing rags.” She murmured.


    “Those don’t look like any healing rags I’ve seen.” Tommy noted as she brought his arm up to her face to inspect it. Healing rags were typically white in colour for one, and he didn’t recognise any of those runes.


    “No it does not.” She said. “Because you, my boy, have never been to war.” She finished. Before Tommy could ask any more questions, she was wrapping the cloth around his wound.


    Tommy had felt pain before, he’d caused it too, but he couldn’t imagine any pain he’d been associated with measured up to even half of what he felt now. The cloth felt like thousands of needles sinking their bladed tips into his skin and secreting poison into his veins. It felt like the muscle beneath was fighting to get out, and succeeding. It felt like…Words failed. They’d have failed a poet, nevermind an addict.


    He tried to pull the wrap off, but Cain wouldn’t let him. The old woman had him pinned against the ground like he was a toddler attempting to fight off an adult. It was the second time in Tommy’s life he’d been directly overpowered. The first by anyone but the Light Breather.


    Tommy didn’t know how long the pain lasted, he only knew that he stopped screaming when it did.


    “Ah, yes, did I mention it hurts.” Cain noted dismissively.


    He was panting, drenched in his own sweat and invigorated.


    ‘Invigorated?’


    He looked at his arm to see the rag burning away like paper already consumed by a fire and struck by a wind. The flesh beneath was healed and the pain and aches all over his body, though still there, were faded now. A memory rather than an experience.


    “How?” He began, but she interrupted him.


    “Like I said, very good healing rags.” Cain told him quickly. “I couldn’t just let you die here.”


    “Thank you.”


    “You have far too much Might.” She explained, making Tommy ever so slightly less thankful for her aide. “Stradale needs all the help it can get and so do Nero and Selvas.”


    Tommy picked up an axe from one of the dead men. “Okay.” He nodded. “What can I do?”