《Live by the Sword》


 A Very Serious Swordsman - Prologue: Zarak Hitches a Ride

    --On a lonesome stretch of dirt road, just beyond the safe walls of Bartertown, a wagon carrying two ladies was stopped by a young man standing in the middle of the road. The sun was meeting the horizon just before sleep.


    --The young man made wide gestures with his hands as he spoke:


    -Ahoy, fair maidens! Couldn''t help but see you traverse these perilous roads on your own. I can only conclude that you don¡¯t know about the bandits that lurk in these dark woods? I offer to lend you my aid on your journey, lest you fall prey to their fiendish... ¨C His enthusiasm suddenly vanished as he spoke on - Why are you pointing a crossbow at me?


    -Not to be rude young man, but that is the worst crock of shit I have heard in a long time.


    Move to the side, please. -- The old lady replied, with a dry tone.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    -Ok, wait, wait... I''ll be honest with you. I¡¯m a mercenary. I was in charge of defending a merchant returning to Bartertown after a successful trip, but my band and I were ambushed by a group of bandits. I alone survive... I fear of returning to Bartertown now. If word gets out of my failure, no one will hire me again. I need to get out of here until the dust settles. Will you help me?


    Dropping her guard a bit, the old lady replied -- Assuming you speak the truth, what use would we have of a defender who has failed to protect anyone but himself?


    -That, I fear, shall be spoken of me if I return to Bartertown. But think of it this way: perhaps I am the only one to live, because I was the most skilled of my comrades?


    The old Lady pondered this for a bit, and reluctantly asked ¨C Can you drive a chariot?


    -Sure.


    -Fine. -- Said the old lady. -- Your story rings true. Hop aboard, but keep in mind that I''ll be right behind you with my crossbow.


    Extending his hand, the man introduced himself ¨C I''m Zarak.


    -I''m Magda, and this is my niece, Sophie. We''re heading south, to the mining town called


    ¡°Nomad¡¯s Rest¡±.


    --And so, Zarak felt pleased with himself. His second bluff worked like a charm.


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    -Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Monday morning.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter I: Pissing Life Away (1)

    --The following evening was surprisingly cold for a summer night. They had stopped some time ago. The two women sat next to the campfire, across from the man, who was sharpening his crude, two-handed sword. The sword did not count many years in his service, but it was chipped in numerous places, showing signs of heavy use. Old lady Magda was cozying up by the fire, trying to warm up her hands, while Sophie¡¯s curious eyes examined Zarak. However, she shyly turned away as soon as he looked up at her. A dark forest spanned on one side of the road, behind them, while plains of grass danced in the wind, to the other side of it. A distant howl could be heard.


    -So, where are you from? ¨C Magda asked.


    --Zarak stopped and looked up at her, but he remained silent. Magda met his stare with her own, and a pair of raised eyebrows.


    Zarak, sharpening on ¨C I thought ladies didn''t speak to thugs.


    -I''m being polite, boy. You should do the same.


    After a short pause, Zarak replied ¨C I''m from nowhere, really.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    -And where is this nowhere?


    -Doesn''t matter. One mud hole same as the other. Once you''ve seen a few, you seen them all.


    -So... Why did you take up a sword, instead of let''s say, a plough? A peasant''s life to dull for your taste?


    -Sure.


    -How informative.


    Sophie chuckled. The other two suddenly went silent, their stern eyes peering at her.


    She shrunk, gripping her cup of tea.


    All was quiet for a while, when Zarak upped and said ¨C I''ll scout the area.


    --Whilst he was pissing on a tree, a bit into the woods, he noticed a pair of yellow eyes glaring at him from the bush ahead. A shadow leaped out, flashing tooth and claw.


    --Back at the camp, the two women heard rustling and growls. They stood up, flooded with dread, staring at the forest as if it were death itself. Zarak came flying out of there like an arrow, a couple of wolves hot on his trail. He swung his sword behind him to dissuade the wolves and cried out ¡°Grab the fire!¡± The women promptly complied, grabbing burning sticks from the campfire and aiming them at the beasts. The horses fidgeted and neighed in terror.


    --As the dust from this intrusion settled, the young man¡¯s eyes got attuned to the darkness around the camp. He could make out the silhouettes of wolves, circling them. Maybe a dozen. He cut the horse''s straps to let them loose. Sure enough, the two horses bolted into the darkness and some of the wolves pursued, barking. However, the wolves wounded the horses almost immediately, making their escape seem quite unlikely. The two women thought they were released to give them a chance to survive, unhampered by the wagon¡¯s harness. Zarak on the other hand thought something along the lines of¡­ ¡°Poor beasts, nasty way to die. We got much better chances now, though.¡±


    --Just as he thought this, a pair of wolves jumped him.


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    -Thank you for reading. The thirdupdate will be on Fridaymorning. If you liked the story, please rate, follow or favorite. Cheers.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter I: Pissing Life Away (2)

    --Zarak cut one of them down. All it got was a mouthful of the girl''s white dress. Its blood sprayed in an arc all over her, following his swinging sword. She was terrified. The other one bit his leg hard, and didn¡¯t seem inclined towards releasing it. The wolf pulled on it, throwing him off balance and making his second slash miss. He refused to fall down though. As he struggled to stay on his feet, another beast leaped from the darkness, grabbing his sword arm and knocking him over. Zarak was getting chewed up like a squeeze toy, while Magda helped Sophie climb the wagon. She then started digging through her things feverishly, scrambling to find that trusty old crossbow.


    --The wolf holding Zarak''s leg pulled his boot off and tore it to shreds; seemingly thinking it was a piece of the prey. Another one ran up to rend his neck, but he grabbed it by the throat with his free arm, as it was closing in. While he wrung the life out of it, kicking and trying to get up, a crossbow bolt smacked the back of the one on his sword arm. It loosened its grip from the shock and he swiftly put his blade to work, slicing the wolf''s innards open. He jumped to his feet and cut the wolf with the boot over the snout, but the blade didn''t cull it. Seeing that the prey was more than they bargained for, the wolves backed off and vanished like shadows in the woods.


    -They''re leaving? ¨C Sophie asked in a panicked voice ¨C Are we safe now?


    -Now, now dear. Fret no more. ¨C Magda hugged her and petted her head.


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    -They''ll be back. ¨C Zarak said, poking his tattered boot with his sword.


    -Do you have to say such things? The poor girl is scared out of her mind already.


    --Zarak turned towards them, resting his sword on his shoulder.


    -They''ll be back. ¨C He took a quick look at the wagon and asked ¨C What''ve you got in them crates?


    -Clothes mostly. Some supplies for the trip. The usual. Why?


    -Perfect. Pop one open, we need to make this fire bigger. ¨C Zarak said, now holding his bleeding arm.


    Magda hesitated for a moment, but complied. As she pulled an armful of clothes from the chest, she looked at Sophie apologetically ¨C I''m sorry dear. We''ll get you new ones.


    She sluggishly got off the wagon and walked up to the flames, devoid of her battle fervour. Realizing what''s about to transpire, Sophie cried out ¨C No, you can''t! Those are my favourites!


    Zarak glared at her ¨C Do you prefer to look pretty, or not die?


    -Don''t you dare talk to her like that! ¨C Magda intervened.


    --Zarak rolled his eyes.


    Magda turned towards Sophie with a dejected look ¨C Sweetie, we have to do this.


    --Sophie gave her the sad puppy look, complete with tears welling up in her big blue eyes, but the old lady remained adamant.


    ¨CCan I at least keep some of them? ¨C Sophie asked.


    -Whatever, just do it fast, ladies.


    --The rest of the night felt painfully tedious to him, as Magda pulled out Sophie''s dresses one by one, and the blond girl struggled to pick out the ones which had fallen out of her favour. The fire burned bright though, keeping the wolves at bay. Irked by all the needless drama, Zarak contemplated going out into the night, to play with the wolves some more. Morning couldn''t come soon enough.


    --The next day, the horses were nowhere to be found. After scouting a bit, Zarak found one of them in the fields. Or what was left of it anyway. The rest of the trip Zarak pulled the wagon himself. The women wouldn''t abandon the luggage, and he didn''t feel like leaving them behind after all the effort it took to keep them from turning into fertilizer.


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    -Thank you for reading and sorry for the late update. Still not satisfied with the drawing on this one, will have toupdate it with a non-shittybackground at some point.Next update will be on Monday.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter II: The Deal (1)

    --The wagon wheels squealed to a stop. Zarak let go of the wagon''s harness and slumped back against it. His brow shined with sweat in the afternoon sun. Out of breath, and with parched lips, he spat muffled curses about dresses, mirrors, and make-up.


    --Sophie and Magda disembarked, and Magda offered him a waterskin.


    -You know, after all is said and done... You really did save our necks out there. We lost some things and two fine horses, but we did get away with our lives. And we have you to thank for that. So here''s a little something for all your trouble, boy.


    --The purse she handed him was much too light for a man to risk his life for. It held 50 gold pieces, at best. In his mind, Zarak thought "You condescending, pompous bitch." But, too tired to argue, he heard himself politely replying with a half assed "Thank you ma''am."


    --Sophie gave him a naive looking smile and a wave as he walked away. Cute thing. Shame she''s a spoiled brat, and few things bothered Zarak as much as those do. He walked hard and slow down the only street this dirt town seemed to have. The road turned dry a couple of days back. All the vegetation he''d seen since was naught but tumbleweed, rolling in the wind, or the occasional friendly, waving cactus. Things weren¡¯t that different in here. What¡¯s even more dismal, this town was dotted by ruinous wooden houses on either side of the street, real poor looking. Nobody out here seemed to be worth robbing.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    --A big, three-storey house at the end of the road seemed like the place to go to. Horses parked, a shabby drunk passed out front, and the emanating scent of cheap liquor and tobacco smoke. That must be the tavern all right. Having spotted these qualities though, he''d rather not stay there if he had the choice. A man with a big smile welcomed him in and rented him out a room for 2 pieces a night. A decent bargain. After a big meal from his "reward money" and a mug of beer or two, he retired to his room, where he took off his dusty clothes and submerged into a tub of hot water. Zarak took his time, soaking his worn out body. He could feel his muscles burning from hard labour; the kind he was trying to avoid, as it was tedious and ill-paid. He had developed a taste for other means of acquiring cash. And it wasn¡¯t mercenary work either. No, when the ladies picked him up in front of Bartertown, he had just finished his very first job as a bandit leader. He left his crew hauled up in the woods with the loot hot in their purses, after they sent some fresh corpses to the graveyard. ¡°Easy money¡±¡­ There was nothing easy about it. He lost one of the men on the job, and guard patrols were now scouring the area where the job took place. Since he couldn¡¯t bring the loot with him, he now had to find some quick cash, to buy a good cover for himself and his men, so they could go back to Bartertown and elude the watchful eyes of the city guards. As he was pondering his situation, the water relaxed him, and his mind drifted. It drifted towards the thighs of the blonde girl, dancing beneath her white silk dress. He thought of them thighs...


    He thought hard.


    --Halfway through his thinking, there was a knock at the door.


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    -Thank you for reading. Today''s drawing is way back from 2013, done with wood pencils and a felt pen for lines. You might notice that the sword is different, as this was way before I had a final design for thecharacters. I am showing it here because I am fond of it, but it will eventually be replaced with a newerversion.Next update will be on Friday. If you like the story, please rate, follow or favorite. Skal!

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter II: The Deal (2)

    Zarak pulled his main hand out of the tub and rested it on the hilt of his sword ¨C Yes? ¨C He ventured.


    -Is this the room of the swordsman who escorted two ladies into town today? The voice of an older man inquired, muffled by the closed wooden door.


    -Yeah? Who''s asking? ¨C Zarak replied after a short pause.


    -Could you open the door please?


    --Zarak felt no need to fear any one man, as experience taught him that none stood equal to him, once swords had been drawn. He took a moment to prick up his ears, but the man seemed to be alone. He opened the door, his sword resting next to him in case he needed to grab it.


    -What do you want, old man?


    -Well met young lad! ¨C The old man replied, heartily grabbing Zarak by the hand. ¨C The ladies you escorted are my wife and niece! I am Jim Bronson, proud owner of this here fine establishment, as well as the coal mine this city is so famous for! What''s your name boy?


    --The man was so loud that Zarak''s ears hurt a bit. He looked more like a worker in tacky, squalid clothes, than a wealthy coal trader. Zarak wasn¡¯t used to seeing rich people who looked like that.


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    After a moment to deal with the shock caused by all the yelling, Zarak replied ¨C My name is Zarak.


    -¡­Zarak? ¨C Jim paused with an inquisitive look in his eye. ¨C Zarak what?


    -Just Zarak.


    -Zarak... Where did I hear that name already? It sounds strangely familiar.


    -I was named after a legendary swordsman. In my line of work, it doesn''t hurt to keep your true name to yourself.


    -Of course! Silly of me to ask. Well then Zarak, I came here to thank you for keeping my girls safe and sound. And on that note, feel free to stay here as long as you please.


    -Yeah... You mentioned something about a mine? You need extra hands? I could use some quick cash right now.


    -Why yes, this is Nomad¡¯s Rest, the famous coal mining town, and we have a mine to prove it. ¨C Jim¡¯s enthusiasm faded, but his volume did not. His face turned slightly green. ¨C Not much work going on there though. Not since the workers ran into a pale spider nest... The damned thing ate almost a third of my workers. Nobody wants to go near the mines now. So I''m afraid I can''t help you there.


    -Pale spider nest?


    -Yeah, pale spiders. Damn things live under ground, thriving in the dark. Big as a cow they are. I have no idea what they eat down there to get so big! Every once in a while, a mining tunnel connects to one of their nests and... Well, good men meet the maker.


    -How many?


    -Oh, like I said, a third of my workers. 10, maybe 15 people.


    -How many spiders?


    -Spiders? Just the one, thank the One God.


    -How much for its head?


    Jim froze in shock, his jaw open. If his fat cigar weren''t in his hand, he might have dropped it.


    After regaining composure he asked ¨C You got a death wish, boy?


    -How much? ¨C Zarak repeated, his voice remaining unamused.


    -...500 gold pieces. ¨C Jim replied, after a short pause.


    -1000. ¨C Zarak said.


    -600.


    -How about 800 and we skip the rest of this dickering?


    --Jim''s face skewed into a dirty looking half-smile, as he held out his hand to Zarak. The deal was sealed. The two men said their goodbyes and Zarak shut the door and lazily threw himself on the bed.


    Not a bad deal. He''ll get all the gold he needs in one job. If he lives.


    And spoiled brats aren''t so bad either. He could work with spoiled.


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    --Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Monday.There will be three updates a week, starting with next week.


    (Edit: Updated image)

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter III: Premeditated Suicide (1)

    --All he saw was red, as sunlight burned on his closed eyelids. Must have been morning. Zarak was relaxed and didn¡¯t want to get up, so he pulled a pillow over his face. His head was still stuck in a dream, and he had the feeling of not having a care in the world... A feeling only a child could have. He was desperately trying to cling to it, but it was slipping away sure as the sun rose. Burdened by the light, his eyes opened and, as they adjusted to the sun''s glare, he found the uncouth face of a murderer staring right back at him, in the mirror across the room. It''s been a long time since he had to cast away infantile innocence and get his hands dirty. This was who he was now.


    --He had to get on his way, there was a pest he had to exterminate. Or be killed by. His clothes were torn by sword, tooth and arrow, and he was missing a boot. Obviously, his first stop would be a tailor, if this cruddy town''s got one. If you''re gonna die, might as well do it in style. On his way out, his bare foot stepped on something made of paper. He picked it up. It was a finely scented envelope, enclosing a letter written in careful, feminine, cursive font.


    "To Zarak:


    --My father''s older friends came to court me many times, with fancy swords strapped to their waists. None of them looked the part of a man who would draw his blade and soak it in blood. They were all boorish peacocks that ran their mouths off, and flattered themselves to no end. But not this one. This man... The sheer brutality of this man''s stare shook me to the core. That is what I first thought of you as I saw your burning eyes. After a while though, I could see that you were an actual human being. One who seems to have hardened like granite? Perhaps due to events in one''s life over which one has no control. Events that shape us and scar us for a lifetime, leaving only pain. If I do dare assume so much about a stranger.


    --Please excuse the frank tone of this letter, but I am unable to vacate my thoughts of your presence, ever since you so heroically risked yourself to ensure my safety. I long to chip off this granite skin and learn more about the boy hiding beneath it..."The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    --A crooked smile painted Zarak''s face as he read on. The letter was signed by Jim''s spoiled brat, Sophie. Line after line of deluded, juvenile infatuation, in a surprisingly eloquent tone. Girls¡¯ hearts were a bit strange that way. They''d pick out one dirtbag from the crowd, and set him apart from the rest. It didn''t matter that they were all the same. The girl would make up the most fantastical excuses for their horrible persona. Excuses about how it''s just a mask to hide from the cruel world, and this guy''s really a kind and loving being of benevolence and beauty on the inside. Zarak didn''t know whether to be glad or disappointed. Most people are so alike on the inside that it''s just vexing. If life didn¡¯t feel so trivial to him, perhaps he would''ve cherished it more. His years numbered only 19, yet the things he experienced had instilled him with a rather cynical mind, leaving the impression of an older, bitter person.


    --Anyway, there was a boot out there for him to find, so he wandered off into town. A short search later, he had brand new clothes, a borrowed set of armour, a coil of rope around his torso, some torches, and cloth wrapped around his left arm; for his "special trick". He even got his sword sharpened by the nice blacksmith who borrowed him the armour he was wearing. The aforementioned blacksmith was a venerable veteran, so the armour was a relic he had been keeping from the last Fanelian war. Still, better than nothing. Even if the old blacksmith made anything but horse shoes, Zarak couldn''t afford it anyway. So yeah, borrowed and war-torn armour was just fine.


    --He suppressed musings such as "will I die today" from his thoughts as he walked out of town and ventured deep into the abandoned mines, with only his torch to light the way. A few hours in, strange surprises piled up. For one thing, there was no blood. Not even a drop. No tattered remains. No severed limbs. Not even a spare liver. Whatever attacked these miners was thorough. The only tell of human presence in the shafts was some mining gear scattered here and there. The eerie silence was broken by the faint sound of a draft, howling trough the tunnels. The would-be spider hunter followed it until he discovered a passage that lead into a massive cave. Standing at the edge of it, he held onto the wooden beams supporting the mining shaft and leaned over the abyss to look around.


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    -Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Wednesday.


    (Edit: Updated images)

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter III: Premeditated Suicide (2)

    --No doubt about it, this was his destination. If the miners hadn''t stumbled upon this spider lair, they never would''ve fallen victim to such a wretched end. Funny how it''s the little things in life that matter... Like giant arachnids. Staring into the pitch black, Zarak couldn''t help but wonder how deep the chasm was. He grabbed a miner''s helmet off the ground and tossed it in. He listened, waiting for it to hit the bottom. He waited. And waited... After a while, he gave up. The only thing he learned from this query is that he had better not fall. The deep was now calling to his restless mind, pulling him in. Nevertheless, he strapped his rope around the beams and steeled his resolve. The descent into the beast''s lair had begun. As he rappelled along the cave wall, he strained his senses to spot his prey. Thick webbing was attached to the wall on one end, with the other end disappearing in the darkness. His left hand waved the torch around to try and get a better view of his surroundings, while the right one clutched the rope. However, he saw nothing. And the only thing he heard was the rope scraping against him. He could feel the friction burns on his hand, even through his leather glove. It was at least fortunate that the cavern wall was relatively flat, and dry, making rappelling somewhat easier.


    --A spit of web suddenly smacked his left arm, binding it to the wall. The sudden shock knocked the torch right out of his hand. The torch went out on its way down, and Zarak was now frantically jolting in the dark, trying to free himself. With the third pull, his arm came loose, but he spiralled out of control. Another spit of web grazed him, with a slurry noise as it flew through the air, barely missing him. His grip on the rope was lost.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    --Zarak felt weightless as he plummeted, head first.


    --His sword slipped out of its sheath, vanishing in the abyss.


    --A rock that jutted out of the wall broke as his body flew clean through it.


    --His ears were ringing. As he was flying blindly into the deep, he felt the rope brushing against his legs. He squeezed them, trapping it in between. The drop was steadily halted. His heart felt as though it was about to burst out of his chest and his breathing was accelerated. His head was pounding. Regardless, Zarak¡¯s mind was as calm as a still life. His eyes couldn¡¯t see anything, but he found the rope once again with his hands, by tapping around. He pricked up his ears. He was clearly no longer the hunter in this game of cat and mouse.


    ***


    --As he repositioned himself to continue the descent, he found that he had stopped his fall about a meter short of smacking into what seemed to be the cavern floor. Both feet on the ground, he held a low posture with his right hand in front of him, in a vague defensive gesture, as the other one reached into the purse on his belt to pull out a box of matches. Feeling an intangible sense of urgency, he lit the match immediately, rather than searching for another torch. This turned out to be the right decision.


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    -Thank you for reading!We''re at 99 average views! Almost 100! I''m hyped! :ONext update will be on Friday.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter III: Premeditated Suicide (3)

    --As the tiny flame flickered into life, Zarak''s eyes made out the silhouette of something massive and hairy, about eight steps ahead of him. Eight warped legs held it suspended in the air, like the twisted branches of a knotted tree. Its eight eyes glistened, reflecting the light from his match stick. And beneath them, what seemed to be four twitching, jagged jaws, drooling with excitement. Why the beast hadn''t already jumped him was beyond Zarak. However, it still might do so at any moment. There was no mistaking it, he knew this feeling well. He was staring into what was quite likely certain death. His hand slowly brought the dwindling match to his left arm, and lit the cloth wrapped around it. It burst into flames almost immediately, as it was drenched in lamp oil; revealing the lurking predator. And lying flat at its feet, what seemed to be, Zarak''s sword. This just keeps getting better. He didn''t even notice it fell out of its scabbard until now. A plan formed in his mind as he sprang into action.


    --His right hand moved ever so slowly, to his waterskin. The spider did not respond. He gently brought the waterskin to his mouth, imbibing himself with the hard liquor stored within. The spider remained still... With his left hand ablaze and in front of his face, Zarak spat out the drink at the beast, as hard as he could, dousing it in flames. His legs propelled him forward akin to a mountain lion sprinting after its prey. A spit of web flew past him. The aim was off, possibly because the flames obscured its vision. The beast jerked in shock, screeching, but quickly recovered to stab forward with its legs. Zarak dexterously tumbled beneath the attack, and the spider''s legs slammed just behind him, tearing up the ground, and carving a deep gash in his armour''s left shoulder plate. At the end of his roll, he grabbed his blade off the ground and sliced to his left, cutting off two of the spider¡¯s right legs. Green liquid came gushing out of them. The spider lost footing, and its head came down, within his reach. His blade swung once more; came down like a guillotine. The four jagged jaws sheared like scissors. The head of the beast was severed...Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    --But not before its jaws dug deep into Zarak''s leg. Blood was gushing out.He opened up the beast''s maw, using his sword as a lever. It clutched to his leg much like a bear trap, but with a bit of effort, it came off. He suddenly felt very light headed. He took off the shin guard covering his bitten leg. The shinguardwas bent out of shape from the force of the bite, and the wound itself was rather nasty. If the armour wasn''t there, he''d probably be one leg short right now. There was still a lot of blood, everywhere. His vision was fading. Feeling as though his strength might fail him at any moment, Zarak heated up his sword with the flame on his left arm to singe the wound. Pressing the searing steel to his wound was almost as painful as the bite itself. The bleeding stopped, and Zarak collapsed. He quickly chugged one of the three healing potion vials strapped to his left hip. As he was gulping down on the supposedly magical liquid, he surehoped the shady merchant who sold it to him wasn¡¯t a grifter. Almost immediately, it felt as if the potion was working. The intense pain that took his breath away was replaced by a tingling sensation in his leg, and a wave of warmth spreading about his body. But something was wrong. He kept feeling worse. He was sweating like he¡¯s being cooked alive. Then it dawned on him... The giant pale spiders are a poisonous species. The nausea and weakness he felt, the dullness of his senses, it all added up. Or was that the giant brown spiders? He always confused those two. As he came upon this realization, he began to curse, his mind slowly fading away.


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    -Thank you for reading.Is this the end for our fledgling protagonist? Come back onMonday to find out.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter III: Premeditated Suicide (4)

    --A day had passed since Zarak ventured into the mines of Nomad¡¯s Rest. Sophie was eagerly awaiting his return, just outside of the shaft. She wasn¡¯t alone at first, either. The miners had gathered once Zarak was inside, drawn in by their own curiosity. They took bets on when he would come out, if at all. Some of the younger ones, on the other hand, were busier working up their courage to hit on Sophie, making lewd, amorous suggestions and dropping corny lines.


    ¡°Hey blondie, let¡¯s play carpenter. First we¡¯ll get hammered, then I¡¯ll nail ya.¡±


    ¡°Baby, if you were ore, I¡¯d mine you all night long!¡±


    --All of them stank of hard liquor and sweat, spoke loudly and much too crude for Sophie¡¯s taste. Fortunately for her though, they took ¡°no¡± for an answer. Plain logic she thought, comparing her stature to the miner¡¯s filthy hands and shallow pockets. She was so busy acting appalled at the audacity these men displayed, daring to speak to her, she never thought for a second that she might be in any jeopardy. Being Jim¡¯s niece, she felt quite certain none of these buffoons were looking to lose their jobs. Quite.


    --However, her laments on her safety were misplaced. They were even ironic. Maybe a crowd of strangers would pose a threat to her in some other town, but not here. These men had big hearts to match their big mouths. Sophie¡¯s gilded view failed to see that. One of these poor sods could probably keep her safe and happy for the rest of her life, but she had set her sights on her knight in shining, albeit somewhat bloodied, armour. And that¡¯s the part that topped the cake ¨C the miner¡¯s hands might have been blackened by dirt, but Sophie¡¯s knight had hands red with blood.


    --One by one, the miners lost their bets and, once all of the money had changed hands, Sophie was alone. Even the sun had retired for the night, taking with it its friendly glow. The landscape had gotten so quiet that she found herself wishing for the miner¡¯s banter to return. Her only comfort lay in the wondrous sparkling lights of the fireflies. Her heart grew heavy. Doubt had come and made it its home, and now sadness bloomed. A bitter certainty that the sweet, romantic tales she¡¯d enjoyed in many books were just that ¨C tales. The idealistic machinations of men and women with wounded hearts. Tomorrow, her life would return to its familiar, stale course. And some day, perhaps soon, she will become a trophy wife to one of her father¡¯s many decrepit and pompous business partners, many times her age. She wasn¡¯t ready to return to that life. She wished for her father and mother to value her more than the gold they seem to think her heart is worth.


    --Just as the silence became too much to bear, and tear drops glistened in her eyes, a familiar voice broke her solace. It was Magda¡¯s soothing growl, scolding her for running off on her own.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    -Good heavens my girl! Is this where you¡¯ve been all day? Everybody¡¯s worried about you.


    --There was no everybody. Just Magda. Jim too, if you count one¡¯s concern over his brother¡¯s property. Magda resumed her barrage, whilst covering Sophie¡¯s trembling shoulders with a comfortable blanket.


    Sophie interrupted her, bursting into tears -- It¡¯s just not fair!


    Magda held her, silent and confused. After a short pause, she reluctantly asked ¨C What is it my dear? Surely you¡¯re not weeping for that stray we picked up?


    -Why are you talking about him as if he were a dog? He¡¯s a person.


    -There, there, my dear¡­. Dogs tend to be kind creatures, comparing them to that rouge would be an insult. ¨C Magda spoke with a bitter expression on her face.


    --Sophie threw the blanket to the ground and angrily stormed towards the town.


    -Don¡¯t you give me that, young lady! ¨C Magda said, angrily picking up the blanket ¨C You may be a child, but you too must have seen it. That man has blood on his hands! You have no business with murderers.


    --Sophie started walking back and forth, nervously, clutching her fists. Finally, thoughts inside came out in a rasp voice.


    -Maybe he was something more! Is that all there is to everyone? Just the one first thing you see? I¡¯m just a pampered child to be told what to do all the time? You are an old woman no one listens to? I¡¯ll bet those who saw his blade deserved it!


    -What is this? You barely know this boy, and yet here you are making excuses for him. Why in the maker¡¯s name? Why?


    -Because I love him!


    --She yelled before thinking, as usual. She didn¡¯t really mean those words, but they caused Magda¡¯s face to petrify in fear. She liked the result, so she repeated them, although with more composure this time.


    -I love him.


    -You don¡¯t even know what that means. ¨C Magda¡¯s voice vaguely trembled. ¨C That¡¯s not love.


    -And you would know? Because you love Jim?


    -That¡¯s none of your business young lady.


    -And of course, I could also learn all about love from father and mother, right? Who love me so much they¡¯re pawning me off to our cousins for things?


    -You¡¯re taking it too far.


    -Oh no I¡¯m not. ¨C Sophie mocked her. ¨C I¡¯m hitting just the right spot, I can see it on your face. Every time I say something you don¡¯t quite like to hear, you go all ¡°young lady¡± on me.


    --Magda was angry. It was written all over her face. If she were a different person, she¡¯d slap Sophie right now. But she cared about her too much to ever raise a hand against her. She could not understand why Sophie was doing this, but she knew she had reached the point where she cannot reason with her. Jim was that way too. Only he didn¡¯t hold back from slapping Magda when he¡¯d lose his temper.


    --Seeing as she had run out of words, she went towards the town. Sophie stayed frozen in her spot, wondering if she had pushed Magda too far. However, a few steps down the line, Magda stopped and turned her head to see if Sophie was coming. Seeing this, Sophie followed without saying another word. She could tell how Magda was feeling. It¡¯s not what she wanted to do. She didn¡¯t say what she really wanted to say, nor did she mean any of the things she did say; but somehow, she felt a bit less hurt.


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    -Oooh, the drama...Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Wednesday. I will try and make the updates longer from now on.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter IV: Fond Memories

    --The sun rose over the sleeping town of Nomad¡¯s Rest. Among the trivial dreams of shallow, unimaginative people run down by hard toil and nigh empty plates, a foul stench permeated, spreading from the tavern¡¯s porch. One fouler than usual. Upon searching for its source, the tavern¡¯s bartender walked up to a barrel of wine he¡¯d left up front just yesterday. A dog was sniffing it, but there shouldn¡¯t be anything in there¡­ The hatch was open, so the curious keg master approached it with apprehension. Upon coming within sight¡¯s range of its contents, he was scared witless, seeing the rotting head of a giant pale spider inside. Worms crawling in and out of its eight dried eyes. Knowing there is most likely only one reason that this foul thing is here, he ran upstairs, to the room old man Jim had rented out yesterday to a man he viewed as a self-absorbed swordsman with a big mouth. This was a funny attitude, as that particular swordsman spoke little, and only when other people forced him to do so. As the barkeep burst into the room upstairs, hot steam blew out, making it hard to breathe. Sure enough, the swordsman was right there, in the tub, soaking his beaten body. The swordsman, Zarak, opened just one eye. Seeing no threats, his eye closed and he dozed off again. The bartender excitedly stormed off¡­ Moments later, joyous cheers rang out all over the tavern. Weary, and annoyed, Zarak mustered a stern groan of disapproval. As if it wasn¡¯t enough that he had to best the beast¡¯s poison with his sheer will, he now had to deal with people again, his least favourite type of activity.


    --The day that ensued was a bit too crowded with people for Zarak¡¯s taste, as all of the town¡¯s folk wanted to grip his hand and shout his name. They bought him liquor and food, and insisted that the local musicians don¡¯t stop playing, much to Zarak¡¯s discontent. First chance he got, Zarak packed, grabbed his pay, supplies and rode out. He did mean to say goodbye to Sophie before leaving, but Magda stopped him, insisting that Sophie was much too ill to see him. He left a letter for the spoiled brat, but he had a feeling it wouldn¡¯t reach her, judging by Magda¡¯s vaguely disguised contempt as she took it from his hand. The letter was a bit crude anyway, and somewhat torn between feeding Sophie¡¯s fantasy and warning her to keep away from Zarak. Perhaps it¡¯s for the best that she won¡¯t get to read it.


    --As his horse was trotting away, he thought about everything that transpired here. He would come back one day, he thought, and make Sophie his wife. Inherit Jim¡¯s lands and become a rich, fat lord, living off other men¡¯s sweat. These weren¡¯t really things he wanted, but he did want to live it up for a change. He was tired of getting dealt this shitty hand in life. It was about time for his luck to change. And he just might come back for real. He liked this town and its people.


    Here, even if just for a couple of hours, he felt acknowledged. People noticed him and offered him their respect. That never happened to Zarak before. Never in his life. Perhaps he would have grown into a different man, had people not stepped all over him, all those years. Maybe he would not have taken up the hilt of a sword to strike down those arrogant bastards. He glanced back at Nomad¡¯s Rest, now off in the distance. The sun was high above it so he couldn¡¯t see anything from the glare, but Sophie was in her room, by the window, watching him as he left. She waited even as he was a tiny speck on the horizon; she waited until he was completely gone, and then some. Somehow, she felt certain she would never see him again.


    ***


    --When Zarak had finally reached the woods outside of Bartertown, some days later, only one of his men awaited him, hidden by the waterfall where he¡¯d left three of them, about a week ago. Zarak wearily approached on foot, his horse by his side. The remaining henchman, a skinny young man unburdened by wit, ran up to him in tears.


    -I knew you¡¯d come back! I knew it! They wouldn¡¯t believe me, but I kneeeww-ew-ew it¡­.


    -Easy there fella. ¨C The swordsman said, as he pushed him away to dodge the incoming hug. ¨C Where are the others?


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    -I buried them by the fall, boss.


    -You¡­ what? They¡¯re dead? ¨C A hint of ire rang in his voice.


    -It¡¯s not what you think, not my fault! Not my fault!


    -So, you¡­ Killed¡­ Them? ¨C Zarak¡¯s eyebrows raised towards the end of his question.


    -Well¡­ yeah, but not my fault?


    -You lost me there.


    -I wouldna done nuthin¡¯ if they just kept they¡¯s dirty mouth shut! Y¡¯see, after you was gone for five days, they said ya dead or ain''t comin¡¯ back! Nah me, boss! I said, you be back for sure!


    -U-huh. And?


    -But they didn¡¯t listen! They grab them knives, screaming stuff like ¨C I''m boss! No, I''m boss!


    -And that¡¯s when you killed them? ¨C Zarak asked, patiently wiping the man¡¯s spit from his face.


    -Well no, first they started to wrestle on ground, and then¡­.


    -Look, the point is ¨C you killed them, right?


    -But it not¡­.


    --Zarak interrupted him, gesturing with his hand to stop.


    -Because they¡¯d have betrayed me?


    -Well, yeah. I guess that it. Yeah!


    -Good work. What¡¯s your name?


    -Rosencrantz, boss! ¨C The henchman replied, with a sudden chirp in his voice.


    --As they wandered out into the prairie outside of town to dig out the loot, the jittery twig kept on yapping, irking Zarak as he did so. It would have been preferable if there was a way to make Rosencrantz shut up immediately, but ignoring him seemed to be working out for now. Three barrels of melted gold. It wasn¡¯t melted at first of course, but things happened, and the trading wagon caught on fire¡­ Not a part of the original plan, but hey ¨C life is what happens while you make plans, and this time life decided to be all about flames and burning stuff. As they dug the barrels out, memories of their acquisition came into Zarak¡¯s mind, uninvited. Vile memories. This was the loot that three of his bandits and three of the merchant¡¯s mercenaries paid for with their lives. He remembered almost dismembering the merchant¡¯s arm, as the man was trying to shoot Zarak with his crossbow. The poor fool pulled it in point blank range and aimed at Zarak¡¯s face, betting everything in a haze of misplaced, self-righteous fury. All he had to do was turn around and run, and yet he chose the hard way. Two arrows already stuck in Zarak, burnt and cut by sword, he could still think straight enough not to strike the merchant down with his blade. Instead, he kicked the frail man in his elbow, causing his forearm to come loose, dangling on nothing but tendons.


    --The merchant briefly screamed out in pain and collapsed from the shock. The wagon was burning hard by now, and the stench of scorched flesh was in the air. Zarak never felt that smell before. Its foulness bothered him. The merchant¡¯s limp body sprawled in front of him, he was free to sink his blade into it. But he did not. What did this petty and foolish man do that earned him the right to live, while others vanished, unspoken of? Not that they were worth anything more than the merchant himself. Zarak was sure that if they had gotten the same gifts at birth, as this merchant had, the rats that now lay dead in the dirt would have turned out to be just as corrupt and foul as the merchant was, if not worse. He saw little difference between them. As much as it pained him though, Zarak let the merchant alive. Killing a man with such connections was always a risky proposition. The merchant¡¯s ¡°friends¡± back in Bartertown wouldn¡¯t let such a thing go unpunished, otherwise who knows which one of them could be next. Scores of assassins were just waiting to see the next bounty that the merchant¡¯s guild would post.


    --Zarak had lost himself in contemplation for a while¡­ When he came to, the landscape was painted orange as the sun was finishing its tour for the day. Rosencrantz was done washing off weeks of sweat and murder on Zarak¡¯s behest, and managed to dress himself like a big boy. Nothing scarier than a grown man who never bothered to learn proper hygiene. Now that he looked the part, there was only one problem. He didn¡¯t sound like it¡­ Rosencrantz wouldn¡¯t stop talking ever since Zarak came. He seemed to be rather fond of his own voice. It¡¯s as if he grew lonely, having no one to share it with, seeing as he had killed his previous audience. He was constantly chatting about himself, throwing in the occasional question about Zarak, but he would quickly answer it himself, as Zarak remained silent. Ignoring him was getting quite difficult, and Zarak thought to himself that the other two bandits just might have killed themselves to escape Rosencrantz¡¯s voice. Rosencrantz didn¡¯t really seem as if he could slay two men on his own.


    --After thinking up a plan, Zarak interrupted Rosencrantz¡¯s pointless monologue. He explained to the man how they needed to practice their disguise so they would have no trouble getting through the gates. Zarak would be the merchant coming back from a successful trip, and Rosencrantz was to be his mute servant. Mute ¨C Zarak insisted, gesturing with his left hand as he spoke. Rosencrantz seemed to want to protest, but as soon as he had opened his mouth, Zarak raised his eyebrows and gave him a quizzical look. Rosencrantz breathed in once more, his mouth still open and moving as if he was about to say something, but Zarak¡¯s look was frozen and he seemed to be expecting something of him.


    --Rosencrantz exhaled and closed his mouth; confusion evident on his face. Zarak however, unfroze, and began loading his newly bought wagon. Rosencrantz followed. Now was that really that hard? ¨C Zarak thought to himself. People don¡¯t really need to say a word in order to know what needed to be done. So why bother talking at all? Waste of air.


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    -And so, the saga continues.Please point out if there are any mistakes. I work nights, so I''m quite tired at the moment of posting this. Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Friday.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter V: Slum Dogs (1)

    --The wagon Zarak bought in Nomad¡¯s Rest slowly clattered towards Bartertown¡¯s walls. Zarak knew the wall guards were perched in their sniping nests dotted along the city¡¯s defences, even though he couldn¡¯t see them. In his mind, they were training their crossbows at him. Of the four men Zarak had under his command, he got stuck with the dumbest of them. He kept wondering if Rosencrantz would spill his guts in front of the guards and bury them both. They would have no cover if the guards started shooting. Looking toward the clear ground that spanned in front of the city gates, he could clearly see himself lying face down in the dirt, his back impaled with arrows. Rosencrantz managed to remain silent, but he was pale, sweating and shaking like a stick. The guards found this quite suspicious, but as Zarak noticed they were eyeing Rosencrantz a bit too keenly, he blurted out that his servant has a fever, and that they ought to stay away from him, lest they catch it too. This quickly discouraged them from leaning into Rosencrantz¡¯s terrified face. And so they passed...


    --Once inside, they made their way towards the thieves¡¯ guild, the ¡°Slum Dogs¡±. They took a roundabout road just in case, as Zarak wasn¡¯t sure if anyone had followed them from the gate. ¡°Waste of time¡± he thought to himself, but did so anyway. The guild building was the city¡¯s oldtheatre. Once the new one was built, it¡¯s as if this one vanished under a shroud. Nobody could see itanymore, or even remember what its name used to be. The local shops followed suit, and poverty claimed the neighbourhood. A perfect seeding ground for thieves. Vice was present all around town, but in this part of it, the populace saw the thieves as punishers; making the rich feel their indignation. They didn¡¯t get to see any of the gold the thieves stole, but everybody around here seems to have grown up personally knowing someone from the guild. They were brothers, sisters, uncles, or childhood friends. The lines which held them together were thick, and mostly immune to bribery. The occasional outlaw would get caught and hanged from time to time, but likely due to betrayal, rather than the town guard¡¯s deliberate persecution. After all, the guards too grew up with those same thieves. Guard or thief, these were the only two jobs that didn¡¯t involve toiling in hard labour until you¡¯re all used up, old and broken.


    --The guild itself though, it seemed impenetrable. Which fascinated Zarak. To him, it seemed to be out in the open... He rode his wagon in trough the doorway which had no doors the first time he got here. The roof was missing here and there as well, and so were the walls. Old banners were swaying in the breeze, hung from the terraces. Too pale to discern what was once depicted on them. Suspicious characters were hanging around, playing cards, sharpening knives, or trying to barter their loot with each other. Gracingtheir laps werehookers that didn¡¯t look pretty enough to be hired by the merchants; trying to squeeze out some of that looted gold, to feed their syphilis ridden, bastard children. A few discreetly leered onto Zarak and his companion as they rode in. So yeah, pretty much in the open. And yet, the town guards never came by.


    --Upon arrival, Zarak and his no longer mute henchman were greeted by two twins, who were among the top ranking thieves. The ¡°twin blades¡± as they called themselves. Both equipped with vicious personalities, annoying catchphrases and a secret handshake, which was all pretty average around here. After all, bandits weren¡¯t the most refined of people, and their tastes showed it. Zarak never bothered remembering the twins¡¯ real names as he couldn¡¯t tell them apart anyway. When he was forced to communicate with them, he limited his responses to the words ¡°hey¡±, ¡°yes¡± and ¡°no¡±, to avoid getting dragged into their personal dramas. Needless to say, they didn¡¯t seem to like him much either. They, as always, tried to provoke Zarak with stupid remarks. He paid no heed, but Rosencrantz found himself obliged to start trading insults. Upon being reminded of how annoying he found Rosencrantz to be when he was allowed to speak, Zarak gave him some pocket change and instructed the man to keep himself busy with one of the bustier local ¡°entertainers¡±, while the big boys divvy up the loot; according to guild customs.


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    --The blades valued the melted gold to about 12,000 gold pieces worth. A well off peasant would have to sell all that his land birthed for 5 or so years before he¡¯d be able to assemble such a hefty pile of gold. And of course, this would be without taking into account any food or supplies for the peasant and his family¡­ Seeing so much bling in one place gave the twins a gold rush, as they hurriedly rolled the barrels away into the guild¡¯s treasury, cackling like hyenas all the way. The treasury that only a select few had access to, as trust was an exceedingly rare commodity among thieves. Although Zarak had climbed the guild¡¯s ranks enough to become a raid leader, he still wasn¡¯t a part of that circle of trust. After a while, the blades returned with a large sack which rattled as they dragged it across the ground, struggling under its weight. He lifted it with one hand and opened it slightly, to inspect its content. This was the other half of the loot that was due to Zarak, only in coin form. The half which was his to share with his men as he pleased.


    --As he pleased. He had been working hard to earn that part of the deal over the past couple of years. To be precise, it¡¯s now been about two years of stabbing livers, holding heads under water and breaking knee caps, and all for this. Two years where he was just another henchman, who had to settle for other people¡¯s leftovers.Other men led the robberies, and divided the loot to their own accord. Often more generously to those that had crawled deeperuptheir asses, which he wasn¡¯t doing. Zarak despised this pathetic circle of leeching for existence. He was never truly a henchman to begin with, and his ¡°leaders¡± often berated him for his disobedience. But not anymore. The glitter of the gold danced on his face. He thought back ¨C back to the first pay he got in Bartertown.


    --15 years old, and he was gutting fish for one of the local shops. At the end of a hard work day, he barely had enough to keep up with the steep prices of living in Bartertown, while his employer¡¯s belly seemed to inflate a bit each day.


    --Upon being thrust from his thoughts back into the real world by the twin blade¡¯s snarking voices, Zarak was invited into the back room, which was a rare privilege indeed.


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    -Thank you for reading. I noticed quite a bit of room for improvement over the last couple ofposts. If the story gets more attention, I will probably go over them and improve them a bit, possibly adding some drawings here and there.Next update will be on Monday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Prost!

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter V: Slum Dogs (2)

    --The guild¡¯s back room was once a changing room for the old theatre¡¯s actors and actresses. Some of their costumes were still in stock, hanging neatly in their place; albeit now covered with a thick coating of dust. Amongst them, scheming faces gathered. Zarak and the twin blades, for starters, were there. They were some pretty shady characters, to begin with. Then there was Donovan, another young(ish) thief that¡¯s made it far in the guild¡¯s hierarchy, although he was a whole 8 years older than Zarak. Donovan¡¯s face was handsome and had a knowing smile stuck on it, most of the time. And then there was Far. He was the owner of a wrinkled face, so shady that you wouldn¡¯t let him take care of a drawn sheep for you. Zarak wondered sometimes if Far¡¯s face was always painted with lies, or if it became that way due to years in the business. Be that as it may, Far was the one person he trusted most in this room. The others seemed to think of him as competition, and were quite keen to impale his innards with their various tools of the trade.


    --Some nods and waves were exchanged, and a plan began to unfold. Not much courtesy here, this wasn¡¯t a merchant¡¯s meeting with pompous phrases overflowing with hypocrisy. Nope, these men were the antonym to those gold digging bastards. They too craved the touch of coins, but Zarak was fonder of their method of obtaining them. He found it to be more honest.


    --The method of the day was elaborated by the smug Donovan, who has had his spies following around a servant of one of the biggest names in town ¨C Alphonse LaForge. Mister LaForge was the unofficial ruler of Bartertown. Unlike the other merchants, he used most of his income to bribe various officials, thus gaining unparalleled influence over the matters of Bartertown. And, coincidentally, any man who wanted to do business in Bartertown, had to answer to LaForge. How did this function in practice? The servant that Donovan has had tailed for months makes a round of all the biggest shops in Bartertown, each month. And every time he leaves one of these shops, his backpack grows quite a bit heavier, with the bribes these men had to pay to LaForge so he wouldn¡¯t interfere with their business. All this time, such a juicy target has eluded the thieves gaze, and yet Donovan had finally spotted it. The best part was that no official retinue was apparently following this servant. Since he was collecting bribes, he couldn¡¯t exactly do it with all the fanfare and the clatter of armour-clad men that usually followed merchants around. It would be a tiny bit too conspicuous to the public at large. The time of the next tour? Tomorrow. LaForge¡¯s reach was so great and frightening in Bartertown that no man outside of this crummy old theatre changing room knew of the plan. If word got out, their plan would likely get foiled. In fact, the people carrying out this plan ¨C will be the very same people who just heard it. Such a daring feat will bring unparalleled glory to the thieves guild, and to those who carry it out. This idea had Donovan and the twins quite obviously excited, but Zarak was apprehensive of the gravity of the situation. If all of the leaders of the guild are operating in one place, much stood to be lost. Far on the other hand was as difficult to read as always, as a cryptic gaze graced his sexagenarian visage.


    ***


    --After the meeting, Zarak handed eight hundred gold pieces to Rosencrantz. More than he himself had gotten after any single job. He knew he had no obligation to hand him more than half of the given amount, but doing so would have made him feel as if he was one of those pricks he¡¯d worked for over the past few years. While he was shopping for new gear for himself, he even bought Rosencrantz a concealable crossbow, which one could carry around in one¡¯s sleeve. A tricky device that was rare even in the thieves¡¯ guild, and forbidden outside of it, as it was seen as an assassination tool. It was a sure sign of a truly devious mind. With it, Rosencrantz at least looked the part of a man who belonged in the thieves¡¯ guild. Following the relatively modest shopping spree, Zarak made his way to the Bartertown post office. Once there, he scribbled a crude letter about getting a raise at his job for all the hard work he¡¯d been doing, and how he hoped to see them soon. The letter was accompanied by half of his earnings from the bloody endeavour. Whomever the letter and the package were addressed to, he seemed to have sunk into a deep melancholy, thinking about them. He left the post office in a bit of a hurry. He made his way to a nearby tavern, where he had a few shots of hard liquor. Downed them fast, he did, after which time seemed to freeze, as he gazed into the empty glass in his hand. After a while he simply upped and left, with a slight stutter in his step. As he was trudging the rather empty streets of Bartertown, he realized it must have rained while he was in the tavern. The streets were muddy, and his steps occasionally made a splash as he wandered on.


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    --Somehow, he expected the city to be different now. He thought that he himself had maybe become different after this particular excursion. Nothing had changed though. It was just like the first day he got here ¨C shops and stands everywhere. Large posters advertising anything from not so fresh fish, moustache wax and fur coats, to gold plated wagon wheels. Smiling faces all around. They were nothing but masks, covering up vain people wrapped up in greed.


    --He noticed a bounty poster on a wall along the way. It said ¡°Red Demon that breathes fire, award 1000gp¡±. He smiled to himself, as he remembered how he earned that nickname.


    --As he wandered on, Zarak heard the jubilus song of a witless drunk, echoing in the streets. He paused at a crossroads to look around, searching for the song¡¯s source. The song was vaguely familiar, and rather annoying. His eyes at last glimpsed another stuttering silhouette in the poorly lit streets. A bit like himself, though this one was obviously farther down the road than he was. The crooked figure which he had viewed, as it paraded towards him, belonged to none other than Rosencrantz. Upon this realization, Zarak¡¯s mind became clearer and he instinctively lowered his posture as if preparing to dash away. However, as his feet were about to take him in the opposite direction, a couple of armoured men grabbed Rosencrantz. A debate ensued. Apparently, the men were town guards arresting Rosencrantz for drunken and disorderly conduct. It was only a matter of time before they found the contraption hidden in Rosencrantz¡¯s sleeve... His own fault, nothing to do with Zarak. Not his problem. A rope is what you get for being so stupid. How unfortunate though... Rosencrantz won¡¯t be guarding his back tomorrow, during the big jig. Or is it, really?


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    --Turned into a zombie while working on this one. Had not slept tonight and I have to go to work in 3-4 hours. o.0 Thank you for reading. Next update will be on Wednesday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Saude!

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VI: A Welcome for a Hero (1)

    --The following day was hot as hell, as summer days tended to be. Zarak was sweating profusely under his cowl, as he and his comrades made their way through the marketplace crowd during rush hour, right behind LaForge¡¯s servant. The servant entered what should be the last stop on his rounds, a simple textile shop. His shadows glanced at each other and instantly recognized it was time to converge. As they entered the tiny shop, it suddenly became crowded¡­ The servant turned around, sensing the commotion. Behind him, one of the twin blades drew his weapons and, with a snide tone, explained how no one would get hurt if they simply remain calm and hand over the backpack. The servant¡¯s eyes widened, he seemed like a deer staring into a hunters eyes. The thieves were within paw¡¯s reach of their prey. Glass shatters. An arrow flies in out of nowhere. The twin¡¯s throat is impaled by it.


    -If you¡­. Y-y-urgle¡­ Backpack¡­ ¡­ ¡­ Ungh¡­ Gives it. ¨C He said, with what little voice he had left.


    --Just like that, the twin fell to the ground, his hand hitting the bell on the shop counter as he went. It¡¯s as if it was just a bad joke, only it wasn¡¯t. A life perished in front of the eyes of the six remaining men, with all the hopes, dreams and the potential that was stored within. Such tragedy. This twin¡­ He will never have any offspring, stop wetting the bed, learn to play the harp, or know what it¡¯s like to feel a woman¡¯s touch without the use of force. Such an invaluable member of society ¨C lost. What¡¯s left was only the look of surprise, frozen on his ugly mug.


    --Actually, upon some thought, it was rather questionable if the heart of a single soul in this world held a care for him. Well, perhaps his brother¡¯s did. Perhaps. Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    --The shop window shattered and men clad in grey armour stormed in. They bore the crest of ¡°The Black Hawks¡±, which belonged to a mercenary band infamous for being undefeated in all of the missions they had partaken thus far. The arrow which fell the twin, sparking this skirmish, must have come from the market crowd. Whomever fired it had the skill to do so without hitting anyone along the way, and strike at his target with unerring precision. Perhaps the stories of the mercenaries¡¯ merits held some truth in them.


    --Swords were drawn, blood sprayed the walls, and the chaos of battle devoured this tiny space in an instant. The shop owner screamed in a voice unfitting of a grown man, while LaForge¡¯s servant was nowhere to be seen. Zarak was about to jump the shop counter and search for him, when a blade struck in his path, narrowly missing him. The mercenary that swung it seemed to want to test his mettle. Zarak had no time for him, so he pulled one of the wheeled coat racks in between them, and pushed it at the merc. As the merc untangled himself, the ¡°red demon¡± lit the cloth on his arm and doused the coat rack and the hawk in flames, spewing fortha mouthful of alcohol. The mercenaries¡¯ will seemed to be unwavering though; he shielded his face with his free hand and kicked the burning coat rack back, knocking Zarak over. His boot was quick to press onto the burning rack, pinning the squirming bandit underneath. The black hawk held his sword up high, and its blade was about to plunge into Zarak¡¯s tender skull.


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    --Thank you for reading. Less talk, more action!Next update will be on Friday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Arrrrr.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VI: A Welcome for a Hero (2)

    --As plans on how to get out of this bind flashed erratically through Zarak¡¯s mind, an arrow wounded the right shoulder of his would-be executioner. The Hawk lost his balance and fell flat on his back, gripping the wound, while his dropped sword impaled the floor boards right next to Zarak¡¯s face. Slightly out of it, Zarak crawled from under the rack to see angry mercs coming for him, while Donovan was standing behind the shop counter, drawing his bow. ¡°Quickly, there¡¯s no time to waste!¡± He yelled at Zarak. His words were redundant as Zarak knew when it was time to fight, and when to turn tail. Getting slain in a battle against impossible odds was reserved for the grandiose heroes of classic literature, as they battled evil in their wake. Zarak had no plans to join that club. They made haste, through the back room, and found themselves in an alley behind the shop. Far was waiting for them, next to an open sewer hatch.


    -Go lads! ¨C Far yelled -- Down the hatch!


    Donovan, gripping the old man¡¯s shoulders asked in a shrieking, concerned voice -- But, what about you!?


    Freeing himself, the old man replied -- I¡¯ll hold them off, now stop wasting time!


    --The two young men jumped in, and the hatch closed above them. They waded through Bartertown¡¯s supply of human waste as swiftly as they could, while the sound of battle echoed around them. Perhaps it wasn¡¯t just dashing, dumb heroes that sacrificed themselves.


    ***


    --The following day, Bartertown¡¯s newspapers had dawned with the headline ¡°A grand day for justice!¡± The first few pages were all about the Black Hawks and how they valiantly defended a humble textile shop against an overwhelming bandit assault. A smaller, less imposing article was also found within, detailing the town guard¡¯s apprehension of an assassin ¡°before he was able to complete his vile task.¡± This one was probably about the rather unfortunate Rosencrantz.


    --Zarak folded the newspaper, wiped his behind with it and dropped it into the crapper. The stories printed within were finally home. He pulled his pants up and closed the outhouse door behind him. Green hills were rolling as far as the eye could see. Beautiful scenery framed this country road, so serene it would make any man feel as if he were a child, cradled by the loving embrace of Mother Nature. Zarak couldn¡¯t help but feel lucky that he had ran into this abandoned estate. He¡¯d been walled up in Bartertown for so long that he¡¯d grown accustomed to its various amenities, and was glad to be able to taste them here again. He was a city boy now. This was quite unfortunate, as he won¡¯t be enjoying them again any time soon. After the job, Donovan advised Zarak to lay lowoutside of Bartertown until the whole thing blew over. It¡¯s been almost a full week since the fiasco that was described in the newspaper that Zarak just finished using. Those were the last pages of it.


    --His path was set towards Bluegill village, but he was in no hurry to get there. He knew full well what awaited him. Spending the night at this abandoned estate made the images of what¡¯s to come even more vivid. Armchairs with cushy pillows, multiple dining sets, a twin bed and a cradle, all of these things were signs that this didn¡¯t use to be the home of a solitary person. It was a family home. A place where someone happily greets you when you return to it, makes you a tasty home-cooked meal and asks you to tell stories about your day¡­ About your work and life in Bartertown. Stories that will be nothing but big fat lies, followed by uncomfortable swallowing of spit that¡¯ll roll like poisonous sludge down Zarak¡¯s throat, as he tells them to his mother and sister. That¡¯s who the package he sent at the post office was for; the family he had left in Bluegill village. He has been preparing for this reunion every day on his way there, but he still felt far from ready. Families were hard enough to deal with, Zarak felt, without the added pressure of having to lie to them to hide the fact that you¡¯re a murderer, and that they¡¯ve lived off other people¡¯s blood for about two years now.


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    --He decided against staying in this haunted house any longer. Evoking melancholic memories was something he considered to be futile, so he mounted his horse and rode on. He found it a bit funny that he was scared of this day more than he¡¯d worry about a sword fight. He hadn¡¯t seen them since he¡¯d left. At first because he couldn¡¯t afford it, and later on because of the guilt he felt over his ¡°trade¡±.


    --Zarak was already pretty stubborn and cruel when he left his home. These qualities were cultivated in Bartertown every time he got cheated by the people there, and they developed even further. They became the foundation to an unassailable wall that, from the outside, made Zarak look as cold and unforgiving as the eternal winter of the northern mountains. That¡¯s the part of him that made him unyielding when facing danger. Would these qualities hold up today and keep him safe from getting hurt?


    --Thinking about his past life felt like travelling into a different world, one where he wasn¡¯t a mighty warrior, but still a child growing up without a father, always fighting with his mother over petty things, getting jealous of his younger sibling for getting unjustly pampered while she wastes her life away. Even so, he too felt the need to try and take care of his sister Yolanda, to try and offer her a future better than his own. So when the idea for him to travel to find work came up, Zarak jumped on it both to get away from the bleak environment that was his home, and to do something that would make him feel of use to his mother and sister. ¡°You¡¯re just like your deadbeat father!¡± These words echoed in his head. He¡¯s heard them too many times. Will that part of the story really change now that he¡¯s not only supporting them, but affording them a rather opulent life? Questions were piling up in his head even more as his journey home became closer to completion, and Zarak felt vulnerable. These questions would have to wait it seemed, as a familiar, disturbing scent bothered his nose. The scent of burning flesh.


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    --Thank you for reading. Sorry this update is late, some things came up and I wasn''t able to finish it yesterday. Next update will feature four drawings, aka lots of work required. I''ll try and have it up on Wednesday so you don''t have to wait long to find out what''s around this corner. (Even though it might be a bad idea to do so)If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Later...


    (Edit: Updated images)

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VI: A Welcome for a Hero (3)

    --The sun was beginning to set upon this idyllic country road, and the colourful landscape suddenly had a new, bizarre tone.Here was that feeling again. The feeling of travelling between worlds. But why couldn¡¯t it be a happy feeling? Instead, it felt like a toboggan ride spiralling into the depths of hell. As Zarak traversed the winding road, his horse galloping, the hillson the horizon parted, revealing Bluegill village, tucked snuggly between them. Houses set ablaze. Corpses and debris layscattered about. Zarak¡¯s heart pounded so hard he felt it in his ears. His vision tunneled and he rode past the dead and thedying, some of them still crying for help. Only one thing existed in the entire world - his home. Please let it be spared¡­


    --He spotted it. The roof was on fire, but the house of his childhood was still standing. He felt somewhat relieved. He heard gruntsand squeals on the other side, where the entrance was. It sounded kind of like pigs, only deeper and gravelly. Hedismounted while approaching the sound¡¯s source. He could see the entrance now.


    --His mother was there. She was lying in front of the door, face down in a pool of her own blood. The door was busted open, andinside, Zarak could see his little sister, lying on the dining table. Her clothes were torn, andher bodybroken. Blood wasdripping down her thin, pale arm that hanged lifelessly off the table¡¯s edge.


    --Everything suddenly went silent. Sound faded away. So did the colours. He couldn¡¯t move. Was time gone as well? There was naught but a ringing noise, wracking his brain. New things came into his view, slowly, as his temporary blindness was lifting. He now saw the source of the pig-like sounds from before. Four silhouettes were emerging from his home, all four larger than Zarak. They were green, hunched, and made of muscles bulging out of even more muscles. They had grotesque faces with tusks sticking out of their drooling mouths, and thick, black, greasy hair. They smelled of blood, sweat and possibly excrement.


    --The ringing intensified. The levee breaks. Zarak drew his sword, and the next thing he knew was ¨C he was standing betweenthem. He was screaming. He felt the warmth of blood spraying on his face. One of the four was now a fountain of blood, cut cleanacross his torso, from his left shoulder to his right hip. The other two made stupid faces, probably depicting confusion.The third swung his axe at Zarak. Swung high, leaving an opening clear as day, and Zarak, of course, used it. He intercepted the greenskin with the tip of his blade and dug his feet into the ground for good leverage, causing his enemy to impale himself with theattack. The greenskin¡¯s attack connected regardless, and even though most of the force behind it was gone, there was now an axe sticking out of Zarak¡¯s left collar bone.


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    --He felt no pain, but the force of the blow was enough to throw him off balance and render his left arm useless. As he was reeling, one of the remaining two greenskins smacked his right thigh, bringing Zarak down to his knees. The other one now saw his head as nothing more than a watermelon, waiting to be smashed open. The impact of his club was so violent that a cracking noise followed it, as Zarak¡¯s head was almost yanked clean off of his shoulders. Zarak could taste his own blood in his mouth. He wasn¡¯t sure where he was anymore, but a fire within kept him moving on sheer instinct. His good arm clenched his sword and swung once more, almost blindly, opening the gut of the Ork that tried to crack his head open. The remaining foe swung his club with savage intent, but Zarak blocked the attack with his sword. The club was deflected and slid down the blade, hitting the sword¡¯s pommel, knocking the weapon out of Zarak¡¯s hand. Another swing. This time, it connected with Zarak¡¯s chest. He fell flat on his back. Hetriedto get up, but kept slipping on all the blood that¡¯s soaking the ground around them. He couldn¡¯t breathe.


    --The menacing, green silhouette stood tall above him, holding its club with both arms. The club was swinging above the greenskin to gather momentum, but slowly. The attacker¡¯s lips parted to reveal a perverse smile armed with jagged teeth. The smile was saying:¡°You¡¯re dead!¡±


    -Another man might have felt fear in this grave moment, as the Grim Reaper was sharpening his scythe, a breath away from claiming Zarak¡¯s soul. Not him though.To Zarak, that smile was an insult. He ripped out the axe lodged in his flesh and furiously sent it flying into that bastard¡¯s face. Blood and teeth splattered about as the battered, rusty axe sunk into the greenskin.


    --With the final ounce of strength gone from his body, Zarak fell to the ground with a blank stare, nothing left inside it. Darkness enveloped him.


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    --Thank you for reading. I''ll take a short break to catch my breath as the past month and a half have had an ever-increasing schedule intensity for me.See youon Monday, at the beginning of a new chapter called "Cigarettes and corpses". If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Till next time...

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VII: Cigarettes and Corpses (1)

    --In the cold breeze, a man stood alone, leaning against a burnt cherry tree. Tenderly, almost with loving care, he folded a cigarette, while listening to the cheerful song of the swallows. They danced in the air, beautifully, as though everything was the same as yesterday. But to the people who call this patch of land their home, everything had changed. The man lit his precious poison and gently pressed it between his lips. He inhaled deeply, savouring the tobacco¡¯s bitter-sweet flavour.


    --He gazed in lament as the villagers were trying to rebuild their broken homes. On their faces, he saw anguish. None of them had escaped the effects of ¡°the great equalizer¡±. They had all lost someone in the tragedy that struck them three days ago. A brother. A daughter. A husband. To the smoker, they seemed busier than on the day he first arrived here. Perhaps they were trying to forget their pain by hammering away nails, or tending to the wounded? He couldn¡¯t look away from their suffering. The smoker was no altruist, and yet he couldn¡¯t bring himself to look away¡­ Just like that evening, three days ago. His trading done, his coffers were filled with gold he had earned here. And clunking in his wagon, were even more supplies. Things he¡¯d gotten here and was going to sell in the next village. And for good profit, too. He wound up giving it all back to the villagers for free. But he wasn¡¯t motivated by altruism¡­ It wasn¡¯t practicality either, even though the fish he got herewould get spoiled long before he got to sell it. No¡­ He gave it all back for free because he felt guilt. Why? What was his crime?


    --There he was, alone with his horse and wagon on that open road, three days ago, when he heard the screams. He looked back, and he saw the fires in the distance. He remembers turning around, and folding a cigarette. He was about to light it and be on his way when he noticed his hands trembling. He paused, confused. He couldn¡¯t understand why. Cold sweat poured out of him as his heart was pounding. He was unable to move. Slowly, and anxiously, he turned back to gaze at the blazing inferno. He watched the show unfold in a mixture of pure terror and fascination. ¡°But there¡¯s no reason for me to feel sorry, or guilty! There¡¯s nothing I could do for these poor souls.¡± He tried justifying himself, but to no avail. The guilt kept gnawing at him. He was no warrior. Going out there would be the death of him, for sure. And there wasn¡¯t anyone to call for help either. But the guilt was still there¡­ It was there because he knew within him that, the more he could see, the more alive he¡¯d feel. So he wanted more. With a cigarette and some wine, he escorted many souls into the nether, making a toast for each and every one of them; sometimes followed by a sarcastic remark.


    --But that was then. Now was surely time to go. He had paid his dues by giving back the trade goods for free, and helping bury the dead. He must have gotten rid of all that bad karma, right? No reason to feel guilty now, right? Rain was starting, and he should be on his way, before the weather got too bad to travel; before he lost his chance to escape this air, thick with ghosts.


    --He grabbed the wagon with both hands, readying to pull himself up, when a grating voice, almost inhuman, hollered after him: ¡°Hey, you!¡± The smoker at first cursed this place and its determination to keep him here, but he didn¡¯t want to accumulate more bad karma just when he had cleared his slate. ¡°Yes?¡± He politely asked, as he turned towards the voice¡¯s origin. In front of him, a tall man had wandered out of one of the battered houses that were now make-shift hospitals for the wounded. He had long, coal black hair, bandages all over him, and he was wrapped up in a blanket. The man had trouble standing, so he held himself up against the house¡¯s doorway.


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    -Got a smoke? ¨C The wounded man asked.


    -A smoke? You¡¯ve just come back from the dead, and that¡¯s the first thing you ask?


    -So, do you?


    The smoker pulled out some paper and tobacco and started folding. As he was hurriedly fiddling with his fingers, he asked -- You¡¯re Aidan, aren¡¯t you? I¡¯ve heard about you. Quite a bit, actually.


    --The wounded man watched his hands in silence.


    -They¡¯ve been cooking up quite a legend about your exploits while you were busy knocking on death¡¯s door. The villager¡¯s, you know? Many claim you slew four orks single-handedly. Tall tales, right?


    --The smoker chuckled, expecting some sort of response from the wounded man, but there was none. The man was thinking about that name the smoker mentioned, Aidan¡­. Perhaps it¡¯s best he used that one here. Zarak was the name of a murderer from Bartertown. Over here, it¡¯s better if they called him by the name his mother gave him. That way, his true identity would be kept secret from¡­ Whom, exactly? They were all dead. All dead. He laughed to himself, but no sound came out as he was chuckling, his right hand covering his face as though it was holding up a mask. He stumbled out into the rain, and opened his mouth to drink it. It was too dry for a cigarette, but this will fix it.


    After wetting his mouth, he turned towards the smoker and replied in a healthier, but still rasp voice -- Yes, I¡¯m Aidan.


    --The smoker handed him the small bundle of vile joy, and lit it with a finely crafted lighter. Aidan inhaled it and coughed the smoke out.


    -You sure you smoke, son?


    Aidan replied, straining a bit -- I¡¯m a social smoker.


    -Well I ain¡¯t much company. I should be on my way, anyway¡­


    --As he was mounting his wagon, the smoker remembered something.


    The smoker, turning back towards Aidan said -- Oh, that¡¯s right! I¡¯ve got some good news for ya laddie! Well, sort of.


    Aidan, in a calm, but sceptical voice replied -- You don¡¯t say?


    -Yes, your little sis is alive!


    --The smoker suddenly had Aidan¡¯s full attention.


    -Aye, she¡¯s in that house right over there. -- The smoker, pointed. -- Although, I don¡¯t reckon¡¯ there¡¯s much use going to see her right now. She¡¯s been out cold ever since the attack, just like you. And I better warn ya, you might not like what you see if you go visit her now.


    --Aidan was silent. He wondered how funny it was, that the body refused to die, even when the soul just wanted to disappear. The smoker couldn¡¯t tell if Aidan reacted to his news at all, as Aidan seemed to be gazing at the rain puddles, and his eyes were concealed by the blanket. Disappointed, and unaware of how close he was to death at this very instant, the smoker finally climbed aboard his wagon and whipped the reins of his horse, letting him know it¡¯s time to go.


    ¡°Take care of yourself, legend!¡±


    --And with those words, the smoker left Bluegill village.


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    --Thanksfor reading. Next update will be on Wednesday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Auf wiedersehen.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VII: Cigarettes and Corpses (2)

    --Following what sounded like a lumberjack going about his trade, the young lad, with no more than fifteen summers behind him, approached with caution. Nobody was supposed to be chopping down trees in this neck of the woods today, or he¡¯d have heard about it back at the village. No, this is where the others told him he¡¯d find the ¡°legendary swordsman¡±. Was the swordsman in trouble? Were these the sounds of combat? The boy removed the sickle he had strapped at his belt and held it at the ready as he was advancing. Sure enough, among the trees, he noticed the silhouette of a man, wildly swinging his claymore with a single hand, burying the blade deep into the tree trunks.


    The boy asked, sheepishly -- Um, excuse me! Sir?


    --Zarak shot him down with a deadly stare, as his sword raised to rend the boy. However, Zarak noticed the boy¡¯s eyes held no killing intent, even though he appeared to be wielding his sickle as a weapon, rather than a farming tool.


    -Put that away before you get yourself killed. ¨C Zarak said, lowering his guard.


    -Yes sir, sorry sir!


    Visibly pissed, Zarak asked --What do you want?


    -Are you Aidan? I am¡­ My name is Ravi, sir! (Slamming a fist at his chest)


    Zarak, pointing his sword at Ravi -- I¡¯m not going to drink with you. I¡¯m not going to teach you how to wield a sword. I¡¯m not going to be your buddy, and I¡¯m not going to be the godfather of your child. Why can¡¯t you people just leave me alone? Get the hell out of here!


    --Ravi was shaken by Zarak¡¯s contemptuous roar, but he couldn¡¯t run away. Something made him stay even when every fiber in his body started screaming, warning him about impending danger.


    With watery eyes, Ravi spoke -- That¡¯s not why I¡¯m here sir! Please, hear me out!


    --Zarak sighed and stayed his blade. Once more, he mustered up some patience and became the kind young villager Aidan, son of Gottfried and Thalia Lowenheart, and brother of Yolanda Lowenheart.


    -Make it short, Ravi.


    -Thank you sir. How would you¡­ What do you think about vengeance, sir?


    -Vengeance?


    -Yes sir. Me and a group of men from the village can¡¯t take this anymore. It just isn¡¯t fair that they should get away with what they¡¯ve done¡­ We can¡¯t let it pass.


    The constant ¡°sir¡± annoyed Zarak, as he was only a few years older than this boy. However, he would probably be irked all the same if the boy spoke as if they were equals. He replied -- So what?


    After a short, confused pause, the boy continued -- ¡­Well, we find them! And we make the bastards pay!


    Aidan, snickering -- Grow up kid. They¡¯ll just dice you into minced meat. And besides, haven¡¯t you heard the saying ¡°an eye for an eye leaves the whole word blind¡±?


    The boy welled up with tears -- I don¡¯t care about any of that! I just can¡¯t go back to the way things were before¡­ That¡¯s just insane! All of those chicken-shits who refused to join us can just all go to hell! Please tell me you¡¯re not one of them¡­


    -Listen to yourself kid. You wanna do this so people wouldn¡¯t think you¡¯re a chicken?


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    -No. I want to do this because there is nothing else left for me. I feel as if I¡¯m losing my mind, rewinding it all in my head¡­ -- Ravi replied, regaining his composure.


    --Aidan was about to tell him all about how he should just bury those feelings and leave it all be¡­ Locked away tidily in some dark corner of his mind. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t throw your life away.¡± These words were at the tip of his tongue, but contemplating what Ravi said had caused him to unintentionally open up that same chest in his own thoughts. Poison seeped out of it and darkened his heart. But Aidan never cried. He never complained to anyone. It just wasn¡¯t his thing. It was useless, attention seeking behaviour that yielded no result, and thus ¨C a complete waste of time. So how was he supposed to deal with this? And really, what else was left for him? Go back to Bartertown to steal gold until he is inevitably betrayed by someone, and his limp, hanging body adorns the town square? Was there even a point to making a choice? It seemed that life already had its own course. As if every corner he turned was leading to the same street. He felt like he was drowning in a river because he¡¯s swimming against the tide. Whatever course he took,it felt futile. He had also thought about staying in the village to see if his sister would ever wake up, but he couldn¡¯t even gather the courage to enter her room. He couldn¡¯t bear to see her. He merely stood in front of the doorway a couple of times, wracked with pain. He remembered Yolanda vividly, dancing in the sunflower fields just outside the village with a big, beautiful smile on her face. Memories of days long past, lying in the grass and wasting away their youth in child¡¯s play. Her voice sang in his mind and her dress fluttered in the spring breeze. Memories of how he comforted her when her rag doll tore. Memories of how he slapped her when she was being cheeky to their mother. Memories of how she held his hand to lend him courage during a thunderstorm that shook their house. Memories shattered and soiled by the one of her lying broken and bloodied on that wretched table.


    --Was he really here, fighting the pain of his wounds to chunk trees, just to keep from losing his edge? Or perhaps he too was running away, just like the other villagers?


    Impatiently, Ravi asked -- What is there to think about? You can feel it in your bones too, right?


    --Aidan could not define the emotion which bound him to this choice. Perhaps it was an urge to die and escape the punishment he felt. Or perhaps the flame of life, outraged at the force pressing against it to dim its light. At any rate, he felt there was but one answer to make. He replied ¨C ¡°¡­I will come.¡±


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    --Thanksfor reading. This post concludes chapter VII, so we only have two more chapters before the story comes to a conclusion.Be sure to tune back in on Friday, to see the next update.If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Cheers!

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VIII: Refuge (1)

    --The Broken Lands, or Ork Lands,lie at the heart of the Known World. They are rumoured by some to have once been covered in lush forests, with giant trees housing magical beasts. No fossils or written records have been found that would support these stories over the ages, and they were dismissed as naught but idle tales of peasants with too much time upon their hands. Today however, these lands are home to the roaming tribes of Orks, colloquially known as ¡°The Horde¡±. No one really knows where they came from, or why they settled here. The Orks have no villages or cities to speak of. Instead, their nation consists of a single, gigantic caravan that snakes along the crevices of this harsh landscape, staying hidden amongst its vast caverns and canyons. The Orks were nomads.


    --The terrain in this region is barren and holds little game or edible plants, so the Orks must resort to looting in order to survive. They raid any and all foolish enough to encroach upon their domain. In fact, this is the prime reason why this area remains ¡°no man¡¯s land¡±. None of the neighbouring kingdoms dare to try and make it their home, or even to formally claim reign over it. Bluegill village, near the south border of the Broken Lands, was in fact recently the target of one such attack. Dozens of souls perished in the Orks¡¯ raid, leaving behind many wounded hearts. Some still burning for revenge.


    --Such was the case with the ten souls who now scaled its perilous cliffs, their will ignited by an insatiable thirst for vengeance. There used to be twelve of them, but two had already plummeted to their deaths due to bad footing, or a moment of carelessness. Led by the shifty former army scout, Styx, they wandered in search of the Horde. Styx had become an expert at tracking people through hazardous terrain during his service in the Fanelian army, and he was putting these skills to good use now; by tracking the Orks who had raided his home, and slain his little boy. Among them was also the hero of the raided village, Aidan, who had single-handedly slain 4 orks during the original assault, enraged after seeing what they did to his mother and sister. This kind of feat was unheard of. Orks were infamous for being as strong as ten men, and actual combat records supported these tales, albeit with four to six humancasualties per one Ork slain in battle. Having a man of such prowess among them bolstered the villager¡¯s morale. There was also Howell, a proud soldier of the Fanelian army, who had returned to the village during his leave only to find his fianc¨¦e torn to shreds by the Ork raiders. Howell sported full plate armour, which was unusual among Fanelian servicemen, who favoured light armour which didn¡¯t inhibit their fancy swording. Howell favoured a more patient approach to combat, sometimes even letting his enemy make the first move, while Howell sat safe in his defensive stance. This method has apparently been most successful in the past, as his sword had been etched many times along the blade, each notch marking a slain foe. And last, but not the least, Ravi, a charismatic youth whose passionate pleas had gathered these men and gave them the push needed to embark on this quest. Ravi was looking to dole out vengeance for his parents, who were no longer of this world. The others bore their grudges as well, but they were mostly unremarkable peasants, with no prior combat experience.


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    --With dwindling supplies and hopes running low, each climb seemed all the more insurmountable. Yet they somehow endured. Things were looking bleak though. They hadn¡¯t seen any Ork tracks in days. At one point, the numerous tracks of wagon wheels and footsteps left behind in the dirt all went straight into a cliff wall. The tracking party was stumped. Were the Orks leaving false tracks as a precaution? Was there still a chance of finding the Horde? On the other hand, even if they were to turn back now, their supplies wouldn¡¯t last long enough to escape these winding canyons, assuming they didn¡¯t get lost on their way out. They had that talk a while ago. Five or so days maybe? Passion was still driving them back then, so when they reached the point of no return, plunging in deeper was a no-brainer. But now, they were lost in this labyrinth, and the winds running wild amongst the stone walls were constantly beating on the weary men. Just when Ravi felt his spirit would have been broken, just as he was about to regret his decision of coming here, a subtle humming noise in the distance interrupted his spiral of depressing thoughts. They heard nothing similar since they ventured into the Broken Lands. Excitedly, Ravi alerted the rest of the party to the sound. They all pricked up their ears, trying to hear it... There was no mistake about it, it was the sound of a waterfall!


    --This was major news. A waterfall could possibly be a source of fresh drinking water for the party. And what¡¯s more, edible plants could be growing around it. Invigorated by this discovery, they made their way towards the sound¡¯s source, as hastily as they could. Some nail breaking effort later, the waterfall was finally in sight.


    --It was beautiful. The water cascaded down a cliff into a small pond. The whole oasis was shaded by the tall, wet cliff covered in moss, and carved into jagged shapes by the merciless pounding of the warm stream. The sun¡¯s reflection in the pond danced on the stone walls, creating a spectacle of light, and lush vegetation crowned its edges. Alas, to the avengers¡¯ dismay, someone had beaten them to it. A silhouette could be seen behind the drapes of steam, enjoying the waterfall¡¯s charms. Peasants and warriors alike, they huddled behind a bush, on a small plateau just above the pond. The plateau was similar to a terrace overlooking this sanctuary. Who was this person, in the middle of nowhere, taking a casual bath?


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    --Thank you for reading and sorry for the late update. Next onewill most likelybe on Tuesday, maybe Wednesday. I''m going to slow down the updates so they can remain more lengthy, but without sacrificing quality.


    --If you''re reading this, and you too arethinking about writing, avoid using too much exposition. It''s been bothering me in this story for a while now, but the beginning of this chapter is really the peak of this issue. It''sboring for meto read due to too much exposition. I''ll try and rewrite parts of it into scenes or dialogue.


    --If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Also, there will be a nude next week, sohide anyone who''s underaged so they don''t get corrupted by the obscenity. :OScandalous!

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VIII: Refuge (2)

    --The silhouette partially emerged from the watery curtain, revealing supple, feminine curves. The onlookers¡¯ thoughts began to cloud with lust. All except Aidan, who had already noticed what the others were about to. The young, muscular and luscious body the voyeurs were all beginning to drool over carried a head featuring pointed ears, and a somewhat jutted jaw with small tusks protruding between the girl¡¯s lips. In fact, her skin was grey. At first, they thought this was an illusion created by the steam, as it made all of the colours seen through it appear more pale than they actually were. But there was no mistaking it, this girl had something inhuman about her physique. Something¡­ Orkish. The men felt disgusted with themselves, shamed of the lust that burned in them. As they did not immediately know the true nature of the object of their desire, they began feeling confusion and anger towards the young woman. Their faces changed from those of dazed monkeys to angry Chihuahua¡¯s, for in their minds, she instantly became a vile temptress, defiling the ¡°purity¡± of their cause. People were funny that way. Whenever they ran into something they didn¡¯t understand, they¡¯d first react with fear, then anger. Always.


    --Just as Aidan assumed, the men started plotting what was to be done with this alien. Howell voted that they spill her guts immediately and be done with it. The young, eager Ravi agreed with him. Styx suggested ¡°torture and interrogation¡±, but his true motives were most questionable, as excitement was evident on his face, despite his attempts at concealing it. This is why Aidan, no Zarak, preferred working alone. In his experience, everybody has a dark side that comes up, sooner or later. And man, was it ugly. It made him sick to his stomach. Even the young, idealistic boy was unable to see this girl as a person right now. Indeed, Ravi¡¯s eyes gleamed with hate, as they once again welled up in tears. Zarak suddenly remembered who he was. A man with a bloodied sword. Not some frilly village hero. The illusion that he was playing the part of the good guy with a kind heart out for vengeance had obscured his reasoning ever since he spoke to the smoker. He adopted it because he needed it now more than ever, now that his mother was dead, and his sister was sleeping in pieces. But he was done with that. He grinded his teeth and walked straight out of the bush. The other men froze, interrupting their discussion, and fixed their eyes on him. What was Zarak doing?


    --Zarak walked out into the open.


    -Hey. You! ¨C He shouted.


    --Yes, this is it! Howell thought. Draw and slice her open like the pig that she is.


    --Damn, just when I thought we¡¯re gonna have some fun he¡¯s gonna spoil it all. - were the words resonating in Styx¡¯s hollow skull.


    --The woman jolted a bit as she opened her cat-like eyes, but they quickly found Zarak and focused on him, glaring through the waterfall. She seemed unusually calm. Did she understand him? She took a few steps towards him. There was something regal about how she moved. She stood proud and waved her head at him, as though she was demanding an answer. A naked woman. Standing in front of an armed man. Demanding.


    --Her confidence made Zarak question whether she was truly alone for a moment. But, he felt his senses were sharp and on the mark. No one else was there. ¡°I guess Orks know how to die.¡± He thought. His main hand moved. The humming of the water had become eerie, as the tension was eating away at the rocks that surrounded this chance encounter.


    --Zarak grabbed the hilt¡­ Of a dagger lying at his feet. It was there with some bunched up leather, possibly belonging to the woman. He tossed it all closer to her, to the edge of the pond. She looked at him quizzically, but he motioned for her to pick them up. The crowd at the mound above them was baffled.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    -What the hell are you doing? Grab her before she bolts! ¨C Styx shrieked.


    -Have you forgotten why we¡¯re here? ¨C Ravi asked.


    --The others were shouting something as well, but Zarak didn¡¯t seem to notice them. He was instead keeping his eyes locked in a battle of will with the Ork girl. She was undaunted by his gaze. Some angry shouts later, the crowd¡¯s fury had temporarily subsided, and the girl had apparently assessed that she can pick up her belongings without Zarak¡¯s interference, so she proceeded to clothe herself.


    Her animal skins on, and her ornate, bone dagger strapped at her belt, she asked with a smile -- So what now, human? You prefer killing an armed woman? Makes your manliness feel less compromised?


    Zarak, unusually relaxed, replied --No... I have no intention of hurting you.


    --Zarak didn¡¯t expect her to speak any human tongues, but he knew he wouldn¡¯t learn if he didn¡¯t try and ask something. He wasn¡¯t sure how he¡¯d deal with the situation if this weren¡¯t the case.


    -Oh? Don¡¯t you know that all humans kill Orks? The opposite can be said as well. ¨C The girl replied, with a tease.


    -I don¡¯t care about any of that.


    -So what do you care about? ¨C She asked, examining him akin to a fox.


    -Nothing, really. I was just wondering if you happened to know where the Horde was. You know, point us in their direction.


    -You must be tired of living, to ask me such a thing? Turn back and return from whence you came.


    -I can¡¯t do that.


    -Then, you will die.


    --The crowd atop of the plateau had once again burst into rage. Her arrogant behaviour did nothing to quell their discontent. They yearned to ¡°put her in her place¡± now, even more than before.


    -You gonna take that? That¡¯s an open threat. -- Howell shouted.


    The Ork girl turned towards them -- It¡¯s not a threat, it¡¯s a fact.


    --The crowd and its clamour were beginning to get on Zarak¡¯s nerves, so he gave them a stern stare. To them, he was Aidan. A heroic swordsman who came from the big city, wielding his sword in accord with the benevolent will of The One God. But now? His aura changed, and it¡¯s as if a malicious blackness emanated from him. It chilled the blood of the onlookers; and they suddenly went silent.


    Zarak, now looking at the girl -- Let me worry about that.


    -Alright, let¡¯s say you find the Horde. Then what?


    -That¡¯s when I let my sword do the talking. ¨C He replied, unnervingly calm.


    The girl scoffed at him and replied -- What, you¡¯re going to single-handedly massacre the entire Horde?


    After thinking for a moment, Zarak replied -- No, that would be pointless. All I need is one head. The head of the beast, so to speak.


    --The words came out on their own, as Zarak hadn¡¯t really thought about this much. He had already exacted his vengeance upon those who hurt his mother and sister, but it didn¡¯t feel like it was enough. He felt the need to do more. He needed more enemies, or the senselessness of it all would overwhelm him. But, why wasn¡¯t she his enemy? Why was she the enemy of his companions? They would be happy to slaughter anyone and anything Orkish. Maybe they¡¯d even butcher women and children, just like the Orks did to them. An eye for an eye. Maybe even ten eyes for one eye, if they could. To Zarak, making the entire Ork race suffer simply seemed to be a ridiculous prospect. It would be very impractical to try and eradicate all Orks. After all, the kingdoms of Gothica and Wurzan have invested entire armies in this task and failed to complete it for about a decade now. But more importantly, his gut told him that killing this girl was wrong. It would be an excuse to vent his anger on someone who seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with the pain that was in his heart.


    -Head of the beast¡­ -- She repeated in disbelief -- You mean Kord? You aim to kill Kord, the king of all Orks?


    -I guess so, yeah.


    -Do you have the slightest idea of what you just said? Of how powerful he is?


    -All the armies of the world won¡¯t save him when my blade is at his throat. ¨C He replied, with a knowing smile on his face, and then mumbled to himself -- Whoever that is...


    -I¡¯m not talking about armies, I¡¯m talking about HIM. Do you have any idea how he became Ork king in the first place?


    -No. Tell me? ¨C Zarak asked, intrigued.


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    --Thank you for reading. Next update will be no later than Tuesday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter VIII: Refuge (3)

    --The girl was confused by Zarak¡¯s willingness to talk with her, and even more so by his interest in anything Orkish. Humans tended to behave exactly as she described to him just now, so she¡¯s never before interacted with them if drawing blood wasn¡¯t involved. Regardless of the uneasiness this new context introduced her to, she decided to keep the conversation going.


    -Well, some five years ago, a Dragon spoke to a shaman, Praxitel. As this wasn¡¯t something that happens all too often, the shaman of course obeyed the dragon¡¯s command, and he began a voyage that would take him to all four corners of the known world. He travelled to meet with the various chieftains that led the Orkish tribes scattered about. His quest was to unite them against the humans, and lead an all-out war to end all wars. But since Orks do not normally speak to those weaker than themselves, and Praxitel was the lowliest sort of Ork imaginable, he shouldn¡¯t have been able to get the chieftains to listen to his pleas at all. However, Praxitel carried with him weapons and armour that were rumoured to be magical; gifts from the dragon lord himself. So, armed with the credibility and the allure of shiny goods, Praxitel assembled the Ork tribes at the heart of the known world, in the place Orks call The Valley of Triumph. Once there, a leader was required. And it certainly wouldn¡¯t be Praxitel¡­ He may have been the prophet that gathered them all, but there wasn¡¯t a chance in hell that such a weakling could hold sway in their hearts. No, the Orks had always been led by the strongest, and the chieftains were now fighting over which one of them it would be.


    --Both Zarak and the crowd at the terrace felt entranced as the girl spoke on with surprising eloquence. To them, the tale was, without exaggeration, otherworldly.


    The girl continued-- As the in-fighting threatened to end the conquest before it ever began, a solution was devised; one that was in line with the Ork way of going about things. The chiefs would hold a single battle royal in the open plains. And the last Ork to remain standing? He would have earned the glory of leading them all! Forty-seven tribes were gathered on that day. Thousands of Orks watched on as the forty-seven chiefs displayed horrific prowess at war. Each and every one of them was the mightiest in their tribe, and had a unique way of annihilating their foes. In the end however, only one was left standing. Of the forty-seven chieftains, after eight days of incessant battle, forty-six had fallen and the one who was left standing on top of their corpses was none other¡­ Than Kord, king of all Orks!


    -I¡¯ve seen too many ¡°strong¡± people torn like paper to care about claims like that. ¨C Zarak said.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Agitated, the Ork girl replied -- Don¡¯t make me laugh! You don¡¯t know the first thing about true grit.


    -There are many things that interfere with the outcomes of battles, and the ones left standing are seldom the best or the brightest of the bunch. ¨CHe remained unamused.


    -Of course. I¡¯m not talking about someone who runs in head first and takes the world on. Such fools don¡¯t live long. They aren¡¯t truly strong. I¡¯m talking about the kind of person who knows how to endure. One who knows when to show their teeth; but also, when not to. A mind like that, one who isn¡¯t brittle, is most dangerous.


    Zarak, while casually stretching to relax -- Maybe. I guess we agree.


    --They were both silent for a while. In the meantime, Styx, who was standing behind the others, readied his bow, visualizing a clear shot at the girl. He was aiming at her legs, but he didn¡¯t draw yet. He didn¡¯t yell with the others just now either. Instead, he was curious to see how this talk unfolds.


    -Most Orks would let that thought slip by them. I¡¯m Myzrael. What is your name, strange one?


    -My name is Zarak.


    --The crowd at the terrace was puzzled. Why is Aidan lying about his name?


    -Very well, Zarak. As much as I think it will get you killed, I respect your will. -- She pointed northeast -- If you follow that gorge, you will find a cliff face that resembles a wolf¡¯s maw. Climb it, and you should be able to scout them out. They ought to be passing nearby, just as you get there.


    --The audience at the terrace was at wit¡¯s end. Not only did Zarak, much to their dismay, not kill the girl, it appears they are about to face the Horde. Up until now, they failed to see the reality of this concept. They were shaken. Shaken by two weeks of gruelling combat with the hostile landscape, and now even more so by the idea of facing Orks again, in battle. Most of them were just peasants wielding farm tools, with little chance of surviving such an encounter. But at the same time, memories of those lost had flooded their minds, and they felt haunted, and unable to sway. That is why they started this journey in the first place. Others were grieving, rebuilding their homes and trying to get on with their lives. But to them, there was no home or life to return to. It was lost forever. The rage that blinded them just now was gone, and silent contemplation was in place. Even Styx had lowered his bow.


    --Zarak thanked Myzrael and watched her walk away. Her direction was opposite of the Horde. Her skin had numerous scars from blades or maybe a whip; but he paid little attention to this before as he¡¯d noticed Orks typically bear many scars. Perhaps she was a slave, trying to escape? He had heard about people seeing former Ork slaves living in Wurzan. ¡°Freemen¡±, they called themselves... Myzrael took cover as soon as she could, and probably ran from there on, to make sure she gets away. Once she was out of his view, Zarak looked towards the canyon to the northeast, and he felt a familiar fire burning in his belly. He felt joyous anticipation, as it was almost time. Time to do battle!


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    --Thank you for reading. Next update will be no later than next Friday. This week taught me that my update schedule was over-ambitious when compared to my regular obligations. I''ll try and update faster, but I''d rather not promise you early dates and then fail to deliver.


    --On a different note, the new site set-up lets me see more stats. So, not only are we close to 300 average views, but this story is hovering around rank #840 right now. Help me grow support for this story guys!If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite. And some day, maybe I''ll become a full-time story teller and not have to make compromises between the stories I want to tell you, and having to put food on my plate. Until next time, go out there and fight for what you want from life!


    P.S. The next chapter is the final chapter of this story.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter IX: According to Kord (1)

    --The rock face crumbled under Zarak¡¯s feet, but he paid no heed. He kept on climbing, pulling with him the lifeline that held his 9 companions. They seemed to be losing their juice, but he sure as hell wasn¡¯t. His mind was completely erratic. He felt that he had worked so hard to make things better. To fix his family. But in the end, it turned out he was just wasting time. Why did everything have to be so god damned hard? If there was such a thing as The One God, he must have a really sick sense of humour, Zarak thought. His left hand had reached the top of the cliff. He could feel the soft caress of a patch of grass under his fingers. He dug them into the ground and used the hole for leverage; pulling himself onto the barren plateau with nothing but cacti and rocks strewn about for miles. He was drenched in sweat and out of breath, but his senses were sharper than ever. Instantly, he spotted enemies. Right there, some 300 metres away, there was a wagon pulled by wiry, horned beasts, and followed by a group of Orks. Spotting his prey, he thought ¡°It¡¯s time.¡±


    --He braced his boots against some rocks and used both of his hands to pull the rope up, vigorously, dragging with it his now running companions. The rope could be heard tearing against the rocks, crackling as dust rose in its trail. One by one, he pulled them out, and each gave him a tap on the shoulder as they collapsed next to him. Once all of them climbed up the ledge, he quickly explained why the Orks hadn¡¯t attacked them yet.


    -Look behind us. The sun is setting. They can¡¯t see us from the glare. Perfect cover for a surprise attack.


    --He then began drawing in the ground with his fingers, while the others were struggling to catch their breath.


    -We make an inverted V formation with me on the left flank, Howell on the right and Styx and his bow in the middle, far from the frontline. He picks them off as we approach. If they charge him, Howell and I collapse on them. Styx is the only bowman we¡¯ve got, so it¡¯s important that we keep him up and running, so he can keep downing Orks. The rest of you divide in three groups and follow us. Remember, you don¡¯t need to go for the kill. Just stop them in their tracks and defend yourself until one of us three can come and help you take them down.


    --The men, bewildered, listened to him and nodded with hollow eyes looking straight at the ground. The peasants were scared. So was Styx. Even Howell, the hardass, was showing signs of his composurecracking. It could be felt even through his helmet, which concealed most of his face. Only Ravi seemed to be sharing Zarak¡¯s eagerness. Zarak grabbed as many of them as he could and huddled them around himself, head to head.


    Through his teeth, he hissed -- Come on you bastards, remember those you left behind in the ground, buried. Remember them dammit!Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    --Sweat was dripping down his nose as he growled at them. The fire which was burning in his aching heart spread to them, as their emotions transmuted. Determination had sunk in and they drew their weapons and farm tools. It was time.


    --Between them and the Orks was naught but open ground. No cover. They advanced intently all the same. They were supposed to be sneaking up on the Orks, but it¡¯s more like they were running at them in low posture.


    --250 meters. They notice other wagons in the vicinity, trough the sun¡¯s glare, but far from this one. It was quite possible they could storm it before the others even realized anything was up.


    --200 meters. The wagon they¡¯re approaching is even bigger than they thought. What the hell is in there? They could also count the orks. There was 15 of them. Five more than the avengers.


    --150 meters. Zarak could now discern that these Orks were smaller than those he¡¯d seen back at the village. They mostly had no scars or tattoos, unlike the ones he had fought there. But the ball was in motion. Warriors or not, these Orks had to go, or they¡¯d alert the others as soon as they spot the advancing party.


    --100 meters. Why don¡¯t the Orks see them yet? Styx stopped. It¡¯s too early for him to stop.


    Zarak, stopping as well -- The hell are you doing? We need to get closer.


    Styx -- Th-this is close enough.


    --His hands were shaking as he tried to ready his bow.


    -I¡¯ll shoot from here. ¨C Styx said.


    -We need to get closer. Your first shot had better hit one of them in the eye. They outnumber us.


    --The others were stopping too now, confused. They exchanged worrying glances.


    Styx, with a mocking smile -- Have a little faith, butcher boy.


    --Zarak already had to pull patience out of his heels to give that talk just now. He doesn¡¯t even know where the words came from, he¡¯s never been any good at talking, or dealing with people in general. What more does this jackass want?


    Walking up to Styx, Howell punched him in the shoulder and said -- The boy is right, get a grip and keep going, you shifty cockroach!


    Deploringly, Styx pointed his bow at Howell and spoke -- You don¡¯t get to talk to me that way, mister high and mighty! I don¡¯t know which one of you two dipshits has been busting my balls more since this whole deal started!


    -Keep it down. ¨C Zarak said.


    --Zarak was trying to get a word in, but they completely ignored him. With their egos on the line, it¡¯s as if Howell and Styx forgot where they were standing, and what they were doing. Were these guys for real? Now is the time they decide to ¡°settle the score¡±? Right now? As Zarak watched them in disbelief he heard a voice behind himself say: ¡°Fuck this shit.¡±


    --Ravi dotted right past Zarak, heedlessly. He was sprinting at the Orks, short sword in hand. He began screaming once he was a few footsteps away.


    --50 metres. Styx got so scared he accidentally released his bow, but the arrow luckily missed Howell completely. Howell didn¡¯t even notice this, as he instinctively turned towards Ravi.


    --25 metres. All eyes were upon the boy. Even the Orks were staring at him now.


    --10 metres. One of the bigger Orks lifted the animal skin covering the wagon and pulled out an axe from underneath it.


    --5 metres. The Ork with the axe intercepts Ravi and decapitates him with a single blow to the neck.


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    --Thank you for reading. I really don''t like this new drawing... Will have to redo it later. Next update will hopefully be by Monday. If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Cheers.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter IX: According to Kord (2)

    --Ravi plummeted to the ground resembling a rag doll, his blood spraying the Ork. One of the other peasants started shrieking. The rest of the Orks all grabbed weapons, both males and females. Ravi¡¯s killer pointed at the avengers and snarked something foul. The rest of the Orks replied with a savage war cry and began sprinting madly at the now terrified group of peasants. The peasants were felled left and right, as Howell was doing his best to fend off 3 attackers at once. Styx managed to get a few arrows off and even kill one Ork before he himself was sliced open by a jagged blade some brute wielded with both of his gnarly hands. He did not believe in any of the gods, but he sure hoped in that final moment that he would meet his son now. Zarak, though¡­ He skilfully dispatched the two Orks that went after him and was suddenly left alone, while the others were buried in greenskins. So the ¡°legend¡± began attacking them from behind, slicing another one. And another one. Another one! Payment time.


    --Howell fell. He couldn¡¯t get a single one before their weapons impaled his armour, and blood seeped out, drizzling down them. It ran as clearly as red wine. With his final moments, he uttered voicelessly ¡°My love, forgive me¡­¡± One of his three killers was slain by the peasants. The other Orks got wounded, but with a few swings of their heavy clubs, the peasant¡¯s bones could be heard crackling as sugar canes, and they fell into the dirt. All of the remaining peasants were clumped together, hitting shoulders against shoulders, stepping on the bodies of the fallen, trying not to lose balance while dodging and blocking blows. Even a successful block resulted in the peasant¡¯s farm tools getting smashed like toys, leaving them unarmed against the green giants. The pinkskins were losing hard, as the greenskins had all but annihilated them.


    --Zarak was still standing though. He had just accidentally stepped on the face of the Ork that killed Ravi. The Ork was flat on his back with one of the dead peasants over his chest. The yokel¡¯s battered and bleeding hand held a pitchfork that stuck out of the Ork¡¯s chest. Zarak held on to it, to keep himself from slipping on all the blood and falling. He looked around, his other hand flailing his blade about him in a bit of a daze, in case anyone was there. He saw only two humans still perpendicular to the ground, other than himself. Some young man with a sharpened shovel was still swinging hard. Three Orks lay dead at his feet, with wounds that seemed to have been made by his tool, while four more surrounded him. They were circling him with grins on their faces and backing off when he attacked, as if playing with fire. The other living human was far from the fighting. He was running across the plateau in some random direction. Zarak pulled the pitchfork out of the dead Ork and angrily threw it at the mob toying with the shovel lad, trying to get their attention, or even kill one of them. Alas, Zarak¡¯s weary and wounded arm had flung it into thin air, missing the Orks by a long shot. The shovel lad was now getting his guts spilled by the savage Orks, as they ravaged him with their weapons. Zarak felt desperation as he watched this man die. This man¡­ He fought so heroically, and yet it was all over for him. And Zarak couldn¡¯t stop it. Is this how it¡¯ll be? Is this how it¡¯ll end for him as well? He warned Ravi about this¡­ He ran up to the Orks and slew another one in an instant. The others tried to take him out as they did the shovel lad, by going all in together, but Zarak¡¯s masterful footwork got him through their attacks with just two shallow wounds. He was now behind them and dispatched another two in quick succession. Almost every blow he made in this battle was a flat out lethal one; he felt he was on a roll. The last one, upon seeing this, seemed to have frozen with fear in his eyes. Zarak wasn¡¯t sure, and didn¡¯t take the time to examine him. Instead, he used the Ork¡¯s moment of indecision to slice his throat open from afar, with the tip of his trusty two hander.


    --Zarak was alone now. Standing on top of the bodies of some fifteen orks and eight humans, bathed in blood. Well, not as alone as he might have originally thought¡­ He wasn¡¯t sure why, but about two hundred meters from him, a crowd of Orks had gathered. It seems they¡¯d been there for a while; they weren¡¯t huffing and puffing as if they¡¯d just ran here. Instead, they sported curious looks, all pointed at Zarak. They seemed to be talking amongst themselves, and some were laughing. He must have been so absorbed in the battle that he¡¯d completely failed to notice their approach. So much for his plan to storm the wagon that was apparently chock full of weapons and take it by surprise. One rotten egg was all it took to set things hurtling towards doom. And here he was, staring at a crowd of countless Orks, while the crowd stared right back at him. His wounds were cooling, and he could now feel multiple, aching cuts and bruises. He didn¡¯t notice those either, until just now¡­ So, where does he go from here?


    --In their midst, Zarak spotted something. An Ork with tattooes on his face, shorter than the others, clad in heavy, onyx coloured armour covered in runes, and sporting an agitated look in his eye. On his belt was a red banner with Orkish markings, a gold halo on his shoulders, and he was resting his hands in front of himself on what was probably a two hander. He was surrounded by a retinue of Orks in heavy armour, carrying more red banners and huge weapons. And behind them was a crowd of Orks who had nothing but pikes with heads impaled upon them. The Orks on the sides seemed like beggars in comparison, with their stone weapons and animal skins. Yes, Zarak was sure about it¡­ This must be Kord, king of all Orks. And it was hate at first sight.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Kord, in fluent Fanelian -- What¡¯s this? My precious wagon abducted by a dog, and its escort killed? Well I can¡¯t have any of that¡­. Right?


    --Kord turned towards the crowd, spreading his hands and waving up, signalling for the crowd which apparently didn¡¯t understand a word of what he said that it was time to respond. They happily obliged with cheers, screams and war shouts, while the older Orks around Kord seemed disapproving.


    Kord, turning back and scratching his chin -- Well, how do I handle this then?


    --Zarak was wondering the same thing. He spat out blood, but not his own. It was the blood of the last two Orks who stood in his way. He knew it was insane, but somehow, he felt that nothing is stopping him. There was to be no ¡°good enough¡±. He¡¯s getting that Ork¡¯s head.


    -You know dog ¨C Kord continued -- you remind me of a ludicrous story I heard some two weeks ago. It was back when we had stomped out some puny village in the borderlands. A scout reported back to me that he¡¯d seen a single pinkskin slay four of my Orks single-handedly. Four. Can you imagine that? Naturally, I slew him on the spot for lying to me. That¡¯s his head over there.


    --Kord pointed towards one of the heads on the pikes behind him. But what does Zarak care? This monologue was getting tiresome.


    Pouting, Kord droned on -- Some of the Orks here seem to want to share his fate, telling me they just saw proof the scout was right¡­ But it doesn¡¯t count until I¡¯ve seen it with my own two eyes! So, how about you repeat that little feat of yours? Just for me? Surely, you could do it again if it were true, couldn¡¯t you, dog?


    --His face skewed into a taunting, condescending, perverse smile; anticipating bloodshed. After the many years Kord has spilled blood with his hands, teeth, sword, feet, skull, fork, toothpick¡­. he grew tired of it. Thus, he was forced to come up with new, more creative ways of spicing things up. So perhaps, it might have seemed logical that he would simply dispose of Zarak quickly and move on with his busy day of doing nothing and remaining unchallenged by it. But knowing these subtle details, one might notice the tedium of such a path. This was all unknown to Zarak though, so he was at a loss as to why Kord seemed to be playing games with him. Kord was supposedly so powerful that he could smite anyone with little effort, and yet here he was, hiding behind a random mob of Orks. Zarak couldn¡¯t understand why, but he didn¡¯t really care. He was just glad the pointless talking was over, he thought, as he wiped the blood off of his sword, so it would cut Ork flesh more crisply.


    --Some eight Orks approached him slowly. Isn¡¯t that a bit more than what he faced back at the village? Kind of unfair. Zarak intended to kill them all, regardless. He held his sword up in front of his face and inhaled deeply. He focused. The Orks encircled him, but they seemed reluctant to attack. Zarak¡¯s eyes were closed, but he knew exactly where they were. His eyes were closed so he wouldn¡¯t get distracted by what he saw. He could hear them. As soon as one moved even a step closer, he¡¯d know which way to turn, regardless of their body language. And there was no threat of a ranged attack, as they all carried melee weapons. Why were they not making a move though? Annoyed, Zarak opened his eyes to glance about himself. Were they scared? No, it was something else¡­ The Orks were arguing amongst themselves, and they carried dismissive looks in their eyes. At this point, Zarak realized it wasn¡¯t fear that held them back. It was shame. Their faces clearly showed it. They were ashamed of ganging up on Zarak, as though he actually stood a chance of killing them. They appeared to be goading each other as if saying ¡°Come on, you go first. You¡¯ve always been the biggest wimp in our possy.¡± Unforgivable. In the blink of an eye, Zarak lashed out. He made three long, fast steps towards the closest one, and he lunged with his entire body. His blade came bearing down in a vertical arc, as he spun about his axis in mid leap, cleaving the distracted Ork in twain.


    --Some of the others laughed, while two appear to have been provoked by Zarak¡¯s attack. They charged him. He intercepted them with a single swipe, so brutal that it shattered their weapons made of wood and stone, and sliced their flesh open. That was three. Now shocked and perhaps frightened, two of the remaining Orks froze up. The other three cried out as they charged Zarak once more.


    --Good. It was about time he had their full attention. Zarak wasn¡¯t kidding around. Four! Five! Six! Zarak¡¯s blade could be heard singing as it spun through the air, the wind brushing up against it. The Orks dropped around him like flies. He was no longer human. He was a weapon, with only one purpose. And two more Orks stood between him and that purpose. The Orks, now panicking, tried running away. Zarak caught up with them effortlessly, and he cut them down from behind. This wasn¡¯t about honour. And Zarak was no knight. Kord seemed to be pleased with the outcome of this fight, as he smiled with bloodlust. Zarak was now making quick work of the distance that separated them, when Kord excitedly shouted out:


    -Kha¡¯Zan, my brother! Dispatch this mangy cur.


    --Zarak did not understand these words, as this time, Kord grunted, growled and squealed in Orkish. Another Ork stepped out of the crowd, different from the eight that Zarak just felled. This one was clad in heavy armour, much like Kord, albeit a deep azure and much less impressive. His face was scarred, and he seemed older than Kord. His skin was pale and he had jet black, braided hair. The Ork, Kha¡¯Zan, slowly drew his blade. It was a two hander, just like Zarak¡¯s. He took an offensive stance as Zarak came within two steps of him. But it was too late, as Zarak¡¯s blade unerringly swung into his neck!


    --Zarak was flung back, landing upon his arse. In his hands, where there once was a sword, he now held merely a hilt with a broken blade barely jutting out. On the ground before him, he could see the blade of his sword, sticking out of the sand. Also, beneath him, Zarak saw Kha¡¯Zan¡¯s shadow as the Ork raised his blade to cut him down. Zarak rolled to the side dodging the blow. This one was on a whole new level¡­ Zarak''s attack did not connect at all, not even a scratch on Kha''Zan''s throat. But, ¡°the ones left standing are seldom the best¡± he told Myzrael. Time to stand behind those words.


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    --I''m back! I''m gonna keep posting. Sorry I was away for a while.If you liked my work, please rate, follow or favorite, to support my content. Gl hf.

 A Very Serious Swordsman - Chapter IX: According to Kord (3)

    --Just when he was about to stand up from his crouched stance, another strike came in flying. Zarak blocked it with the broken sword, but the force of the blow was so severe he fell back and the hilt was knocked clean out of his hand. He crawled backward as another attack went slashing down. It landed right between Zarak¡¯s legs, just short of his family jewels. Kha¡¯Zan was displeased, and it was evident in the bored look on his face. Zarak saw this as an opportunity. His opponent now had to put all of his force into pulling his sword out of the ground before attacking Zarak again. As Kha¡¯Zan did so, wrenching his sword out of the ground, Zarak rolled forward. Kha¡¯Zan¡¯s face betrayed his surprise, and Zarak abused the opening by lobbing his right shin into the huge Orks groin.


    --A metallic clang could be heard and Zarak felt a sharp pain in his shin. Evidently, there was a metal plate under the Ork¡¯s loincloth. How unfortunate. As Zarak jumped on his good foot, holding the bad leg, Kha¡¯Zan waved his head in disapproval. He made a swing aiming for Zarak¡¯s neck, but Zarak tumbled onto the ground, turning a decapitating slice into a harmless nick on his throat. As he rolled back on his feet, he clasped some sand and threw it into his opponents face.


    --Alas, Kha¡¯Zan held his left hand out and blocked the underhanded tactic. Kha¡¯Zan grabbed Zarak¡¯s leather breastplate with his left arm and thrust his knee into Zarak¡¯s stomach, expelling the air from him. Zarak bent forward and coughed as his stomach churned, and a quick armoured backslap from Kha¡¯Zan¡¯s left fist sent him flying into the dirt, face first.


    --He was flat on the ground, and he could hear his opponent¡¯s armour clanking as Kha¡¯Zan walked up behind Zarak. Zarak knew what was coming. A single, downward thrust to nail him down into the ground, severing his spine and ending all chances of revenge. But what could he do about it? He was outmatched, and running out of dirty tricks that worked in the shady alleys of Bartertown. With his final look he noticed, lying on the ground a few steps from him, his broken blade.


    --Kha¡¯Zan¡¯s sword hit naught but the dust in Zarak¡¯s trail as he quickly spun back to his feet, his broken sword in hand. He wasn¡¯t giving up that easily! His enemy, Kha¡¯Zan, once again had to make the choice between pulling his weapon out of the ground thus risking Zarak¡¯s attack, or turning on him. In a split second, it would all be over.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    --Kha¡¯Zan anticipated Zarak would attack just like before, so he bluffed the opening, and would instead smack Zarak in the face with his fist.


    --But Kha¡¯Zan guessed wrong¡­ Zarak¡¯s attack was also a feint. Zarak moved in, straight after dodging the Ork¡¯s attack. The Ork however, was so fast he threw another punch at Zarak in the instant he needed to close the distance. This one was weaker though, and Zarak took it head on, ignored it. He pushed through! His broken blade plunged into Kha¡¯Zan¡¯s soft, fleshy neck.


    --Blood gushed out, splattering on Zarak¡¯s calm face. Kha¡¯Zan at first desperately grabbed Zarak¡¯s hands, which gripped the broken blade firmly, but then attempted to push him away. Kha¡¯Zan coughed and gagged, falling to his knees before Zarak, as he struggled to catch a breath through all the blood. Zarak however twisted his broken blade with both hands, opening the wound further.


    --Yes, it was over. Zarak gazed on towards Kord with murderous intent, but the Ork king was laughing. He was laughing so hard he almost fell over, while his retinue gazed upon the scene in disgust. What was so damn funny!?


    Kord, in Fanelian, barely catching breath -- You¡¯re quite something, you stray dog you!


    Zarak shouted across the battlefield, pointing at him -- You¡¯re next!


    --Kord grunted something incomprehensible to the Orks around him, as Zarak threw away his broken sword and wrenched Kha¡¯Zan¡¯s from his cold, dead hand. Zarak charged the Ork king and his retinue, screaming a war shout of unparalleled wrath. To the king¡¯s command, a group of strangely tattooed Orks stepped forth in front of Kord, wielding cloth sling shots in their hands. They began to bombard Zarak with stones. He ignored the hits and charged on as his body was bruised.


    --One of the stones hit Zarak¡¯s left shin with a cracking noise. His shin guard¡¯s leather straps tore from the force of the impact and it flew off. He fell rolling to the ground.


    --He dragged himself forward, trough the dust, trying to get back up. ¡°This isn¡¯t over yet!¡± He growled, while rising in spite of the barrage. The stone rain was unrelenting. A rock smacked him clean in the forehead and another crack could be heard.


    --This time, it was over.


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 A Very Serious Swordsman - Epilogue: How does one sleep at night?

    --Thrashing around, vile images flooded her mind. She screamed at the top of her lungs, but no sound came out. She could feel it all again. Every last bit. And with it, came the feeling of desperation and helplessness. Drowning. In her darkest dreams, her imagination could not have fathomed a scene such as this one. She could not think, she could not focus. All she could do is feel it, even though she desperately did not want to. She gave up on resisting. She pretended she wasn¡¯t there. She could not understand it. If there was one want, one need right now¡­ It was to disappear. To never have been.


    --The pain welled up and exploded into the darkness.


    --She was sitting up. She tried to jump up, but her legs betrayed her and she stumbled to the floor. She searched for her nightstand and the candle that rested on it. She needed some light. Just a little bit of light. It wasn¡¯t there.


    --She could only move her right hand. She couldn¡¯t quite feel the other one.


    --Her legs felt like twigs. She could make them move, but just barely. Standing up seemed impossible.


    --Her body was wrought with agony all over. A surprised voice came from the darkness and said ¨C You¡¯re awake! It¡¯s okay, it¡¯s okay¡­


    --She felt a shy touch on her shoulder. The touch made her jerk away, but the hand was small, cold and gentle. Pulling away from it, she crumpled up like a discarded piece of paper, with unwanted thoughts scribbled all over it. The other person now drew closer, refusing a compromise. The other person held her and said ¨C There, there¡­ Poor thing. You have nothing to fear. Listen to my voice. I¡¯m here now¡­ You will be fine.


    ***


    --Yolanda could not sleep after that dream, but the soothing hug those girl¡¯s hands offered her did manage to render a bit of relief in the end. She ran out of tears at some point, and the girl holding her fell asleep after that, as if relieved. Yolanda could tell because her breathing changed. It felt like a sanctuary where time froze and Yolanda did not dare move. Partly because she was afraid to wake up her savior, and partly because she refused to acknowledge that time would move on, and that this was in fact, reality.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    --Once the darkness decided to retire, the sun came up high enough to fill up the room with light. Yolanda could not truly see anything in the conventional sense of that word, but she was aware of the light as it brightened up her foggy view. She could now make out the silhouette of someone, probably of the feminine gender, cradling her hands around Yolanda. She tried to study the figure, but no matter how hard she tried, she could not make out its features. Suddenly, it moved, startling her slightly. It seemed to be yawning, judging by the sound¡­ And the movement seemed odd at first, but Yolanda remembered that it¡¯s probably stretching. That would be the gesture that made most sense, she thought.


    The girl ¨C Oh my, I must have fallen asleep. Look at you! You¡¯re awake already. You could have woken me up, you know. You didn¡¯t have to lie here on the floor with me¡­


    --Yolanda tried to answer, but instead of a voice, she merely let out a dry hissing noise that hurt her throat. The other girl told her to take her time and turned around to grab something with both hands from behind her. As she brought it up to Yolanda¡¯s lips, she could recognize the texture of a clay cup, filled with water.


    After a few much needed gulps, Yolanda asked ¨C Who are you?


    -I¡¯m Sophia, but you can call me Sophie. ¨C The girl replied.


    -Ok¡­ Thank you, Sophie.


    --Yolanda saw the indiscernible shape in her view shimmer and readjust with a sense of awkwardness that she could feel even through her dim perception.


    -I can¡¯t see. ¨C Yolanda confirmed to herself.


    --Sophie was silent for a bit, but then placed her cold hand on Yolanda¡¯s forehead, caressed her bruised face, and then gently pulled her greasy hair back.


    -I know. ¨C Sophie said. ¨C Your eyes have no light in them.


    -Who are you? ¨C Yolanda¡¯s voice asked, devoid of emotion.


    -I¡¯m¡­ I came looking for your brother. I met him about a month ago. He saved my life...


    -You know Aidan?


    -Yes¡­ - Sophie¡¯s voice replied, after a brief pause.


    -Where is he?


    --Sophie remained silent.


    -Where is my brother?


    -I¡­ He left before I got here. The villagers say he assembled a party of warriors and went after the Orks.


    -What a fool. ¨C Yolanda thought aloud. ¨C And my mother? Where is she?


    -She¡­ Didn¡¯t make it. She lies buried north.


    --A silence grew tumultuous between the two girls. Yolanda could feel Sophie grab her by the armpits and lift her up onto the bed, with a bit of struggling. Yolanda dropped her cup and it spilled onto the floor.


    -Did they¡­ ¨C Yolanda asked. ¨C Did they do the same thing to her as they did to me?


    -No. ¨C Sophie replied with a sharp and bitter yelp.


    -Good.


    --The silence in the room was now so loud that Sophie was engulfed with chilling sweat, and Yolanda felt like she was drifting away from reality. The silence drowned out everything. It froze them. Yolanda could not move, and Sophie would not dare to.


    ***


    --A great deal of footsteps away from there, and many grains of sand back in time, a little boy and a little girl met in a boulevard in Portsmouth. The boy smeared mud all over his face as he tried to wipe the tears off. The life of one of them will forever be changed by this chance encounter.


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    --Thank you for reading.Share with your friends, as sharing=caring. Look out for the next part of the story: "Live by the Sword - Dying is Easy"! I''ll try and upload the first piece of this one as soon as possible. May the gods be with you.

 Dying is Easy - Prologue: The Bloom (1)

    --Portsmouth was not always the capitol of Fanelia. In fact, if you go back enough generations in time, you will find that the kingdom it was in was not even called Fanelia. It is only after a pirate princess came to the land once known as Zanasute that the landscape of Portsmouth changed. She recognized the strategic potential this small town had, and ventured heavy coffers of gold into growing its fishing harbour into huge trading posts and shipyards. Gold alone does not build a city though. None of it would have been possible without having the hands to do that, many hands. And so, she brought many allies which were instrumental in turning Portsmouth into one of the richest cities in the known world. The town¡¯s population bloomed along with its fame, but so did the darkness embedded within its roots. And at its roots were the allies of the pirate princess, who were pirates themselves. The city was now rife with sailors, gamblers, swindlers and thieves. Men and women of poor moral standing, as his teachers would tell him. This is where the dark shadow looming over Portsmouth extends from. But there were many things that Tristan¡¯s teachers had told him nothing of. If these people were living lives in the wrong, what was stopping them from fixing it? Why did things have to be this way? His curious 12 year old mind could not understand, but he was determined to find out. It was during one such exploration, down in the dark allies of Portsmouth that he overheard a man yelling angrily, as he stormed out into the street.


    -¡­Again! I can¡¯t believe that you¡¯ve gone and done it again! ¨C The man¡¯s voice resonated between the tightly packed stone house walls. ¨C Can you not do anything right? I¡¯m talking to you, get back here!


    --Tristan was intrigued. In his home, he had never seen people behave in this manner. Here he saw a humble portal leading into a house one might call run down, but from the look of it, it might have simply always been this way. The house was in disrepair with multiple attempts of patching it up, but the attempts were ultimately half-hearted, rounding out its rather sad demeanour. In front of it, an older man, mid-life perhaps, a small brown pot in one hand, and a clenched fist in the other, waving it at a cowering woman somewhat younger than himself. The woman seemed to want to run away from him, but was now frozen with fear. The man seemed to be out of his wits, as he teetered with every shake of his fist, his ectomorph figure threatening to topple over. Tristan was about ten paces away but he could clearly smell that the man reeked of ¡°the strong stuff¡±, the juice that grown-ups really liked to drink in his home, but would never let him have any of. Well, that¡¯s not entirely true¡­ his teacher Grif Kaedahwould sometimes insist that he takes a sip from his cup. ¡°It¡¯ll grow hair on your chest!¡± the old bear would say. Tristan never quite understood why would someone want to grow hair on their chest, but Grif Kaedahwas the only one of his teachers he actually liked, so he would comply. The bear warned him though, not to consume too much of it, or it would cloud his mind. That must have been it¡­ That must be why the angry man seemed to be struggling to stay on his feet.


    --The angry man threw the pot he was holding and a steaming brown liquid spilled from it onto the woman¡¯s dress. She quivered.


    -This isn¡¯t food for people! ¨C The man yelled. ¨C This is for pigs. I bring you my pay so you can cook me shit like this? Why do I even feed you? A dog would take better care of our kids.


    --Overwhelmed by his curiosity, Tristan observed in silence, and the two of them didn¡¯t seem to notice him. The woman did not reply to the man. She appeared to be trying to make herself appear as small as possible in her bland, dark beige dress, and she was intently focused on the rain drain in the corner of the street. On her face, Tristan recognized a relatively fresh bruise, and trepidation.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    -Every day¡­ every day I slave away at the docks. All day I take their shit. And when I get home, I have to listen to the kids crying, and I have to listen to your shit! Well, what about me? Don¡¯t you ever think of me? After everything I¡¯ve done for you, is this the best you can do to repay me?


    --The woman was silent, but her eyes shot up at him, showing a hint of defiance and dissatisfaction with that which was said. In response, the man¡¯s fist opened up above her and swooped down, slapping her over the bruised cheek so hard that she fell to the ground.


    -Stop that! ¨C Tristan squeakily hollered, in as commanding a voice as he could muster, but with zero success.


    --Confused for a moment, the man looked over his shoulder at Tristan, but then ignored him and continued his tirade, the back of his hand smacking the woman¡¯s other cheek. This is when a small rock broke a window on their sad house. It was meant to hit him in the head, but Tristan¡¯s aim wasn¡¯t very good. The inebriated man turned around again.


    -I¡­ ¨C Tristan choked on the words in his throat. He swallowed, slightly trembling. ¨C I will not idly stand by in the face of injustice!


    --Funny enough, it was the Fanelian family creed that first came to his mind. He had picked up a second stone off the ground to fling at the tippler, but he immediately had to drop it and scram, as the man¡¯s focus and anger were now upon him. The man stomped towards him, with an intent sense of purpose that helped him not to stumble. Tristan found that the entrance to the alley he was in was now blocked by a parked stall with gutted fish. He slid under the stall, nimbly reaching the other side, while the man tried to jump over it and tripped, prostrating himself upon the ground on the other side. They were now both back at the main boulevard, which was rife with merchants and commoners alike. Tristan tried to gain distance, but he tripped on apples rolling all over the ground. Looks like someone spilled them, which in turn caused the fish stall to park in the awkward spot where it was. He caught his balance and kept on running. A few apples flew past his head, angrily tossed by the drunk. He ran as hard as he could, but despite moving somewhat clumsily, the old man¡¯s legs were much longer, and he was catching up.


    --It was time for some trickery, Tristan thought. Up ahead, he could see a crowd of some twenty or thirty people. They were assembled around a wooden box on top of which there was a ball, and a girl stood on top of the ball, juggling knives. He will try and lose the man there. He squeezed through the people, all the while trying to keep his bearings and spot out his hunter. He couldn¡¯t quite see him, but he was sure the drunk couldn¡¯t see him either, as he was several heads shorter than everyone else in the crowd. Satisfied that he had evaded his pursuer, Tristan emerged on the other side. But he didn¡¯t.


    --He was now face to face with the drunk, his pungent breath warming Tristan¡¯s face. The man¡¯s hand wrapped firmly and swiftly around Tristan¡¯s, exclaiming with a joyous grin ¡°Gotcha!¡± He lifted his other hand and clenched his fist¡­ Tristan braced himself, imagining the man¡¯s fist collide with his face in slow motion. He closed his eyes firmly, but he couldn¡¯t feel any pain. Peeking through his right eyelid, Tristan could see the fist looming above him menacingly, but it did not come down. The drunk¡¯s face was at first burning with anger, all flustered, but he did not seem satisfied with the result of the chase, even though he had caught his prey. He hesitated for a bit, and then pulled Tristan over one knee and started spanking him, mumbling something indiscernible to his own chin. After the first few smacks, Tristan cried out and asked for it to stop, but the hits kept coming. After a dozen solid smacks, the man got up and Tristan fell into the muddy street, landing on his face. The old man spat on the ground next to him, wiped his face and stumbled away. Perhaps towards his home, to finish where he left off, or perhaps towards a tavern, to replenish his haze. Tristan got up slowly, holding his sore posterior with one hand. He whimpered and tears ran down his cheeks. He could not understand why there were people like that out there. Why would anyone ever want to harm another? He did not cry from the pain, he cried because he could not understand.


    --The crowd dispersed, and a girl with red hair walked up to him, some two years his senior. It was the knife juggler.

 Dying is Easy - Prologue: The Bloom (2)

    -Are you all right? ¨C She asked, leaning down to his height, her hands behind her back.


    -I¡¯m fine. ¨C Tristan replied, smearing the dirt on his face as he tried to wipe off the tears and hide that he was crying.


    -What happened?


    After thinking for a bit, he replied with a bit of satisfaction in his voice ¨C I protected an innocent today.


    The girl smiled. ¨C Looks like you¡¯ll have to be a bit more careful how you go about it in the future, or someone else is gonna have to protect you.


    -I guess that¡¯s true. My ability to handle myself leaves something to be desired. ¨C The boy shrugged. ¨C That¡¯s why I have the best teachers in Fanelia!


    -Oh, the best?


    -The very best! That¡¯s what my father always says anyway.


    -I¡¯m sure they are. ¨C The girl¡¯s tone was condescending, and irritated young Tristan.


    -You don¡¯t believe me? I was on my way¡­ Well, I should have been on my way to one of them right now. He¡¯s probably wondering where I am. ¨C Tristan stared at the floor for a moment, wrapped in his thoughts ¨C Would you like to come with me?


    -You know, you talk funny. Why do you talk like that?


    -Like what? ¨C Tristan was perplexed.


    -Like¡­ I don¡¯t know, like an old mage or something.


    -Oh my¡­ you juggle knives, and you¡¯ve met a mage? You¡¯re one strange girl, aren¡¯t you?


    --Although Tristan meant it as a compliment, the girl¡¯s face revealed the comment displeased her.


    -I do what I have to, to make ends meet. A deft hand can earn the same coin in a short span of time, as a day of hard labor. It took some cuts before I could get the hang of it, but now I do have the rest of the day to do as I please.


    -Then please your way with me to my teacher. ¨C Tristan said, smiling. ¨C He¡¯s awesome! I¡¯m sure you won¡¯t regret it.


    -Well¡­ I say ¡°as I please¡±, but in truth, I have¡­ other things to tend to as well.


    --She hesitated as she looked for the words. She was worried Tristan would pry further, but he was much too enthused with his own ideas.


    -It¡¯s ok, my teacher doesn¡¯t live far from here.


    ***The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    --After about an hour had passed, and they were well within the forest north of Portsmouth, it became painfully obvious that Tristan had lied. The knife juggler, Isla, was now very much regretting her choice of giving in to his persistent and annoying pleas. She did not really know why, but she trusted him. What bothered her was that she was probably about to use up more time than she could afford. Just going back to the city at this point would mean she barely had the time to complete her chores for the day. However, she felt invested, and her curiosity would not let her go back anymore. While it seemed Tristan was treading a trail he knows well, the earthen path was thin and overgrown. Without his guidance, it seemed almost impossible to know it was even there. Finally, their path led them into a small glade. A clear stream was murmuring on the opposite side of it, and at its center was a jumbled up mass of muddy clay and straw, which one might dare to call a hut.


    --Tristan brought up his hands to his mouth and started producing bird noises of some sort. After some silence, a brief response was heard, seemingly originating from within the hut. Tristan gave another, altered reply, and the hut door swung open. A huge figure emerged from within, easily 2 meters in height, and about half that in width. It was an older, bearded man with long, tangled hair, wrapped in furs. His eyes glinted darkly beneath their bushy brows, and his moustache curved into a parabola to reveal a hearty, toothed smile.


    -Tristan, my boy! ¨C His gravelly voice boomed. ¨C I knew I was forgetting something. You were supposed to be here hours ago, weren¡¯t you?


    --Tristan ran up to him to engage in a convoluted, secret handshake, and for a few moments they seemed to have forgotten about their guest. Once the handshake was finally done, the man got down to his knee. This was possibly done to seem less threatening, but he was still towering above the kids, and the handle of a two-hander extending from behind his back did not help things. Isla felt weary of him.


    -You sly dog you¡­ Did you make a friend today? ¨C The man asked in an inappropriate tone, smiling as he sized up the girl.


    -Yes. ¨C Tristan walked over to her. ¨C Master Grif, I¡¯d like you to meet my new friend, Isla.


    -Friend is a bit of a strong word, ¨C Isla defended herself awkwardly ¨C but I am pleased to meet you, Master Grif.


    --She walked up and held out her hand instinctively. As Grif''s large paw gripped her hand, fear passed behind her like a ghost, and she regretted offering if. Her trepidation quickly subsided, as he released it, but the moment of the greet itself seemed unpleasantly extended in her mind.


    -Your hands¡­ They are not as delicate as one might expect of a lass at such a tender age. What¡¯s more, they bear scars made by blades.


    --Hearing this, Isla started inspecting her own hands, as if they were foreign.


    -Is it really so strange for a peasant-girl¡¯s hands to be rough from labour? ¨C She heard disappointment in her own voice, not knowing whence it came from.


    -You misunderstand, little mushroom. I am impressed!


    --The apparent enthusiasm in Master Grif''s voice brought up her spirits as she looked him in the eye. Tristan was somewhat confused, as he tried to keep up with this exchange.


    -A man¡¯s, ¨C Grif continued ¨C or a woman¡¯s hands in this case, can tell you much about that person. I can see by your hands that you carry a much heavier burden than that which is usually expected of a lass your age. I can see that you are the one taking care of someone, or perhaps even several others, rather than being the one who is taken care of. And furthermore, I would wager that your hands have held a blade. I¡¯d wager you have one in that purse of yours, and perhaps you¡¯re rather handy with it.


    --He paused, a suspicion shimmering in his eye, as it glossed over the healing cuts on the girl¡¯s hands, from which he made this deduction.


    -You wouldn¡¯t have happened to point it at others though¡­ have you? ¨C Grif''s suspicion had bounced around the inside of his head and leaped out through the gate on his face.


    -No! ¨C The girl protested, vexed. ¨C I would sooner cause harm to myself than to another.


    --A peculiar response indeed, Tristan thought. Just before he had met her, he had seen a much older man inflict pain upon someone weaker than himself, and seemingly with no real cause. And yet, here was a girl with less than a third of his life time, claiming that she would find pain less unnerving, than infliction. The thought of this made his youthful and idealistic mind tear up. He fought the sensation, as he did not want Isla to see him cry.


    -My! ¨C Grifexclaimed ¨C You¡¯re something else, little girl. As noble as a petite princess.


    -Oh please. Now you¡¯re just trying to get under my skin. ¨C Isla¡¯s tone and eyes showed irritability, but her face was blushing as she tried to hide her smile.


    -Oh, but I mean it! ¨C Grif said. ¨C Not everyone is fit for royalty. Even if they were born into it! Take Tristan here, much as he was born to be a prince, he hardly has the wit and the constitution for it. I do my best to toughen him up, but¡­


    --Grif''s words faded in Isla¡¯s mind. He boomed on with a somewhat proud note, as Tristan sulked more and more. But in Isla¡¯s mind, one word kept resonating, muffling the rest of Master Grif''s story. This word, it became deafening in her mind¡¯s ear.


    -A WHAT!? ¨C She meant to ask, but the words came out as a shout.


    -¡­And then the bears rolled over! ¨CGrif Kaedah''sstory concluded, but Isla had no idea how he got there.


    -Well, Tristan here is a prince. ¨C Grif spoke as if talking about the boy¡¯s hair colour. ¨C Didn¡¯t he introduce himself?


    -Teacher please! That was quite enough. You don¡¯t have to scare away everyone I try to make friends with.


    --Tristan protested in his usual tone, which was much too serious and eloquent for his age. This tone suddenly made a lot of sense to Isla. At this point, it was clear to her that her afternoon had taken a most unusual turn. A fated turn which was going to shape the rest of her life beyond her wildest dreams.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter I: A Brother鈥檚 Bond

    *Thunk*


    --Kord¡¯s aim was off. He decided to do away with today¡¯s afternoon by practicing his free arm throw. However, the human slave he tossed, onto the spike his lackeys planted into the opposing cavern wall, had missed the mark. Instead, it bluntly bashed against the wall with the muffled sound of a few bones cracking, and proceeded to drop into the flaming pit below. Ghastly screams echoed in the chamber, ones best left unheard. To be fair, the spike was 100 meters away from where Kord stood, and the mere feat of tossing a body weighing approximately 70 kilos across that distance was quite the accomplishment on its own. He, on the other hand, felt that he should be able to hit the spike dead center, and was terribly disappointed by missing the mark by about a meter.


    --His afternoon pastime was interrupted when a tall, armour-clad figure approached him, from one of the adjoining tunnels. The main source of light in this underground cavern was the dim glow of the flames in the pit ahead, but he knew from the stern disapproval he felt on the back of his head that the person approaching him was his brother, Kha¡¯Zan, long before turning around.


    -I really wish you wouldn¡¯t be so needlessly cruel every time I turn away from you. ¨C Kha¡¯Zan protested, seeing what his brother was up to.


    -Do you honestly care what happens to them? ¨C Kord grunted back, as this conversation was of course led in Orkish.


    --There was a small group of slaves lying on the floor close to him. They didn¡¯t really know what was going on, but the screams, previously heard, hinted it was bad. As they heard the stomping of Kord¡¯s metal boots approach, the crowd squirmed, not knowing which way to back to, and a few muffled screams went unheard by those present. The brothers did not care for them, and the other slaves were merely too focused on trying to not be the one who gets picked next. Their hands and feet were roped together, and their heads covered with sacks. He dragged one by the leg with one huge hand, picked the slave up and swung around his own axis several times, before releasing his missile. The brothers stood in silence as they watched it plummet through the air, until a faint crack could be heard. This one missed too, but it landed on its skull, so no screams this time; as it collapsed into the fire.


    -I don¡¯t, but I wouldn¡¯t trust you with a dog after seeing what you do with our slaves. ¨C Ka¡¯Zan replied.


    -A dog! Indeed. These pink, squishy creatures are no better than dogs. I couldn¡¯t have put it better myself.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    -Never mind. I¡¯m not here to talk about slaves, or your sadistic eccentricities.


    -Feel free to talk simply brother, the council isn¡¯t here to hear your sweet tongue lapping. ¨C Kord growled with agitation, as he picked up another slave.


    -I¡¯m here because there has been another prophecy. Are you listening?


    -Yes, yes, you have my undivided attention. ¨C His words said, but his eyes were aimed at the spike, trying to remember the distance and the intensity he wants to feel as he releases this one.


    -Right¡­ So, the prophecy states that bad things will happen to The Horde if we camp in this valley.


    --Ka¡¯Zan stopped. He was waiting for a reaction from Kord, who was still busy spinning about himself, to get the right velocity for his slave toss. The slave was released and went flying across the huge cave in an arc¡­


    *SPLAT*


    --This one stuck. It landed upside down, back first, and the impact didn¡¯t finish it off. It screamed at the top of its lungs and writhed until it slid around the spike piercing its stomach, so its feet were pointing towards the ground again. At this point, it seemed to have ran out of breath and was merely breathing very heavily. Slower and slower, as its blood poured down into the fire. Kord turned around with satisfaction in his eyes, to meet his brother¡¯s objecting gaze.


    -Isn¡¯t that convenient, brother? ¨C Kord went on, trying to make the squealing noises a complaint makes in Orkish sound as manly as possible. ¨C Just as we got a report from our scouts that they ran into a Goth scouting party, the Cloud Shamans mystically show up with a prophecy saying ¡°don¡¯t camp here¡±.


    -Perhaps. However¡­


    -Oh, look at me! I am so insightful. I am most assuredly in commune with a dragon. Follow me as we all jump off a bloody cliff! ¨C Kord interrupted him, prancing about with deplorable gestures.


    -Brother, you don¡¯t seem to be handling this very well.


    -I¡¯m handling it marvellously. ¨C Kord¡¯s words boomed, but his disposition did not seem to match.


    --It was not so much the news itself, as it was the fact that he had just discussed this matter with the council a few hours before. He was of the opinion that they should not set up camp, but rather keep moving north. He was operating on a hunch that told him they did not gain enough distance from the pursuing Goth army. Furthermore, the terrain in this area offered a lot of indefensible approaches. ¡°But our people are exhausted¡± they said. ¡°A short break would cost nothing, while a forced march onwards would kill some of the weak and wounded¡± they said. His brother could have swayed them to listen if he trusted Kord, but he was forever indecisive. Not when it came to tradition, or prophecies though¡­ Kord was often appalled at the idea that both of them came from the same womb. To him, it seemed so clear when rhetoric was used to cover up individual interests, but his brother fell for the same words every time. And what¡¯s worse, the elders listened to his brother more.


    -Please, -- Kha¡¯Zan implored him, placing the palm of his hand upon Kord¡¯s shoulder ¨C Regardless of where wisdom comes from, recognize that it is indeed wisdom.


    --Kord shrugged. Partly because he couldn¡¯t really do anything but order The Horde to cease unpacking and move on, and partly because he too found it hard to go up against his brothers requests, just like the elders did. If only he could be the one who can get others to see things his way¡­ How far could he take everyone? Just how far? He wished for his brother to be gone while entertaining this train of thought, not knowing that his wish would soon come true and how mixed his feelings will be about it.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter II: Mr Gone

    --Her hands felt stiff, and every cut and nick on her skin was irritated by the warm water, as she scrubbed away the filth. The sun made her brow shine. Unlike the other servant girls though, she¡¯d much rather do the laundry in the courtyard, than deal with the warm humidity and its stench inside of the servants¡¯ quarters. The castle had several courtyards, and even this one, intended for servants and their needs, was a fairly beautiful one. Once she had finished rubbing the filth out of Mr Fliss¡¯s robe, she straightened up, feeling a few slight cracks in her spine. It was housework, but the labour felt hard enough to take a bit of a toll on her youth. As she wiped the sweat from her forehead, Isla noticed Tristan walking on one of the terraces overlooking the courtyard. He didn¡¯t hear her calling out at first, but she did manage to get his attention, as he turned towards her, apparently searching for the source of her voice.


    -Hey Tristan! Aren¡¯t you a sight for sore eyes¡­ -- She hollered at him. -- Fancy a swordfight in the evening, when the sun isn¡¯t boiling our brains? I¡¯m eager to see what new tricks you¡¯ve got, we haven¡¯t had a chance to spar in ages.


    --He was about to utter a reply, but the voice of Orin Farin booming from across the courtyard interrupted him.


    -Ah, there you are! Where have you been, princeling? Your lesson in Proper Etiquette and Decorum awaits you.


    --Tristan¡¯s gut churned at the sound of Orin¡¯s voice. Of his three teachers, Orin was the one he favoured least.


    -Oh, you were looking for me? ¨C Tristan replied, followed by a forced chuckle.


    --As his thoughts raced for the proper rhetoric to blow off his teacher, a convenient excuse proposed itself.


    -Tristan, my love! ¨C The voice of a noble girl rang. She was finely dressed, freckled, had blonde, braided hair and, in Isla¡¯s opinion, a far too revealing cleavage for an honest woman. The girl passed Orin to hang her hands around Tristan¡¯s neck. As she kissed his cheek, she continued ¨C You¡¯ve forgotten all about me, haven¡¯t you? The bard¡¯s songs don¡¯t stir the soul quite as tempestuously without you around.


    --It was Lana, one of the noble girls that sought after him. He had many friends such as her, all seeking his attention. He felt hounded by their hollow affections. Isla felt like the closest thing he had to a true friend. But lately, Isla too seemed merely another one of the vultures, always asking for some thing or other from him; always fighting to spend time with him. And his time, he would do nothing rather with it, than hide away in the library and feed his mind with the interesting thoughts written within its books.


    -Apologies young Lana, but Tristan¡¯s attention is required in more¡­ regal affairs. ¨C Orin bowed to the girl, in an attempt to lessen the wound his words had stricken, but his failure was evident upon her frown.


    -Oh, but is there anything more regal than grooming the diplomatic relations within one¡¯s kingdom? Why dwell in books when one can get some¡­ first-hand experience? ¨C She placed her hand on Tristan¡¯s chest, gently.


    -Lana has a point. ¨C The prince took Lana¡¯s hand, as she smiled smugly at Orin. - After all, must I remind you that Lana here bears the blood of the esteemed Sashel family?


    -Young lord, I must insist. Now is not the time to run off and associate with Nightling filth again.


    -Nightling filth, you say? ¨C Lana intervened. ¨C Is it not you who is of fey skin and pointed ears?


    --Indeed, despite his aristocratic poise, hair grey with age and flamboyant, white uniform, Orin¡¯s skin was tan, and his ears were clearly pointed.


    -Yes. ¨C Orin conceded, bitterly. ¨C I indeed share the blood of those useless, thieving sloths. Sadly, I am but an exception that confirms the rule. Regardless of this, Tristan, your father would not be pleased with your antics as of late ¨C


    -And yet you are not him. ¨C Tristan interrupted, bitterness reverberating in his voice. ¨C And for as long as my father remains bed-ridden, the golden sceptre of rule is the burden of my hand. And today, I say, it shall guide me to Lana¡¯s company. To mingle and build trust with the future generations of our council.


    --Orin trembled with supressed fury as Tristan and Lana walked past him, hand in hand. He had no other choice but to do so. Indeed, he could not think of a way to bend Tristan to any purpose without being able to threaten reprisal from Tristan¡¯s father, the King. Once the noise of footsteps faded from the hallway, Orin too moved on about his day. And so, Isla remained alone, below them, in the courtyard. The inability of anyone to recognize that she is present made her feel as if she was one of the ornamental fixtures upon the pillars which held up the terrace archways. With a firm scowl and trembling hands, she picked up the laundry she was washing and hanged it along the ropes to dry. Afterwards, she stomped off to her room, slamming the door behind her. She felt a grave need for an item stowed under her bed, wrapped up in leather and cloth. Something that could take away this pain.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    --It was a short sword.


    --She turned towards her cabinet, covered in nicks and slices, and unleashed hell upon it. Her swings were slamming into the wood, sending carvings flying through the air, but her wrath did not wane.


    --She thought:


    ¡°Her hands upon his neck¡­¡±


    CHOP


    ¡°Her lips pressed upon his lips¡­¡±


    SLICE


    ¡°Her chest heaving against his chest¡­¡±


    SLAM


    --She paused for a moment, short of breath. Unwanted images came into her mind and tears welled up in her eyes. She dropped to her knees, unable to articulate the feelings which now took hold of her heart, squeezing it, draining it. This feeling¡­ her grip on her sword tightened. She would see it lifted. She stabbed the sword into the cabinet one final time before putting it away. She shook the carvings off of her bed¡¯s cover. She dried her eyes, straightened out her clothes, took a deep breath and went outside, to continue with her chores for the day.


    ***


    --As she climbed the narrow, winding staircase that led servants into the kitchen, her limbs felt heavy, and her eyes were slightly swollen. She felt fortunate that most did not notice her anyway, so she would not have to answer unpleasant questions about her distraught and agitated appearance. All that was left standing between her and her bed tonight was to have her evening meal, and to have one prepared for her master. She strode down the hallway with her long, tangled, red hair weaving and bobbing after her. The halls were thick with humidity, the smell of stone and moss overwhelming her nose. She could find no solace that day, for thoughts of him followed her everywhere. Of course, he did not show up at nightfall to spar with her. In fact, it took a while for her to remember the last time Tristan and her crossed swords. It had been almost half a year since.


    --She remembered it well. They were sparring in the woods, near Master Grif Kaedah¡¯s hut. And she handed Tristan his ass, perhaps even more so than usual. She was certain he was losing interest in it, and had not been practicing. The duels used to be a place for their passions to intertwine. She felt her cheeks red and hot every time. She did not know what to do with the feelings which stirred inside of her. She considered wrestling him into the ground next time so she can straddle him, and perhaps he would get the idea, like the young lothario from some romantic book. But then the next time they were to spar, he was nowhere to be found. And then the next time, the same. And the next¡­ And the next.


    --If only she had spoken sooner. Made a move. Perhaps he would now be in her arms. She needed to make that move before the intrigue of court life had swallowed him whole.


    --Isla had already gotten to the kitchen, and was slowly chewing on a piece of dried meat, when her mind returned to the task at hand. Her elbows planted on the table, and her head resting in her hands, she observed the two cooks as they fumbled around her to get Master Fliss¡¯ evening meal ready, exchanging gossips along the way.


    -Good heaven¡¯s Martha! ¨C The tall, choleric Irma chattered ¨C I don¡¯t mean to be rude, but perhaps your diet is not working out. Your figure seems more imposing by the day. ¨C Followed by a chuckle she did not appear to want to let out.


    -It is sooo nice of you to worry about me Irma, I can¡¯t believe you find the time and energy, what with all that¡¯s been bothering you. ¨C the short, stocky Martha retorted in her congested, nasal voice, her tiny eyes flashing with disingenuous compassion before she pounces her prey.


    -Oh, I¡¯m fine my dear. My affairs have all been in order as of late.


    -That¡¯s not what I hear. I mean¡­ And let me just point out that you are my dearest friend, but honestly dear, I hear the reason you haven¡¯t been getting any is that your hubby¡¯s been sticking it to the baker¡¯s daughter.


    -My¡­ what? With that pimply, red face of hers?


    -Well, I reckon it¡¯s not her face that caught his eye¡­ - Martha covered her mouth with one hand, as she grinned uncontrollably.


    -ENOUGH! ¨C Isla clapped her hand down on the table, causing all the dishes and the cutlery to rattle ¨C Your gossiping is going to make me barf. Be quiet and finish up, the master does not appreciate tardiness.


    -Why the audacity¡­ - Martha stuttered ¨C Young lady, have you any idea how long I¡¯ve been in our lord¡¯s service? My, I¡¯m not sure if you were even born when I started working as his main chef.


    --Irma was silent. She dared not speak, but she watched on, with great interest.


    -What does it matter? The tree in the courtyard has been around longer than both of us, and still, you don¡¯t see me talking to it for advice.


    -Why, you little¡­ you little bitch! You don¡¯t get to talk to me like that just because you¡¯re the princeling¡¯s plaything!


    -You should watch your tone old lady. You much overstep your bounds.


    -But it¡¯s true! We all know it, and no one dears speak about it. Well, in your face! We know. We all know the only reason you ever got this position is because of¡­ a certain position you took with the young prince. ¨C Martha sized up Isla with apparent disgust.


    -Ok, now listen here. ¨C Isla moved up to Martha. Real close. Her nose was almost touching Martha¡¯s. And then she whispered, her puppy eyed expression fixed to Martha¡¯s. ¨C I have had a¡­ Very bad. Day. So far. What I need you to do is to finish cutting up that piece of pineapple, so that all of us can be on our way. Do you think you can manage that?


    -I¡­ - Martha stuttered. Her legs were threatening to give out. ¨C Okay.


    --Martha¡¯s silence lasted until the pineapple was finely sliced and arranged on a small plate, sitting cosily next to a few slices of smelly, blue cheese. However, the meal was not yet finished. There was still the matter of the empty bowl. Martha poured a generous portion of caviar into it. She even managed to slice up some garlic and sprinkle it on top in silence. But her mouth gave way before she could finish grinding up the coconut with the small machine affixed to the table¡­


    -I heard that the princeling has vanished. ¨C Martha prodded.


    --Irma coughed abruptly. However, seeing as Isla was preoccupied, playing with the last piece of dried meat in her plate, the choleric Irma ventured ¨C It baffles the mind, that one so blessed with court life and riches would run off to¡­ Well, I heard that he befriends Nightlings. ¨C She whispered in a conspiratory fashion.


    -Nightlings? ¨C Martha rolled her eyes. ¨C But never mind that. I heard from little Merry that the castle guard has been secretly searching for him. They tossed her room.


    -Fancy if they found him there¡­


    --The two giggled, glancing at Isla, and then at each other. But Isla remained silent, and apparently absent.


    -Anyway ¨C Martha continued ¨C It¡¯s not just her room! They went about searching and inquiring for him, and they told everyone not to speak of it!


    -Look at how well their orders have been followed. ¨C Upon thinking for a moment, she added ¨C And I assure you that the only bed my husband visits is my own.


    --It was then that Martha finished topping the caviar bowl with the minced coconut, and Irma settled a manchette bread, freshly heated in the stony oven, onto the wooden tray which held the rest of the lord¡¯s goods. Perhaps the little plate did not appear too fetching to the average servant in the castle, but amongst the nobles, Martha¡¯s cookery was held in rather high regard. Isla picked up the tray and carefully trotted towards Mr Fliss¡¯ chambers.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter III: The Endless Night (1)

    --Isla had hoped that she would leave the tray at her master¡¯s quarters, and that this wretched day would finally come to an end. And at first, it seemed as though this would be the case. Upon hearing her knock, her master invited her in. Mr Fliss¡¯ quarters were perhaps not as elaborate as one might expect, for a nobleman of such high stature. Stone quarters, and few decorations adorning the walls. A fireplace with two armchairs in front, on the far right of the room. Three deer heads, which were hunting trophies, bear furs adorning the floor and the walls, and a sizeable bed with a baldachin, in the center of the room. There was also a large, but humble, wooden writing desk; left of the bed, in between two tall windows. It held an intricate candlestick bearing his family¡¯s crest, a tray with a tea kettle and three cups, a bottle of ink with a feather in it, and neatly organized scrolls of paper. Mr Fliss liked to keep a tight grip on his affairs, and would entertain them until the very precipice of sleep. Tonight appeared to be no different. David Fliss was standing by the window, while his scribe was seated at the writing table, a blank piece of paper, waiting to be stained with ink, in front of him.


    -Isla, stay.


    --The night wasn¡¯t over yet.


    -I have to talk to you about something.


    -Yes, sire? ¨C Isla turned back from the door, towards Mr Fliss, and bowed, offering him an inquisitive look.


    -I am making up a will, and I would like you to be my witness.


    -Me¡­ A will, sire? Why? And why me?


    -Indeed, why¡­ Perhaps I¡¯m just a fool to believe that something like that still exists in this world, but I¡¯ve come to think that you are a person of principle. And even if you were not, I will give you a reason to keep my trust.


    --David turned away from the window abruptly. He walked over to Isla, took her hand, and led her to the writing table, offering her tea with a hand gesture. She was hardly interested in it, but knew her manners well enough not to say no. She took up a cup and sipped from it, then immediately put it back down, all the while looking sternly at David, waiting for him to continue with what he had to say. He was in his forties, still a decent number of years away from a natural death, and was yet to explain his sudden memento mori.


    -Earlier today, I have arranged for your mother to be transferred to a humble estate of my choosing. However, I am aware of her bad health and have arranged for someone to take care of her; during her stay there. ¨C He spoke calmly, slowly.


    -What¡­ why was I not informed of this sooner?


    -Because, this way, there is a reason for you to keep my trust. Beyond whatever principles your youthful mind may hold close to heart. ¨C His eyes seemed to sharpen as they explored Isla¡¯s, and as he experienced the joy of spinning his web. He then turned back to the window, and began to speak quicker, with a gale. ¨C Scribe, write this down: ¡°I leave all of my estates to my son Rami, except for the house in Isca. One half of...¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    -So, you are essentially blackmailing me, with my mother as a hostage? ¨C She tried to interrupt him, but he continued unfazed.


    -¡°¡­One half of my wealth is to be made his, as well. The Isca house, as well as the bond staking claim to the sum of ten thousand gold, which I have stored in Wurzan, is to be handed to Angelique. The rest is to be distributed in even parts amongst my brothers and sisters. I have two conditions. One: That no harm shall come to Angelique. Some of you may hold a grudge over the propriety of her relationship with me, but I simply was not the kind of man who would grow old a lonely widower. And the second condition¡­ We have not treated each other with much love during my lifetime. But we have always been allies. The same is to remain true after I am gone. And whomever breaks these conditions, shall be denied any stake at my wealth, or property.¡±


    --David was done with his dictation, and visibly distressed. Staring at his feet, he contemplated the possibility of his early demise. He then turned towards Isla to dismiss her, expecting to see her shaken as well, but he was instead startled when he met her furious gaze. Her fists were clutched and she had had just about enough of today.


    -No, Isla! Do not be angry with me. Please forgive the crudeness of my manner. I am beset by enemies on all sides and could not afford to go by trust alone.


    -Where is my mother?


    -What if one of them had gotten to her before me? Don¡¯t you see? It is better for both of us this way. ¨C He pleaded.


    -Is that what you tell yourself, so you can feel like taking someone away is morally sound?


    -Please. It has been a long day and I must have some rest now. But do not worry. My son knows where she is, and she is well provided for. You try to make it out as though I am the villain here, but trust me. I wish no harm to her, or to you.


    --Isla¡¯s anger subsided. She had considered her master¡¯s words. Indeed, he would have no motive to cause harm to either of them. Being treated so rudely was still aggravating, but she did not see a way out of this position at the moment. Further words would be a waste of time, and potentially create a rift between her and her master. She and the scribe left his quarters, and she was headed for her room, to finally bring an end to this day, although sleep was beginning to seem doubtful.


    ***


    --On her way there, she heard a voice calling to her from the shadows.


    -Isla. Mister Fimes summons you.


    --The night wasn¡¯t over. It was a short man in a hunched position, legs bent outwards. He was wrapped up in a black robe, which covered most of his face. Despite it being about an hour past sunset, he bore glasses with black paint on them, concealing his eyes. His voice was slightly raspy, and implying he could be a middle-aged man.


    -I¡¯ve no interest in seeing him. ¨C She replied. Ranulf Fimes was one of her master¡¯s rivals, and she owed no allegiance to him. Now, especially, might be a bad idea to see one of her master¡¯s rivals.


    -He said it concerns the prince, and that you must come.


    -The prince? What do you mean?


    -He did not say.


    --Something about this seemed dubious. In fact, all of it seemed dubious. To be honest, she should probably just turn away and retire to her room. It would be the sound thing to do. But this? On the same night that her master acted so strangely? She felt torn¡­ Perhaps it was an unhealthy dose of curiosity, or spite, but she decided to follow the cloaked man.


    --He carefully led her through the castle halls, choosing a path which apparently avoided detection. They didn¡¯t run into a single person on their way there. Her guide was either incredibly lucky, or he must have memorized the guard¡¯s patrol routes.


    -In here. They¡¯re expecting you.


    --They were in what seemed to be another hallway, at the north side of the castle. The guide unveiled the red drapes covering the archways that spanned along the left side of it, and she stepped inside. Or outside, more accurately. On the other side was a massive terrace, perhaps fifty paces until its far edge, and four times as wide. It overlooked the river behind the castle, and the forest beyond. The sky was alight with stars, and below, by the terrace walls, two figures stood; smoking pipes. The left one was cloaked in crimson, and the other, larger, in black. As she approached them, the larger one, on the right, turned around and spoke first, revealing a black, long beak, and a coarse, wrinkled hand with three digits that had talons on them, holding the pipe.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter III: The Endless Night (2)

    -Good evening, Isla. ¨C He spoke in a deep voice.


    --It was Venceslav Sashel, another rival of Mr Fliss, and an Enksado. His beady, crusty, black eyes and grey, faded feathers did not add to the appearance of a trustworthy person. He was an old, shrewd crow, that one. And she could now see that the other one was the young, ginger man, Ranulf Fime.


    -You summoned me?


    -By now, you may have heard rumours of the prince¡¯s disappearance. ¨C Venceslav spoke with equanimity. ¨C My associate and I are¡­ aware of your special relationship with him. ¨C Isla¡¯s weariness vanished and her face turned to stone, as her full attention was suddenly focused on the nobleman¡¯s words. ¨C We assure you, we¡¯ve had nothing to do with it. This peculiar situation is troublesome for us as well. But, I am afraid I cannot say anything else about this topic at the moment. What matters now is that the hierarchy within the castle is shifting, even as we speak. Certain¡­ dark forces are at play. They seek to throw this kingdom into disarray, to weaken us. And we must act quickly to stem the flow from this wound. And you! You¡­ are in a unique position to influence the outcome of this calamity.


    -Tristan¡­ is missing? It is true?


    -Focus, please. Our futures are at stake. ¨C Ranulf intervened.


    -What do you mean, he is missing?


    -He is gone. ¨C Ranulf dismissed her. ¨C And we have reason to suspect high treason is involved. High treason.


    -Define gone.


    -It does not matter right now, what matters¡­


    -How does a prince just vanish?


    --Isla interrupted Ranulf. He went silent.


    -Are the walls of this palace made of paper?


    --Isla spoke completely out of turn. She was a mere servant, in the presence of two of the twelve nobles from the King¡¯s Counsel. The eager Ranulf became flustered, but Venceslav was very patient, and he responded, keeping his unwavering, calm tone.


    -I urge you to look towards constructive thoughts. Perhaps you do not care of your own future, but the future of your mother should still bear some weight in your heart. No?Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    -Keep your serpentine words away from my mother. Sir.


    -But who will take care of her and you in the prince¡¯s absence? Your stay here has, without a doubt, been his doing. Now that he is gone, what reason is there to allow you to stay? To continue to pay for your employ? ¨C Venceslav spread his left palm out as if requesting an offering.


    -My master.


    -It is touching that you feel loyalty towards him, but I am afraid he hired you merely as a gesture meant to win favour with the prince. And furthermore, he has, in a way, betrayed you. ¨C Venceslav said, puffing his pipe with a worried look on his face.


    -What do you mean?


    -What I am about to tell you, for your own safety, you must tell no one.


    --The nobleman looked into Isla¡¯s eyes and paused. He was searching for a spec of credulity. He did not find it, but he did not doubt in his own ability to captivate an audience. Satisfied that he had paused long enough for dramatic effect, he continued.


    -Your master, David Fliss, is the one behind the prince¡¯s disappearance.


    --He paused again, waiting for her response of disbelief, rehearsing his arguments in his head, but she was silently peering at him. Well, that works too, so he spoke on.


    -It is all part of an intricate plot with the Goths to seize the throne. But we¡¯ve been onto them, Mr Fimes and I. For a while now. We have ears in all the right places. And I assure you, they¡¯re not getting away with it.


    -And you need me to spy on my master? To provide proof of this, supposed, treachery?


    -My dear girl, I fear the time for watching and listening has long past. Now, the time has come to take action.


    -To take action? I¡­ do not understand.


    -You need to kill him. ¨C Ranulf interceded crudely, to Venceslav¡¯s dismay. He would have preferred to introduce the idea in a much more subtle way.


    -To what? Why wouldn¡¯t you just have him arrested? ¨C Isla¡¯s eyes widened, and her voice slightly cracked.


    -The corruption runs deep. ¨C Venceslav spoke before Ranulf could continue, and extended his hand in front of Ranulf, to try and underline that Ranulf should stay silent; that Venceslav shall take the lead. ¨C We are certain that Mr Fliss is not alone in this plot. We suspect that in the event of his arrest, his accomplices would make sure that all of the evidence, in the form of written correspondences with Goth spies, would mysteriously vanish, leaving us looking like we¡¯re trying to stain an innocent man¡¯s honour.


    -Hold on. Let¡¯s assume for a moment that I believe this¡­ this insanity. How is anyone going to find out where is Tristan, if the man who is supposed to be responsible for his disappearance is killed?


    After a short pause, Venceslav replied ¨C Ah, but we already know where the young prince is.


    -Then, for heaven¡¯s sake, why is he still missing? ¨C Isla appeared confounded.


    -Little servant girl, you ask too many questions. I have already shared more than I ought to have. You have not even stated whether you are a friend or a foe to our cause yet.


    --Venceslav turned around. He too was starting to lose his patience. He placed his left hand on Ranulf¡¯s shoulder. Ranulf left his pipe in his mouth and opened his crimson cloak, unveiling a sabre at his belt. He grabbed the red hilt and began to slowly pull it out.


    -This plan has many more steps¡­ with you, or¡­


    --Before Venceslav could finish his sentence, Ranulf flew past him, blood gushing out of his throat, his pipe rolling on the floor.


    --Venceslav¡¯s eyes widened in horror. His beak was open, wordless, for what seemed as an eternity, as he watched Ranulf¡¯s body slam, back first, into the fence of the terrace.


    --The sound of his pipe dropping onto the floor snapped him into action. He turned to face Isla swiftly, his mind on fire with signals shooting left and right, forging the perfect words that would resolve this unexpected outcome, when he too, found the blade of Ranulf¡¯s sabre lodged in his throat. It unerringly pierced him before he could caw a single word, and came out the other side, severing his spine. The light in his eyes extinguished almost instantaneously, and his form spilled onto the floor.


    --And above their corpses, Isla stood, gripping Ranulf¡¯s sabre, dripping with their blood.


    --She brought it up, level with her eyes, and examined it. She was well familiar with this type of blade. It was a Fanelian officer¡¯s sabre. The single-edge blade was masterfully crafted, slick and so long that it even slightly outranged a longsword. And yet, it was light and balanced so well that it could be wielded by either two hands, or just one. The hilt was coloured in the traditional Fanelian red, and bejewelled with a massive ruby stone, said to hold magical powers.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter III: The Endless Night (3)

    --What happened? She remembers being angry. So, so very angry. She was certain that Venceslav was lying to her. Was he? He must have been lying. He was surely just trying to manipulate her. And then¡­ then Ranulf went for his sword. Yes, that¡¯s what happened. And then she head-butted him! She grabbed the hilt with both hands, pulled the blade out of his scabbard and made a quick slash across Ranulf¡¯s throat. It¡­ it was instinct. And he deserved it. But it was instinct.


    --But why did she stab Venceslav?


    --She heard a whistling in the distance. It was becoming louder. Her face was warm. She touched it¡­ and then looked at her hand. There was blood on it. Her face was warm with their blood. The whistling was very loud now. She turned towards the sound. There was a palace guard on the wall, behind her, above the arches she came through. He was blowing his whistle so hard that his face was turning blue.


    --This night isn¡¯t over yet, is it?


    --Think Isla, think. Where does she go from here? To trial, to get sentenced to the breaking wheel? That was the punishment for treason in Fanelia. To get tied up to a wheel and get your limbs crushed by a large hammer, one by one, with the crowd cheering on. No¡­ not that. Anything but that! Maybe, perhaps, she should jump over the terrace¡­ ¡°Woah. The drop is insane!¡± She thought to herself. Peeking over the edge made her feel dizzy, as she saw a thirty meter drop. She did not know it was thirty of course, but suffice to say that the river below her seemed kind of narrow, when one compared it to what it looks like when you¡¯re standing on its banks. What if she doesn¡¯t jump far enough and lands on the rocky ground? And not only that, but how deep is it around here? What is the bottom like? What if there¡¯s rocks just under the murky surface, rocks which she can¡¯t see all the way from up here, in the darkness? A few gory images of her body breaking as she hits the rocks flashed in her mind and caused her nausea to intensify. Perhaps jumping over would be no better than the breaking wheel.


    --She turned, sabre in hand, and rushed towards the curtains, trying to recall the layout of this floor, planning an escape route. As she approached it, a figure emerged before her. It was the prancing, elderly Nightling sword master, Orin Farin. One of Tristan¡¯s teachers. The one Tristan hated. He was, as always, dressed in white, frilly clothes, from head to toe, which were contrasted by his tan-coloured skin. This time though, he was also wearing a light breastplate and bracers. As he spotted Isla, covered in blood, his head jerked in disgust, causing the short braid at the back of his curly, white greasy looking hair to flail about.


    -It was self-defence! ¨C Isla protested, involuntarily hinting at the desperation she could feel like some sort of ball stuck in her throat.


    -From an unarmed man? ¨C Orin looked past her, at the two fallen figures. ¨C I know that dark cloak. Venceslav never held a sword in his life.


    -They were planning to kill my master! And they kidnapped the prince!


    -I find it a bit hard to consider the erratic thoughts of one draped in the blood of an unarmed, old man, still clutching the weapon with murderous intent.


    --Isla looked at the sabre, then back at Orin. She adjusted her grip on the sabre. She had considered dropping it. She didn¡¯t want to swing it at anyone else. Even more so when it comes to Orin, for the title of ¡°sword master¡± was not attained easily in Fanelia. But he didn¡¯t seem to be too understanding of her circumstances, which was of no surprise to her.


    -Perhaps, before you spurt this¡­ story at me, you should lower that hefty sabre, no? ¨C Orin continued.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    --His hands were now gently resting upon the white hilts of the two sheathed, short sabres at his belt. As he and Isla stared each other down, several more guards appeared on the walkway above the arches, and about a dozen of them emerged from the drapes. Isla glanced at them, not daring to turn her attention away from Orin for too long. All of them had light armour, swords and crossbows. Their weapons were drawn, but lowered. They seemed to be following Orin¡¯s lead.


    -Well then. It seems we¡¯re at an impasse here. ¨C Orin said.


    --Isla was silent. She was trying to summon words, but her thoughts were scrambled.


    -I see you have finished your argument. Allow me to present mine.


    --Orin drew his sabres. His blades flashed before Isla¡¯s eyes as she swiftly jumped back, severing a few strands of her red hair. His sabres were thin, curved and engraved along the blunt side. The hilts were ivory white, but the cross guards bore pearl black. Orin circled around her, with his guard lowered, like a wolf circling its prey.


    -Nice footwork. I¡¯ve never seen you hold a sword either, but I always had my suspicions about you. Something about the way you move¡­


    --He lunged forward with a left-handed stab; his offhand. He was trying to surprise Isla, but she saw it coming. She spun around her axis and used the momentum to slice at his face, but his main hand was ready to parry the blow with the second sabre. The force of her blow caught him off-guard however, and he stumbled slightly. Her blade nicked his right cheek, as a result of this, and blood trickled down from the cut. He seemed displeased, as he licked it.


    -I always thought your shoulders are a bit too wide for a girl.


    --Why was he always full of this blasted commentary? Does he ever shut up? Isla engaged him with a fury, launching strike after strike. She changed the angle every time, but Orin moved out of the way, effortlessly. Finally, he jabbed at her with his right hand, in-between two of her swings. His blade cut her left side, and her dress became red and wet where the gash was. For a moment, her sense of balance felt hazy. Orin immediately moved in and sliced at her again.


    SLICE


    --His right hand made a shallow, horizontal wound on her stomach.


    SLICE


    --His left hand cut her right arm, just below the shoulder.


    SLICE


    --This time it was his right sabre slicing up her left thigh diagonally.


    --That was enough, he felt that he had made his point. Finally, he spun around clockwise, to get in closer. He launched both of his blades, aiming to either cut up her main hand so badly that she can¡¯t hold a sword anymore, or to knock it out of her hands if she tries to block.


    --And yet again, her strength caught him off guard. Even with the wound on her right arm, she caught his blades firmly, with a two-handed parry. Sparks flew from the blades grinding against each other, as she pushed him away. He lost his balance and stumbled backwards. This was the opening! She sliced forward and downwards, her blade aiming to strike his head. It didn¡¯t matter where exactly, as long as it¡¯s close to the center. And her aim was pretty good, as she had attested many times in her duels with Tristan.


    --Her sword sang, but it met with nothing but air. Orin nimbly dropped and rolled backwards, landing upright on his feet. He was so graceful that one never would have thought that he had just had his arse planted on the floor.


    -Are you not feeling well, Isla? You seem a little bit woozy. ¨C His injured pride launched forth words as if they were his blades.


    -Will you... shut up¡­ already? ¨C If eyes could kill, her look would have been fatal to him.


    --Surprisingly enough, she was still standing with strength in her limbs. But she felt the strength was waning¡­ and the pain from the cuts made it hard to focus on anything else. And she had to. This was the time to focus. To find a weakness in his defences!


    --If she strikes from the left, he will block with that hand and strike her with his right sword. The opposite happens if she goes for the right flank. When she sliced to catch him off-balance, he showed agility which suggested that low blows weren¡¯t likely to land either. She was afraid to try feinting because he was likely the better swordsman, and he wielded weapons lighter than her own. She could try to absorb an attack with another parry, but she only managed to parry two of his seven attacks. So, the odds were he¡¯ll cut her three or four more times before she can get a good parry again. A steep, possibly fatal, price. And perhaps, this time, he would account for the fact that she appears to be stronger than him.


    --So¡­ what was her move? What does she do here? How does she punish him? She sees no openings. He¡¯s grinning. It¡¯s like he knows. And suppose she cuts him down. What about the dozen soldiers on either side of them, watching the fight? They weren¡¯t very likely to say ¡°Congratulations! You won, here¡¯s the keys to the palace; off you go then.¡± No, they weren¡¯t¡­ As she was thinking, her eyes paced about. Finally, she remembered the ledge, which was behind her. The drop. And the rocks below.


    -Don¡¯t worry, little Isla. It will be quiet soon. Soon, you won¡¯t have to hear another thing. Ever again.


    --Orin pounced at her. She dashed backwards. She turned towards the ledge. She sprinted. She jumped over the fence, over the ledge.


    -COWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAARDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!....


    --She could hear Orin¡¯s voice fading in the distance, behind her, as she plummeted down.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter IV: Revelations (1)

    --Her face emerged from the shimmering surface of the small lake, glistening. Droplets slowly flowed down her grey skin as she breathed in. She pulled her short, red hair back revealing her pointed ears. Her mouth was lined with small, jagged teeth and a sharp scar broke the gentle curve of her upper lip. She dove back into the lake and swam in a circle around him, her short hair flowing behind her. The gentle afternoon sun was breaking through in beams of light, through the groves which were arching above them. The black-haired, bearded, human slave swam in place close to the lake¡¯s center, while intently following the Ork girl with his eyes. The water felt like medicine to his sun-burnt skin, to the blisters on his hands and feet, and it removed the foul stench he had accrued over several months of hard labour in the badlands. But now that he has had time to absorb his surroundings, and her company, he became apprehensive. She was unsure as to the cause of his alertness, but she was amused.


    -So¡­ Tell me about the markets again. ¨C She prodded him with her question and a chuckle.


    -What more is there to tell? It¡¯s just a crowd of slimy, perfumed people. Why do you keep asking me about it?


    -Humour me.


    -All right then. ¨C He paused, as he stroked his unkempt beard with his right hand. ¨C The market opens up at dawn. But at that hour it¡¯s just the fishmongers and farmers there.


    -What is ¡°sell¡±, again?


    -I told you before. Coins for things or services. ¨C He droned on, but her eyes would slightly light up every time she listened to him talk. He liked that, so he endured her curiosity and tried to find more words. ¨C Anyway, it¡¯s not until noon, that the shady figures crop up. Anything from Nightlings trying to pawn off hot goods, to Enksado selling dog ears as medicine, ¡°Ork sweat¡± for potency, or maybe the colourful clothes they¡¯re so fond of. Come to think of it, it¡¯s mostly Enksado traders at the market. Some humans and even fewer Nightlings.


    --She nodded and chuckled, but it occurred to him that she most likely had no clue what ¡°hot goods¡± are.


    -That¡¯s too funny, Ork sweat for potency¡­ So, you said the masters of the markets rule it all. How do they do it?


    -The rules set the pace of the game. Things like laws, the expectations of others¡­ And everyone tries to play around the rules, or break them without getting caught.


    -But those are the bandits, right? Not the merchants?


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    -I guess. But they¡¯re small fries. The real thieves are the merchants. They¡¯re the ones hiding in plain sight. They pull the strings.


    -But why would anyone listen to them if they¡¯re not strong themselves? How do they convince everyone to do what they want?


    -Well¡­ They have a different kind of strength.


    --She floated on her back, thinking about what he had said.


    -We spoke about this before. That¡¯s not strength. ¨C She laughed.


    -They don¡¯t need to have muscled arms to crush you. Their arms are invisible. And long. As far as their purse can reach. The richer the man, the farther he can cast a shadow.


    -But if they themselves can¡¯t kill you, what can they do to you?


    -They can take away your home. They can take your family hostage without laying a finger on them. And of course, if you really piss someone off, they could hurt you, have you killed, or do that to someone you love. But they often do worse things to you if they choose to let you live, provided they have the imagination.


    -What is family? What is hostage? And is that what you used to do when you were free? Kill for the merchants?


    -No¡­


    -You¡¯re lying. I¡¯ve seen you fight, you¡¯ve killed before.


    --He swallowed her words with a bit of difficulty and bitterness in his throat. He turned and swam the other way.


    -I didn¡¯t say I never killed anyone. But when I did it, it was on my own terms.


    --A short silence ensued, as she swam towards his line of sight, to re-establish the electric link between their eyes. This time, she was much closer to him. No more than an arm¡¯s length away from him. A sudden warmth engulfed them.


    -That. That is what fascinates me. Why do you feel remorse? Or guilt? You wanted something, you took it.


    -You mean like some of them take you? It never bothers you?


    -Well, it¡¯s not like I can do anything about it. And besides, sometimes it¡¯s fun. And sometimes I get something in return.


    --She meant what she said, but as she smiled and shrugged, she felt pain in her chest anyway. It passed over her face like the shadow of a bird flying by. She couldn¡¯t really understand why. She nimbly twisted her body and swam away, splashing water in his face along the way.


    -Humans. ¨C She objected. ¨C The way I see it, the weak ones made these rules to the game you all play. A game that lets the weak rule over the strong. They even teach you to feel bad about using your strength to get things. Unless it is for them. Just follow the rules, and you will have the good life¡­ Rules, rules, rules. It¡¯s all about the rules. All about keeping you in line. Better not risk it. Things might go wrong. Stand around in the herd and don¡¯t speak up. I am amazed that you¡¯ve let this go on for centuries.


    --The slave had other things on his mind and didn¡¯t really know what to say to all of that. Was the rule of the strong so good for the horde, for Myzrael? He sank until his eyes alone were above the surface, and then blew bubbles with his mouth. As if summoned by an invisible being which was looking out for him and keeping him out of socially awkward situations, a slave driver appeared on the shore, shouting his name.


    -Puffy! Come. The King wants to go hunting. Now!


    ***


    --The King¡¯s Ork Knights zoomed past the trees, spread out, riding their curiously large, wild goats with enormous, twisting horns. Puffy counted about eight of them. Their weapons were drawn and the steps of their mount¡¯s hooves were thunderous as they pounded on the thick roots which were almost completely covering the forest floor. The slave ran after them on foot, trying to follow the path of broken roots and branches their prey left in its wake, his bare steps burning like fire. The drunken Ork King led the charge, with his head still somewhat murky and ablaze from the spirits he had indulged in the night before. No one expected the king to wake before the sun was high, but here they were ¨C hot on the trail of a wild boar. The hunting party must have wounded it, for Puffy the slave could see a dark, steaming trail of blood, even though little sunlight broke through the treetops. The King rode to the top of a mound covered in roots on his giant, black wolf with ease and then stopped. He seemed to be having a chat with one of his knights, as he took a gulp of the drink he carried in the bladder hanging from his shoulder. Whatever kind of drink was in there, it reeked so powerfully that it intoxicated Puffy as he climbed the roots to reach them.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter IV: Revelations (2)

    -Took you long enough. ¨C Kord greeted him. ¨C There it is. Quite the sight, isn¡¯t it?


    --Below them, there was a pit, and the muddy ground was clear of roots. At the center of the pit, in the shadows of the groves, there was indeed a hulking creature with dark fur, stained with blood. It was even larger than the hunting party¡¯s mounts; two or three times as large. It paced in circles, waving its massive tusks in a threatening fashion. Its back was lined with powerful muscles, and five javelins were sticking out of it. One was lodged in its snout, two were at the top of its neck, and the rest were just above, where its shoulder blades might be. The monstrous boar had nowhere to go, as the knight¡¯s hunting party had surrounded it.


    Kord pointed at the slave, and then pointed at the boar ¨C Puffy, sic ¡®em!


    --The slave looked at Kord, then he looked at the boar, then back at Kord. The King was frustrated with his hesitation. Puffy waved his empty hands in a questioning gesture, but the King¡¯s expression turned to stone. Seeing as he didn¡¯t have much choice, the slave slowly descended into the pit. He stumbled slightly, as he traversed the last bit of gnarly roots, and put his bruised foot down into the cold mud. It felt good on his skin, but offered little in the way of support. He could see himself slipping in his mind¡¯s eye, and the quadruped trampling him. He swallowed, uneasily, and lowered his center of balance. The boar, bloodied and breathing heavily, seemed to have noticed him. It stared him down with a deadly sheen in its eye. It waved its jagged tusks at Puffy, snorting and screeching at him with its deep, harrowing voice. For a moment, Puffy considered whether the boar and the Orks could understand each other, as the sounds it made were not too different from their language. He was unable to dwell on this idea though, as the boar lined up its charge. The two of them pounced into action. Hooves pounded across the muddy floor, and the slave¡¯s bare feet stomped towards them.


    --Why was he doing this, again?


    --The mud made him slow on his feet, as he tried to move out of the boar¡¯s way and wrap his arms around its huge, fat neck. The boar however, had other intentions as it smashed into his gut with its tusks, knocking him aside. He landed some 5 meters away, hitting a tree with his back. The world went spinning, and then turned black.


    ***


    --He awoke. The air was moist and cold. It was night time, or perhaps morning. He recognized the straw bedding beneath his back, chaffing him. He was back in his cage, inside his tent. He surveyed his surroundings, illuminated by the flickering light of torches. Above him was the red haired Myzrael and a rickety, old, Orkish medicine-man, wearing a ceremonial headdress. They were laying herbs onto the stitches on his gut.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    -It would be a shame for you to die now, that you¡¯ve learned what it means to be truly strong. ¨C Myzrael told him.


    -What? ¨C His head was pounding.


    -To be truly strong¡­ Is to choose your time.


    -Enough of that. You are quite lucky to be alive, you know. ¨C The medicine-man interrupted her, smiling as he puffed his pipe with one hand and padded the herbs onto Puffy¡¯s belly with the other. ¨C And quite fortunate indeed, that young Myzrael here went out of her way, to ask for help. For you. If you are lucky, perhaps she will one day ask something of you. No one asks quite as devotedly as she does. ¨C The old Ork sneered disgustingly.


    -Enough of you, Byblos. Get out! ¨C Myzrael ushered the medicine-man out of the tent. ¨C At last. I have you to myself.


    --As the medicine-man left, Myzrael straddled Puffy and took off the piece of leather which served as her dress. Puffy couldn¡¯t move. And even if he could, he would not have wanted to. Her lean stomach twisted, as she removed his loincloth and began to play with him. Her hand felt deft on his skin, and she rubbed her pelvis against him. They began to sweat, and her scent intoxicated him. She lifted her hips off of his, and positioned him below her, preparing to sit down, onto him.


    ***


    --He awoke. The air was moist and cold. It was night time, or perhaps morning. He recognized the straw bedding beneath his back, chaffing him. He was back in his cage, inside his tent. He surveyed his surroundings, illuminated by the flickering light of torches. Above him was the red haired Myzrael and a rickety, old, Orkish medicine-man, wearing a ceremonial headdress. They were laying herbs onto the stitches on his gut.


    --Myzrael spoke to him, and her words seemed oddly familiar.


    -What? ¨C He asked, as his head was pounding.


    -To be truly strong¡­ Is to choose your time. ¨C Myzrael finished her point.


    --Then, the medicine-man and Myzrael argued for a bit, and she chased him out. Just as she did, a booming voice could be heard outside.


    -Puffy! Here.


    --It was the voice of none other than Kord, the Ork King. He was summoning his pet slave. But why? With some effort, Puffy stood up, and stumbled out of the tent. He saw a crowd of Orks, glaring at him with disapproval, and Kord in front of them. A two-handed sword lay on the ground between them.


    -You have disappointed me, Puffy. On this hunt, I¡¯ve seen your true worth. And it is about time that we were done with this. Pick up your sword!


    --Puffy felt compelled, and thus obliged. He picked up the greatsword that lay in the dirt. As soon as he did, Kord, clad in his obsidian black armor, drew the blue-tinged, runed two-hander that was strapped on his back, and it crackled with lightning. Puffy swung at him a few times, but his efforts were deflected with ease by the Ork King.


    --And just like that, in one swing, it was done. Puffy didn¡¯t realize this at first. He was confused, because the world spun around him. Finally, once his vision settled, he could see a headless, muscled human body from behind. It was limp, plummeting down, wearing a loincloth, greatsword in hand. And in front of it was Kord, his runed two hander¡¯s blade covered in blood.


    --Who did the King slay?


    --Puffy tried to move forward, but he could not see his arms before him. Come to think of it, he couldn¡¯t feel his body either. ¡°Oh¡­¡± He thought. He understood now. The King had won the duel.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter IV: Revelations (3)

    ***


    --He awoke. The air was moist and cold. It was night time, or perhaps morning. He recognized the straw bedding beneath his back, chaffing him, and he had had just about enough of it. He knew what¡¯s going on here. Above him was the red haired Myzrael and a rickety, old, Orkish medicine-man, wearing a ceremonial headdress. They were laying herbs onto the stitches on his gut.


    --Myzrael spoke to him, but he could not understand her snorts and oinks. Her pig-head with tusks made no discernable noises, as far as he was concerned. The medicine-man interrupted her with a few grunts and squeals of his own, as Puffy stared into his blank, pig eyes. Myzrael took out her dagger and proceeded to stab him in the gut, causing Puffy significant, sharp pain; as the medicine-man grabbed him by the head and pushed his thumbs into Puffy¡¯s eye-sockets, gouging his eyes out.


    ***


    --He awoke. He was alone in the cold dirt, darkness all around. Silence. No stitches or herbs on his belly. He stood up. A crack of lightning and a flash of blue light revealed a silhouette above him. It was a humongous, serpentine creature with bat-like wings, pale-blue scales and a hound-like, horned, snout. It grinned, revealing lines of jagged teeth.


    -I AM HERE TO BRING YOU METAL.


    --The creature¡¯s voice thundered. Puffy thought he was stumped the last time he felt that he had regained his consciousness, but this seemed to top the bill. Before he could have a moment to absorb the otherworldly sight before him, a bolt of lightning shot out from the creature towards him. He jumped away, and heard a loud noise as it blasted the ground behind him.


    --He flew into the air and became weightless.


    --He floated through the darkness. Why isn¡¯t he awake yet? He isn¡¯t awake yet, is he? Is he awake?


    --Is he awake?


    --A voice could be heard in the darkness.


    -Zarak¡­ Zarak. Zarak!


    --He recognized the voice. She would not have called him that.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    -Aidan¡­ Aidan. Aidan!


    --Yes! That is how she would call him. He remembered the sound of Yoh¡¯s voice. And now he knew. He needed to wake up.


    ***


    --The sting of Kord¡¯s boot kicking his side knocked him back into now. As he struggled to open his eyes, he understood that he was sitting down in the mud, his back up against a tree, and his arms holding in his guts which were trying to escape from the gaping wound on his stomach.


    -I¡¯m not done with you, dog!


    --Kord angrily shouted down at him, tossing him what seemed to be a belt with a familiar-looking holster. It was Zarak¡¯s potion belt. The one he had specially hand-crafted for him back in Bartertown. He only had time to use one in the battle when he was captured by the Orks in the Broken Lands. He used the second potion back in the mines of Nomad¡¯s Rest. And sure enough, there was still one potion, tucked into the third holster on the belt. He held onto his wound, tight, with one hand, as he chugged down the remaining pot with the other. The powerful magicks stored within closed his wound, and as they did, he regained sensation across his numb body, which now felt like it was burning up. He stood up, the pricks of millions of tiny pins and needles swarming across his entire skin.


    --He remembered now. He remembered who he was. Where he was from. And why he just couldn¡¯t afford to die yet. He looked at Kord, with a renewed hatred. The flame in Zarak¡¯s eyes burned stronger than it had in years. Kord felt it, and smiled with drunken satisfaction. Disgusted, Zarak turned away and sprinted into action, straight at the dire boar.


    --As the beast turned towards him, he leaped into the air and landed on top of its humongous, drooling snout. He held onto the javelins sticking out of it, for support. It began to swing about, violently, trying to get him off. He made sure he had good footing and then ¨C with one hand he pulled out a javelin from its thick hide and proceeded to stab at the boar¡¯s head with it. He stabbed thinking about his name. He stabbed thinking about the false one, as well as the true one. He stabbed thinking about his sister. He stabbed thinking about her slumbering cocoon. And he stabbed regretting that he did not at least get a chance to speak to her, before setting off on his path of vengeance.


    --But that was then, and here is now. The boar lay dead at his feet, and the Ork Knights cheered, unenthused.


    ***


    --The booming of Orkish drums and horns resonated in his skull, mixing with the thoughts of who he was, where he was, how he got there, and what he left behind. As an Ork feast blared around him with chatter and music, he sought out the Cloud Shamans. They had colourful pipes made out of wood covered with magickal runes, animal bones and decorated with feathers, claws and teeth. One of them had a pipe with a dried human ear attached to it. That one seemed particularly displeased with Zarak, but he too allowed the strange human slave, Kord¡¯s pet, to share the pipe, lest he insult his colleagues. This time too, they shared a pipe with him¡­ filled with mysterious plants that tasted sweetly. To the Cloud Shamans, the smoke they inhaled offered wisdom and foresight. To Zarak, it gave relief. He inhaled deeply and drank spirits, trying to fade, go numb. He feared what other effects these things may have on his soul, but he could not help but yearn for their comforting taste. He broke off from the company of the shamans to go dance in a crowd of Orks and slaves, in a daze. He was taken by the drink, and by the plant¡¯s effects. The music moved his body, causing it to twist and turn to the sound of the drums and guttural song of the singers. His nose was filled with a mix of dirt, sweat, Orkish booze, dried leather and the peculiar spices with which the Orks fortified their foods. Tired, he collapsed onto a table and, as the angry Orks pushed him off of it, he nicked some food. It was a drumstick. He couldn¡¯t help but notice that there were no Enksado among the slaves. It seems that the Orks would simply murder them on sight and prepare them as food. They did not think highly of humans, but Enksado, it seemed, were deemed even lower. Just food. He did not know the origin of the fairly large drumstick in his hand. It could be one of the giant vultures from the canyons. It could be from the thigh of the Enksado who looked him desperately in the eye two days ago, as he was murdered by an Ork raiding party. He took a hefty bite out of it and was satisfied that he did not recognize the taste of human flesh.


    -You disgust me. ¨C Myzrael¡¯s voice came from somewhere. ¨C Look at you. Why are you like this? Weakling.

 Dying is Easy - Chapter IV: Revelations (4)

    --Zarak turned around in a daze. He leaned back and narrowed his eyes to bring the image of the Ork girl before him into focus.


    -I disgust myself. ¨C He said. ¨C Where is my backbone? Where had it gone? Oh well. Perhaps this is my fate. ¨C He continued to munch on the drumstick he was holding.


    -Perhaps you''ll find it at the bottom of some bottle.


    -How long has it been? How many years have I been here? And why am I still here, playing pet for that sadistic bastard? ¨C Zarak pointed at Kord with his drumstick.


    -To survive. It¡¯s what we do. We bend, rather than breaking, and we walk on.


    -Walk where? If you can¡¯t choose where you go, what is the point even?


    -There will be a crossroads.


    -When? Where? I feel like I¡¯ve missed it long ago, and now I¡¯m stuck on this path and I have no idea where I¡¯m going.


    --For some reason, the music went silent, and the feast had stopped. Zarak looked around himself, until his gaze fixed on Kord, who sat high upon a mound of freshly murdered slaves in his kitschy, bedazzled throne, which was most likely stolen from a human noble. A single Ork stood in front of Kord. The Ork had pale blue skin and long tusks protruding downwards from his mouth. His hair was long, coal black and greasy. He brandished a spear wholly made of metal, and a stone dagger in his other hand. He wore nothing but a leather loincloth, and cloth wrappings on his arms and legs.


    -This feast is an insult!


    --The greasy Ork shouted in Orkish and Myzrael whispered into Zarak¡¯s ear, translating the Ork¡¯s grunts and squeals.


    -I will not be humiliated by eating meat that was hunted by a human ¨C The greasy Ork extrapolated.


    -Your horse is good enough to carry you¡­ But a dog is not good enough to hunt for you? ¨C Kord questioned him calmly.


    -If it were only a dog¡­ But it is a human, Kord! A pinkskin!


    -Well? What difference is there?


    --The drunken, greasy Ork scuffed at Kord.


    -You¡¯ve been fucking human whores for so long that you¡¯ve completely forgotten how to behave like a true Ork.


    --Upon these words, Kord stood up so violently that the small table set in his lap flew forward. The various dishes of animal parts and vegetables had spilled all over the dusty ground, and the giant boar¡¯s head, which was served in front of Kord, now tumbled over to Zarak¡¯s feet. The slaves who were feeding Kord got startled and dispersed. Even the Orks slowly retreated, creating a vast clearing in front of Kord. Zarak found himself alone with Myzrael by his side, next to a bonfire, with the boar head at his feet. Only the greasy Ork stood with them in the clearing, some 10 meters in front of them. The only three who didn¡¯t have the senses to slink away. Kord began to shout ferociously.


    -I! AM KORD! I! AM KING! I fuck whoever and whatever I please. And I am the most Orky Ork who draws breath this day.


    --Upon finishing this exclamation, he took a deep breath and sat down, straightening out his tabard.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    -And you, my dear Froz, will now sit the fuck down.


    -I may have a better idea, if the King permits? ¨C One of Kord¡¯s elite knights intervened. It was Igs, Myzrael¡¯s friend. With 20 something summers beneath his belt, he was the youngest of the King¡¯s knights, but no less physically imposing than the rest of them. He had small, beady, blue, blood-shot eyes with bags underneath, as if he never slept a day in his life. His face was long, green, with a thin nose, and his hair was curly, grey-ish and slicked back. Despite seemingly ugly features, he carried an air of charisma around him.


    -What!? ¨C Kord growled at Igs.


    -Well, sire¡­ Our honoured friend, Froz, finds his meal insulting. But this is because he assumes that a dog is actually a man. And that, as such, the man is merely a worthless, stinky, lying, cowardly bag of shit. However! I, my dear lord, have seen with my own two eyes how this dog hurled itself at the boar. And it grabbed the boar by the throat! Even when the boar used its tusks to remind the dog that it is merely a dog, the dog persisted. It got up again and¡­


    -Get to the point! ¨C Kord interrupted him.


    --Igs pulled out a gold piece from the purse at his belt and raised it high above his head. He turned about himself, showing the coin to the crowd which watched in bafflement, partly because most Orks didn¡¯t know what coins are for.


    -I would wager this gold coin! That this dog can kick Froz¡¯s ass.


    --The crowd clamoured with scoffs and chuckles.


    -Barehanded. ¨C Igs added.


    --The crowd was now furious. Who is this drunken knight and why is he getting Zarak into trouble? Of course, Zarak knew of him through Myzrael; the question was affective. There had been enough blood on Zarak¡¯s hands today, he thought to himself. Kord nodded towards Igs. Froz turned around to look at Zarak. Sized him up with a mean look in his eye.


    -Don¡¯t die. ¨C Myzrael whispered into Zarak¡¯s ear as she too retreated to the safety of the crowd.


    --Before Zarak could think, Froz thrusted his spear forward. Zarak dodged by sheer reflex in his intoxicated stupor and turned a stab to the gut into a deep gash on his side. The spear went forward a few more times, forcing Zarak back, as he retreated around the bonfire. He tried grabbing it, but the spear¡¯s metallic handle slipped through his fingers as Froz pulled it back, the bladed tip cutting his palms along the way. He now knew why Froz had bandages on his palms and arms. They helped keep the spear from slipping through his hands. The next thrust went for his thigh, probably to try and slow him down, so Froz can land a killing blow. Zarak saw it coming though, so he jumped up, and landed down onto the shaft of the spear, knocking it out of Froz¡¯s hands. Agitated, Zarak picked up the spear, bent it into a ¡°U¡± shape and threw it away. This might not have been the smartest of ideas, as he forgot that his opponent was still brandishing a stone dagger. Zarak¡¯s sluggish mind now remembered that Froz was of the northern tribes, and that their way of fighting involved a spear for offense, and the dagger served to defend them against anyone who got past the spear. As Zarak lunged forward to punch Froz, the Ork slipped away with ease and cut Zarak¡¯s arm with the dagger as he did so. Zarak tried throwing a few more punches in quick succession, followed by a sweeping kick, but Froz¡¯s defences were much better than his drunken offensive. He was in trouble now. None of his attacks were sticking, and he had several bleeding wounds, which were about to make him even slower.


    --The clouds in his mind turned into panic.


    --Froz was now on the offensive, and as he dodged, Zarak began to run in circles around the bonfire, buying time, unable to think. Froz was running after him, shouting and grunting obscenities in Orkish. Zarak grabbed a piece of wood from the fire, and he threw it beneath Froz¡¯s feet, causing the Ork to stumble and slow down. Zarak used this opportunity to slide under a row of tables. As he crawled underneath them, the Orks around laughed, hollered and tried to kick him. He heard a loud thump above himself, and heavy footsteps followed in his wake. A wooden spear with a metal tip suddenly pierced the table above him, stabbing just a hair¡¯s breath away from Zarak¡¯s face. Immediately, he turned around, braced his back and elbows against the ground, and pushed the table upwards with both legs. He knocked it away, sending his assailant flying. He got up off the ground, looked around and grabbed the first thing he could from the table behind him.


    --It could have been a fork, but it just so happened to be a greatsword.


    --With the familiar long grip in his hand, and the weight of the blade resisting his pull, he felt pleasure he had all but forgotten about. He leaped forward, spinning, blade in hand. And he cut through the spear Froz used to block, and into his skull. Zarak could feel the warmth of blood on his face, as he spat it out. The greasy Ork¡¯s arms went limp first, dropping the pieces of the spear he held. He then collapsed onto his knees and fell face first into the dirt.


    -Puffy! ¨C Kord boomed in Fanelian. ¨C Did I say you can kill that fool?


    --Startled and bewildered, Zarak turned to face Kord. He didn¡¯t quite have his wits about him.


    -Kneel! ¨C Kord barked.


    --Zarak did not obey. Instead, he slowly walked towards Kord, blade in hand. Two Ork knights emerged behind him, from the crowd. One of them bent his sword arm behind him, causing him to drop it. Then, they kicked the back of his knees, forcing him down. He felt like he should be doing something about it, but his mind could no longer keep up with what was going on. His body felt heavy, the blood escaping his wounds making him weak. They dragged him forward, to Kord¡¯s pilfered throne.


    ¡°Bend, rather than brake.¡±


    --These words were echoing inside of his mind.


    -Did I say you can kill him? ¨C Kord leaned in and whispered, as he asked.


    -Woof. ¨C Zarak mumbled.


    --Zarak envisioned a tombstone with this last word etched upon it. Kord¡¯s blue, runed sword flashed through the air. Sounds became distorted. And another flash. Zarak felt his head swell. He would have expected it to be rolling, like in his reoccurring nightmares, but it seemed it was still attached to his shoulders. He looked up and saw the blade of Kord¡¯s sword was resting on the Ork¡¯s shoulder, with some blood dripping from it. His vision blurred for a moment. Kord was speaking, but Zarak could not make out the words. Looking about, he saw the wretched old medicine-man, Byblos, who was apparently responding to Kord¡¯s command. Everything started spinning. The medicine-man approached him, carrying the head of the giant boar.


    --Zarak was now eye-to-eye with the boar he slew. And then¡­ Darkness.

 Chapter V: No Remorse, No Regrets (1)

    --The thick undergrowth rustled as Grif Kaedah¡¯s machete cut a path through. His beard was green with leaves caught in it, and his bushy unibrow was crumpled up into a frown. Isla walked behind him, supporting herself with an improvised crutch. Her dress was wet, stained with blood and torn below the knees, its scraps used to bandage the cuts inflicted by Orin¡¯s blades. The pair walked about in silence for some time, until Isla disturbed it.


    -We¡¯re going around in circles.


    -I know. ¨C Grif grumbled.


    -You don¡¯t lose your way around these forests. Why are we going around in circles?


    -Because I haven¡¯t decided yet if I¡¯m taking you back to the castle or not.


    -I can¡¯t go back there.


    -Sure you can. And perhaps you ought to.


    -I told you what happened.


    -And I still can¡¯t believe it. Please tell me you have anything, any sort of proof that Venceslav is behind the prince¡¯s disappearance.


    -I don¡¯t, but I know who will. I would bet my neck that she knows something. Lana, his niece.


    -The way I see it, you¡¯re acting out some sort of misguided vendetta against the Sashels.


    -Seagull turd. ¨C Isla spat like a hoodlum. ¨C Come on. Asking me to meet him in the middle of the night? And asking me to kill my master? The same night Tristan goes missing.


    -I don¡¯t believe it.


    -If you didn¡¯t believe me, we¡¯d already be back at the castle.


    -That¡¯s different, that¡¯s just me being a sentimental fool. I¡­ I raised you, you mad girl. Well, partly at least. I¡¯ve seen you grow from a little sapling into a lovely birch tree.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    -My mother raised me. And please don¡¯t start with the woodland metaphors, they always spiral out into nonsense.


    --Grif suddenly stopped and turned around to stare Isla down, almost causing her to stumble into him. He was biting his lower lip and his face was red. He blew steam out his nose, turned back around and swung his machete vigorously, cutting down an unsuspecting bush of wild berries.


    -Fine. Something is afoot, madling. If we¡¯re going to find Tristan, then sniffing needs to be done. And you and I are both terrible at it. Lucky for us, I have an old friend in Bartertown who might be able to help¡­


    -Bartertown?? We¡¯re not going to Bartertown.


    -By the one god¡­ Yes we are.


    -If we do, we will not be able to get to Lana Sashel again.


    -Get to¡­ what do you mean get to Lana Sashel?


    -I mean, I know where she¡¯s going to be. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after tomorrow¡­ But soon.


    --Grif looked into Isla¡¯s eyes silently.


    -No¡­ - Grif shook his head.


    -Yes.


    -You¡¯re joking madling, surely?


    -I¡¯m dead serious. Ok, that pun was unintended.


    -You¡¯ve gone insane.


    -Think about it! She doesn¡¯t leave the castle, except to wander the capitol. Both the castle and the city are swarming with guards. But guess when there won¡¯t be too many guards around¡­ Out in the open, with anywhere to escape.


    -That is¡­ no, you disgust me. ¨C Grif threw his hands in the air.


    -At the funeral.


    -Can you even hear yourself talk? You just killed her uncle. The poor bird is probably still warm. And now you¡¯re talking about getting his niece at his funeral.


    -Tristan needs us! God only knows where he is. I pray that they have him in a dungeon somewhere, that they have some purpose for him, alive. And if they do, that spoiled bitch will know.


    -Why would the cunning bird share his plans with his niece, of all people?


    -I don''t know if he would, but even if he didn''t, she is always snooping. She must know something.


    -You are reaching Isla.


    -So what if I am!? Think about it! If we don¡¯t find him in the next few days, or some clue as to where he is, he is gone! We don¡¯t have time to go to Bartertown for you to chit-chat with your old pals! We don¡¯t even have time to be standing around here, arguing!


    -You fool. You bloody mad fool. Lunatic, belligerent murderer...


    --Grif paced in circles, gripping his machete. Finally, he pointed it at Isla and spoke.


    -Fine. But if you harm the girl. I will snuff you out like a candle. I pray to the one god that my heart is not wrong about this, and that he may forgive me one day for listening to this madness.


    -We need her alive. ¨C Isla grabbed the tip of Grif¡¯s machete and pushed it aside.


    -Tell me then, madling. How do you intend to get close to Lana, at her uncle''s bloody funeral, with a host of bloody nobles and bloody King¡¯s guards marching about? ¨C Grif turned around and continued to walk.


    -Well, I do have an idea about that. It¡¯s simple really. All we need to do is¡­ Hide in the church on Hamelin¡¯s hill. Think about it. They¡¯re sure to bury Venceslav on Hamelin¡¯s hill. That¡¯s where all the nobles are buried. All I need to do is steal one monk¡¯s robe from their monastery. And the place is big enough that I¡¯ll be able to get about fairly well. And you don¡¯t even need a disguise really.


    -Straight from murder to robbing monks¡­ The work of mad bastards.


    -We can do it. Master David will be at the funeral, he¡¯ll help us. If he¡¯s still alive.


    -Bloody mad.


    -Grif¡­ - Isla grabbed Grif¡¯s arm and stopped him.


    -What?


    -Please stop calling me mad. Trust me old man. I¡­ I¡¯m not proud about what I¡¯ve done. But I¡¯m right about this. And I can¡¯t do it without you.


    -I don¡¯t know which one of us is madder.


    -Please don¡¯t say that. I¡¯ve heard people say that too many times about my mother. Trust me Grif. Tristan needs us. ¨C Isla offered her hand to him.


    -I don¡¯t know what I believe. But¡­ I will help you. ¨C Grif replied, and he shook Isla¡¯s hand, his brow now heavy and wrinkled with worry.


    ***

 Chapter V: No Remorse, No Regrets (2)

    ***


    -Come on, sleepy head! Get out of bed. ¨C Sophie pushed Yolanda¡¯s back.


    -Go away. ¨C A cold reply hummed from the cocoon of sheets wrapped around Yoh.


    -Come on, I need your help.


    -My help? You must be really screwed if you need a cripple to help you.


    -Quit moping and help me button up this dress, I can¡¯t reach my back.


    --The cocoon opened, like a flower, and Yolanda¡¯s bushy, brown hair emerged. She loomed in her nightgown, arms outstretched, towards the sound of Sophie¡¯s voice, like a sleepwalker. Sophie was patiently sitting on the side of her bed, waiting for Yoh¡¯s hands to feel their way around the laces which needed to be tied.


    -I wish you could see this dress, it is truly wonderful.


    -Me too. I wish I could see the sun. I can feel its warmth, it must be very sunny outside, today.


    -It is. You should come out. Just because you can¡¯t see it, doesn¡¯t mean you can¡¯t enjoy it, still.


    -There¡¯s nothing for me out there. There. All set and ready to break some hearts. Tell me, what is the dress like?


    -Oh, you don¡¯t have to ask me, see with your hands.


    --Yolanda blushed.


    -Come on, I don¡¯t mind. We¡¯re close. And you need to get used to seeing things that way.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    -All right. ¨C Yoh agreed, reluctantly. Sophie helped her stand up from the bed, and Yoh started exploring. ¨C So¡­ I like the sleeves, they¡¯re so gentle. And frilly. It seems to cut nicely into your waist¡­ Is this embroidery? I like the pattern.


    -Yes. Woah! Easy there, friend.


    -No cleavage? Really, you should let them get some air. Are you looking to woo this guy, or what?


    -Ungh, shouldn¡¯t he be the one trying to woo me?


    -And what? You¡¯re just going to be a pretty flower pot?


    -Well, no. But¡­


    -You don¡¯t like him.


    -Like him? I don¡¯t know the first thing about him.


    - Lovely leather belt. I like that it¡¯s thin. The buckle is a bit much, perhaps.


    -The last time I saw him, I was thirteen. Don¡¯t you think it¡¯s creepy?


    -Well, that wasn¡¯t so long ago. He couldn¡¯t have changed much.


    -That¡¯s not a good thing.


    -Look, if you want me to talk you into believing that marrying this guy is a good idea? You¡¯re barking up the wrong tree. I told you already, I think you should run. Skip the border. Forget all the nonsense.


    -Yolanda! I can¡¯t do that. What would my parents do if I just upped and left like that?


    -Of course. Always the good girl. Even with all of this arranged marriage business. See? You never had anything to ponder in the first place. You can do this. Now, if you don¡¯t mind, I¡¯m going back to bed.


    -Hold on¡­ don¡¯t be like that. ¨C Sophie grabbed Yoh¡¯s arm and wouldn¡¯t let her retreat back into the Sandman¡¯s empire. ¨CHow about I help you get dressed now? Huh? I could comb and braid your hair.


    -What¡¯s the point?


    -You never know, maybe you¡¯ll run into a handsome prince today.


    -Yeah, a prince who rides a white horse, and has an inexplicable affinity for scarred cripples.


    --Sophie hugged Yoh. Sometimes, Yolanda¡¯s words made her feel immense sadness brimming in her chest, threatening to burst out with tears. But she always fought the urge to cry.


    -I want to show you something. Did you notice that there is a new vase in this room?


    -Of course not. How could I notice anything?


    -Here, see for yourself.


    --She picked up the vase from the small dresser by the bed and handed it to Yolanda. The blind girl started caressing it, rotating it in her hands, exploring its cracks and ridges.


    -These flowers¡­ they must be beautiful. What¡¯s the point of sculpting flowers on a flower pot, though? ¨C She snarked.


    -Do you notice anything else?


    -Is it¡­ it¡¯s full of cracks. Is it broken?


    -It was. It used to be my grandmother¡¯s. When it broke, she didn¡¯t have the heart to throw it out¡­ So, she carefully put it back together again. Using resin mixed with gold dust.


    -Come on, you and I both know she probably got a servant to do it.


    -Maybe. But look, that¡¯s not the point. The point is¡­ how did you describe it? What word did you say?


    --Yoh¡¯s impertinence faded, and she went silent, for a moment.


    -I see what you did there. I said it is beautiful.


    -It is, isn¡¯t it? Even though it was once broken, it¡¯s whole again.


    --Sophie gently touched Yoh¡¯s cheek. Yoh inhaled, preparing to protest, but the door suddenly opened, and a young man barged in. He wore a light leather armour and a frilly, colourful outfit. He had an extravagant moustache, thick-framed glasses, and his hair was slicked back.


    -Good morning! I am here to escort you, your betrothed awaits.


    --For a moment, the two girls stared at him with bewilderment. The ensuing awkward silence was broken when Sophie shouted, throwing a pillow at him ¨C WE¡¯RE NOT READY, GET OUT!

 Chapter VI: The Night Raid (1)

    --Three proud Goths stood at the very edge of the cliffs surrounding the Valley of Triumph. Below them lay the sprawling camp of The Horde. Pillars of smoke rose up into the orange sky from the various fires lit by its inhabitants. The Goth in the middle, with absurdly heavy armour, a tabard and a humongous helmet spoke.


    -Look at them, the defiant bastards. Surely, they know we¡¯re hot on their trail. Their scouts may have eyes on us at this very moment. And still, they make camp right in the open.


    --The helmet made his words resonate, as if spoken into a metallic barrel.


    -Well, - the Goth on the right noted, in a shrill, old man¡¯s voice ¨C it would seem they are aware that the Wurzan army is still several days away from flanking their position.


    --He was crooked, old. He had a long, white beard, a bald head, and a sky blue robe. He was leaning against his wooden, knotted staff, etched with arcane runes.


    -Hah! That merely means that the glory of slaying their King shall be yours alone, sire. ¨C The young one, on the left, boasted.


    --This one was clad in regular, non-absurdly oversized, Goth armour. He had a shield on his back, and a book and a mace hung from his belt. He removed his helmet to reveal a smooth, gentle, young face with short, blonde hair, and gave a demeaning look to the old one with his handsome, cold, blue eyes.


    -Preposterous. ¨C The old one barked. ¨C Mounting an assault without the support of Wurzan¡¯s troops would be tantamount to suicide. Sir Gawain, surely you see this?


    -Gentlemen, the sun is about to set. I am much too exhausted for big words and arguments. ¨C The absurdly armoured one replied.


    Satisfied that he had made his point, the old one agreed ¨C Good. We will sleep on it and forge a plan at dawn.


    -Hah. That is not what I said, Mercurial. Lind! ¨C He now spoke to the dashing, blonde lad with blue eyes. ¨C Have our men don light armour, and ready all of the climbing gear that we have.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    --The bearded old Goth was shocked.


    -Sire! Surely you¡­


    -Enough Mercurial. ¨C Gawain interrupted them. ¨C These wretches will learn the name Gawain tonight. And those few that survive? They shall fear it for generations to come.


    ***


    --The sound of drums and battle woke Zarak from yet another nightmare about being slain by Kord. In his dreams, he sought for any sign of weakness from his foe. But each time, the King¡¯s blade defended against Zarak¡¯s attacks with ease, and the King¡¯s offensive manoeuvres were relentless. He sat up on his reed mat and held his head, which was pounding. The last thing he remembers seeing was flying through the air, his body going limp and dropping to its knees behind him, headless, his blood spraying everywhere. His lungs were burning and he couldn¡¯t catch his breath, he was coughing. He couldn¡¯t see around him and it was so hot that he was sweating profusely. Confused, stumbling, he got on all fours and crawled out of his tent. There was fire all around and he could barely see anything from all the smoke from the burning tents. He heard metallic clanks as armoured figures approached him through the smoke, fast. He tried getting up again, but they ran right past him, knocking him back down. After crawling some more, he emerged from the cloud of smoke and finally breathed in deeply, with great relief. A few meters in front of him, an Ork woman was attempting to fend off three human knights with a frying pan. Her three green, little ones were hiding behind her, holding onto her skirt, as the humans pierced her chest and belly with their spears. She dropped to her knees, swinging to no avail, as the spears were simply longer than her reach. The knights bore red Goth markings on their chest plates. The three little ones now jumped one of the knights. The biggest one gouged the knight¡¯s eyes out, while the other two stole his shortsword and spear. Inhuman, Zarak thought to himself. The Goth knight on the left stabbed that biggest Ork greenling in the chest. The greenling was barely tall up to his chest, but grabbed the spear and would not let the knight pull it out. He grunted in Orkish, and his siblings obeyed and charged the knight. The greenling with the spear stabbed the knight, but thanks to the knight¡¯s armour and the poor aim of shaking hands, it was merely a shallow wound on the left side of the Knight¡¯s belly. The greenling with the shortsword charged him as well, but the knight on the right intercepted the charge. He deflected the greenling¡¯s blow with his own spear and bought time for his ally to draw the shortsword from his waist, as he could not get his spear back. The knight on the left used his shortsword to disarm the spear-wielding greenling, and the two knights butchered the little Ork with the shortsword rather quickly, as it did not seem to have the first idea on how to defend against two assailants. The greenling needed to be much quicker on its feet, Zarak thought to himself. Control the battle and how they come at you. What seemed to be the big brother of the other two dropped to his knees now, apparently slowly succumbing to the wound caused by the spear that¡¯s sticking out of his chest. He seemed to be struggling, trying to get up, but the light in his big, yellow eyes was fading. The smallest of the three greenlings scurried to pick up the stolen spear, its face growing pale. Now that the knights got their spears back, they rushed it as well, displaying good team work and dispatched the little Ork quickly. Once they were done laughing and stabbing what was now a rather formless, small, green and red heap of flesh with their spears, they noticed Zarak.


    -Grab a weapon and join us, slave! - One of them said, tossing Zarak the dead knight''s shortsword.

 Chapter VI: The Night Raid (2)

    -Grab a weapon and join us, slave!


    --One of them said, tossing Zarak the dead knight¡¯s shortsword. As Zarak followed it with his gaze, he grabbed the handle by instinct. His eyes lingered on the blade, dripping with Ork and human blood. He couldn¡¯t tell the difference, it was all red. He looked at the corpses of the three Ork children. He could hardly tell the genders of the two smaller ones apart. They were all short, stocky, muscled and ugly. He generally didn¡¯t have a good idea of whether they were boys or girls until they got old enough to have breasts. He felt disgusted by them and these thoughts he had. By their grotesquely muscled physique. By their murderous culture. By their short and furrowed brows. It was good that they died, wasn¡¯t it? For a moment, he thought he could still hear them screaming. However, looking up, he saw that Myzrael had approached the two spearmen from behind and stabbed the left one in the neck, finding the gap in his armour. It was his scream ringing in Zarak¡¯s head. Before her victim fell to the ground, she stepped behind the second spearman. As the second one turned around, reacting to the blurry image in his peripheral vision, Myzrael¡¯s dagger caught his eye. Literally, she stabbed him with it. In the eye.


    -Well? Now is your chance. ¨C She told Zarak. ¨C I won¡¯t try to stop you. Just escape.


    -¡­I can¡¯t.


    -Of course you can. I saw you just now, you know. With the little ones. You watched on as the Goth men slew them.


    --Zarak was silent. He felt conflicted about what he had just done, but he wasn¡¯t the type to make excuses.


    -I did, didn¡¯t I? ¨C He concluded, out loud, scratching the back of his head, with an awkward grin on his face, to which the origin was unknown to him.


    -I wouldn¡¯t worry about it if I were you. It¡¯s simply in your nature. All humans are evil.


    -And Orks are not? ¨C He asked, once again calm, while trying to read if there was killing intent in her cold eyes.


    -Are they though? It was the humans who started all of this.


    -What do you mean?


    -Never mind, it¡¯s no wonder you know nothing about it. Everybody wants to be the hero of their own story. ¨C Myzrael chuckled.


    -I¡¯m no hero.


    -Yes, you¡¯re not. A hero wouldn¡¯t watch children die. Or be enslaved for years. What good are you? ¨C Myzrael¡¯s tone inflated as she spoke.


    -Weren¡¯t you the one who told me that true strength belongs to those who know when to bare their teeth?


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    -Yes, but how long should they wait!? ¨C She cried, her eyes suddenly misty.


    -¡­This reminds me of the first conversation we ever had. We were both gripping blades back then, too. And we spoke of the same things. My mind hasn''t changed much since then. Perhaps none of us are evil. Or we all are. Ork, human, what difference does it make? Either way, we¡¯re just nobodies on the opposite sides of a war.


    -Are we?


    -Are we what?


    -On opposite sides?


    -Your guess is as good as mine.


    --As they stood across each other, their grips on their blades loosened, and an awkward silence ensued. The world around them was burning and screaming, but between them, the silence grew so thick it could be cut with a sword. This went on for several moments, until a familiar voice shattered it.


    -There you are! ¨C Igs, the Ork Knight bellowed, in Orkish of course. ¨C I¡¯ve been searching for the two of you. Come! We have to fall back to better ground!


    --The guttural noises made no sense to Zarak, but Myzrael explained to him that they must move, and he followed. As they broke their way towards a direction only Igs knew, they fought Goth troops. Zarak¡¯s mind and heart were ablaze with conflicting thoughts and emotions. He did not feel any guilt for battling the Goth soldiers, although it seemed he should have. He did want to leave. But he felt strongly that he could not. Perhaps he feared that leaving would cause the Orks to raid his village once more, this time finishing off what was left of his sister. Or perhaps there was another reason. It¡¯s as if it was at the tip of his tongue, but he could not see it. He felt detest and a distant sadness, as he fought men, standing shoulder to shoulder with Orks. But most of all, it felt good to be holding a sword again.


    --In the distance, he could see Kord swinging his two-hander about, swarmed with Goth knights, which dropped around him like flies.


    --After what felt like an eternity of blood and steel crossing paths, Igs, Myzrael and Zarak reached a mound with several tunnel entries, leading underground. They were rather large, able to fit 4 Orks shoulder to shoulder, and a mass of Orkish civilians was gushing in. Igs hurried them inside one of the tunnels, while he remained behind with Ork warriors who guarded their rear. An Ork with a ceremonial wooden mask led them in, lighting the way with a small flame, which flickered in the palm of his hand, seemingly with no source. It just hovered barely above his palm. As they fled with the last group of Orks, they could hear sounds of combat turning into echoes behind them. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and rumbling could be heard all around them. Up ahead, they could see moonlight shining through a hole in the ceiling. It was the end of the tunnel, and they were happy to see it. While the Orks were climbing out, helped by more green hands waiting on the other side, Myzrael and Zarak waited their turn. They kept looking back, waiting to see if a slew of Goth knights was about to come charging at them from the darkness of the tunnel. Zarak gave Myzrael a hasty boost, and the Orks above pulled her up. A clanging, metallic noise could be heard approaching. As Zarak climbed up, pulled up by green hands, he stared into the dark, and he felt strangely relieved once he saw that it was Igs who came, carrying on his shoulders two wounded Ork warriors.


    --Once the lot of them were outside, the Ork with the wooden mask approached the exit of the tunnel, joined by a few others with similar markings. Zarak recognized them. It was obvious from the ceremonial masks and decorations they bore that they were shamans. But these weren¡¯t the peaceful Cloud Shamans who wore headdresses, smoked herbs and healed wounds. No, Myzrael told him before¡­ these were Earthwalkers. She warned Zarak that these Orks are very dangerous, and not to be trusted. They formed a circle and chanted with low growls. Goth men could now be heard shouting curses, as they were approaching through the tunnel. The Earthwalkers weaved their hands through the air in a ritual. They seemed to be moving in a slow dance as the shouting got louder, closer. Finally, the Earthwalkers fell down, landing with their palms onto the dirt and hummed. The ground trembled once again, tremendously, it seemed to respond to their touch. Dust billowed outwards, from the tunnel exit, as screams echoed from within, drowned out by the rumbling of the earth.


    -We are done fighting? ¨C Zarak asked, uncertain if he should be putting away his looted sword.


    -Yes, they are buried. We are done for today. ¨C Myzrael replied as she tucked her dagger back into her waistband.


    --Relieved, Zarak dropped his sword to the ground, sat down onto the dirt and leaned forward to rest on his knees, to try and catch his breath. He looked around. A new camping ground had already been set up. The Orks laughed heartily, tapped each other on the shoulder, bumped chests, and grunted with excitement. Even the air was somehow already thick with the scent of Ork cooking. If it weren¡¯t for the wounded Orks standing in lines to be tended to by the Cloud Shamans, it would seem as though the night raid had never happened. He felt perplexed. His eyes searched the crowd. Was he the only slave to have fought alongside the Orks? Slaying men was something he had already done in the past. His conscience will never be clear of it, so it had better have been with good reason. And yet, it seemed that the other slaves were still herded like cattle, in chains. It seemed that his position was¡­ unique. He couldn¡¯t understand it. Any of it.