《Blood Marks》


 Chapter 1

    It was still possible to smell the blood. Two years had passed, and it was still possible to smell the blood in that damned city¡ªor what was left of it.


    Kynnyav was an ancient city. Philosophers claimed it was the cradle of civilization. The city had a strong personality and often challenged the Empire¡¯s policies. And if Gwynngala Empire had historically avoided confrontations with Kynnyav, now, with the Empire deeply fragmented, the Emperor was forced to choose his battles even more carefully.


    Two years ago, that story changed.


    Brennik had been a troop captain during the Massacre of Kynnyav. Whenever he saw a standing column, he remembered the building that had once stood there. Artisans and merchants ran in desperation, not knowing where to go, peasants made the vainest attempts to escape the city...


    But what lingered strongest in his memories were the children.


    Brennik could forgive himself for what he had done to the adults¡ªthough he wasn¡¯t sure he should¡ªbut the clash of his blade against those small beings was an image he couldn¡¯t shake, nor could he forgive himself for it.


    Burm died for refusing to carry out the fateful order to eliminate the elderly, children, and babies. He was a good man¡ªhe truly was. He didn¡¯t deserve to die. I shouldn¡¯t have killed him. It would¡¯ve been better for everyone if Burm had been better with a sword than I was. Back then, Brennik had thought he had no choice. He was the captain; he had to obey the general¡¯s orders. Simple as that.


    Sadorn had issued the command to let no human escape the city¡ªthe blood weavers could transform themselves into the elderly, children, even babies¡ªand so Brennik had obeyed it. And, to his regret, he had done it perfectly¡ªas always.


    Brennik, the former captain, stared absentmindedly, his gaze unfocused on any particular part of the ruins. Noticing the dangerous distraction of the mercenary hired to ensure the caravan¡¯s safety, Elowen called for his attention.


    ¡°Hey, have you actually been here before?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Brennik replied.


    ¡°You look lost, mercenary.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s ghosts I see,¡± he said. Noticing Elowen¡¯s confused and terrified expression, he added, ¡°Don¡¯t worry, they¡¯re ghosts of the past¡±


    Brennik had abandoned Sadorn¡¯s army two years ago. The images of the children he had executed¡ªor ordered to be executed¡ªhaunted him through the nights following the Massacre of Kynnyav. Almond-shaped eyes shining with fear, desperate screams, vain cries for their parents¡­ Burm was a good man. Wherever he is, he¡¯s surely not suffering for what he did. He can rest in peace.


    It didn¡¯t take long for Brennik to abandon the army. Every day with Sadorn felt like a day of torture. How could he give those orders? Brennik could no longer bear his presence. No¡­ I gave those orders to my subordinates too, he thought.


    Brennik didn¡¯t feel any different from Sadorn. He didn¡¯t feel entitled to condemn him. He had no right to stand against him. All he could do was leave.


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    And so he did.


    The punishment for deserters was death. So when Brennik met with Sadorn to inform him of his intention to leave, he fully expected to die. But death did not come. Sadorn told him that, due to his services, he had earned the right to walk away.


    But that wasn¡¯t the truth.


    The truth had another face. Brennik was the most respected man in Sadorn¡¯s army¡ªto the point of idolization by some soldiers. If Sadorn had carried out the sentence, the army morale would have been shattered¡ªand for a warlord (such as Sadorn), morale was vital. It wasn¡¯t uncommon for a warlord to be killed once the soldiers lost respect for him.


    In fact, Sadorn saw Brennik¡¯s departure in a favorable light. Those who rose too high often seized the position of warlord when things became unstable. Getting rid of him was convenient. Besides having the army¡¯s respect, Brennik was one of the most fearsome blood weavers Sadorn had ever known.


    When he integrated into society, he realized something terrible. The only thing he knew how to do was kill, and that shocked him. He tried to live in the countryside, but, at his age, no longer far from forty, he could only live as a poor, miserable assistant to peasants. He couldn¡¯t stand such a life of poverty and tried his hand at craftsmanship, but his life on the battlefield had made him a brute, his fine motor skills were poor, and his life as a craftsman was a failure. Nor did life as a merchant suit him. If his grumpiness wasn¡¯t enough to scare away customers, his inability to hide his thoughts through his facial expressions, coupled with his unwillingness to lie, made that path unlikely.


    No. But he had to eat, and preferably eat well. And there was one thing he knew very well, and that paid very well: killing.


    Although he had tried to avoid entering this line of work, he ended up accepting one job, then another, and so on, until he found himself, definitively, as a mercenary. Looking back, he thought it had been an inevitable path. Burm would certainly have left the army and settled for the miserable life of a helper in the fields. I chose to return to the path of blood. I really can¡¯t judge Sadorn.


    Now he was in the ruins that had changed his life. At least it wasn¡¯t a mission to kill. It was a mission to protect. And maybe that would make some difference...


    Elowen had hired Brennik back in Nihonek.


    He was in charge of escorting the caravan. They had left Nihonek, the capital of the Empire, and were now in the ruins of what had once been Kynnyav. They would scour the ruins in search of an artifact of interest to the contractor and then head to the next city, where Brennik would complete his task and receive his payment. A very generous payment, in fact.


    The wind whistled through the narrow, destroyed streets, playing the tragic melody of the ruins of Kynnyav. The buildings¡ªor what was left of them¡ªwere twisted skeletons of stone and charred wood. The rubble of the walls revealed interiors consumed by destruction. Low-value belongings could still be found, small fragments of the life that once was. The city had been completely destroyed, and it was said that the entire population had been annihilated. A genocide.


    It was possible to find abandoned tents among the rubble, surely set up after the tragedy. In the years following the destruction, the ruins had become home to those who wanted to hide from society. Fugitives, thieves... It wasn¡¯t a particularly welcoming place. Hence the need for an escort.


    The city exudes death, Brennik thought as he watched it. However, when he shifted his attention to the cracked cobblestones, he noticed that vegetation was taking over the place. And when he saw a bush filled with the beauty of blue flowers, a sudden flash of hope crossed his mind: Maybe there¡¯s a new beginning for everyone.


    He walked at the front of the caravan, ensuring the safety of their next steps. The sight of the bushes brought a pleasant feeling to the mercenary, but it quickly dissipated with what he saw: there was the charred wood from what had been a campfire. And worse: loose ashes, remnants of water, and a faint, almost imperceptible smoke. It had just been extinguished. The mercenary had enough experience to know: trouble was ahead.


    Brennik cut the tips of his index fingers with his own thumbnail, closed his eyes, and rubbed the blood on his eyelids and tragi. Blood weaving. When he opened his eyes, he could see what he hadn¡¯t seen before and hear what he hadn¡¯t heard. His senses were amplified by the weaving, revealing dozens of watchers in the surroundings, closing in as the caravan moved forward.


    Definitely trouble ahead.

 Chapter 2

    When Brennik stopped, the caravan went on alert. What could have caused him to halt so suddenly? Elowen thought it was another of his divagations, but the other three mercenaries escorting the caravan realized it wasn¡¯t something so trivial. They placed their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready to draw them.


    Brennik took a deep breath, removed his cloak, cut his thumbs with his index fingers, and marked his arms with a line of blood.


    It was the combat mark of a weaver.


    The opponents were far off. By now, they had already surrounded the group, watching their movements. They were startled by the weaving marks.


    Blood weavers were feared by the populace¡ªif there were demons in this world, people believed weavers were their descendants.


    The mercenary concluded that they were waiting for the caravan to reach a spot more favorable for an ambush. The conclusion was clear: if this wasn¡¯t the ideal place for them to attack, then this should be where the confrontation happens.


    ¡°Stay alert, we''re surrounded,¡± Brennik said to everyone in the caravan.


    A murmur spread among them as the mercenary moved closer to the cook, where the watchers wouldn¡¯t be able to see him.


    ¡°There are about twenty-two of them, seem to be raiders, moving in pairs,¡± he continued, then addressed the cook, ¡°Excuse me, mind if I borrow these utensils?¡±


    Before the cook could respond, the mercenary grabbed two high-quality knives from the poor man¡¯s collection and, with a swift spin, threw one with his right hand and the other with his left.


    None of the caravan members could see, but one of the knives struck the middle of a raider¡¯s forehead, the blade embedded in his skull, killing him instantly. The other wasn¡¯t as fortunate¡ªit found the ear of his partner. They couldn¡¯t see it, but the scream of pain that erupted after the severed ear was enough to confirm to everyone that they were indeed surrounded.


    The raiders exchanged glances, unable to believe what had just happened. It was expected that a weaver would be a tougher victim, but a throw from a hundred meters away at a partially hidden target? That wasn¡¯t something they had anticipated.


    A trumpet sounded, breaking the tension in the air. It was the raiders¡¯ signal for a full attack. A pair of archers were hiding in the high ruins of a tower. As they reached for their quivers to string their bows, they saw the silhouette of a tall, brute man leaping in front of them. The blood marks on his arms and face left no room for doubt: it was the weaver.


    Brennik had supernatural strength since weaving his arms with his blood. After throwing the knives, the extraordinary power of his muscles allowed him to move to where another pair was even before they could register his movement. He climbed the tower swiftly and appeared before the archers who were positioned at the highest point among all. He judged them to be the most dangerous.


    The mercenary didn¡¯t hesitate. As soon as he appeared before the archers, he swung his blade to decapitate the first. While the blood spurted and Brennik readied his next strike in quick succession, the other archer pulled the bowstring back to its maximum and, as he turned to face the mercenary, his bow was struck with a kick that disarmed him.


    The archer trembled, his eyes wide. Panic took hold.


    ¡°Please! Spare me!¡± the archer begged, as Brennik prepared his strike with the dagger.


    In vain. Brennik wasted no time; he drove the dagger into the archer¡¯s throat, piercing his skull and lifting him as he died. He discarded the suspended body from his blade and assessed his next target. Brennik had led many battles, his tactical mind was sharp, though he feared it had grown rusty after so much time away from the army.


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    Fourteen raiders advanced toward the caravan, three archers had been eliminated, and one fled after having his ear cut off. There were still four archers firing at the caravan.


    Brennik judged that the three mercenaries guarding the caravan wouldn''t be able to handle fourteen men alone, and the approaching raiders were far more threatening than the arrows coming from a distance.


    The weaver, determined, grabbed an iron rod exposed in the ruins of the tower and broke it in half with a single movement. He threw it like a javelin. The rod struck the chest of one of the raiders charging toward the caravan, the dry sound of impact, followed by the terrible snap of breaking bones, terrified his companion. Searching for another target, he aimed to do the same. This time, the piece of rod hit a raider¡¯s leg, pinning him to the ground while a scream of pain was heard.


    Another hail of arrows struck, and more members of the caravan were hit.


    ¡°Tsk,¡± a dissatisfied grunt from Brennik.


    He wasn¡¯t good with a bow, and it was limited to the strength of the bow¡¯s string and arms, not to his own. Brennik quickly thought of a solution: with a punch, he broke the remains of the tower wall, smashing them into several stones.


    He began firing a hail of stones, halting the raiders¡¯ advance and forcing the archers into a defensive position. The stones shattered upon hitting the ground, turning into dust. Some hit their targets, and when he stopped throwing them, people could hardly see through the dust formed by the stones fragmented upon the impact.


    Perfect.


    Brennik jumped from the tower straight into the caravan, and before the dust settled, his blade had already claimed half of the raiders who had charged toward the caravan.


    Those who survived swore they had seen a demon. No, it wasn¡¯t a demon. It was death itself. More than half of the men were dead. Obviously, the raid had failed. It wasn¡¯t worth running toward death anymore¡ªand, with fear now instilled, they probably wouldn¡¯t have been able to even if they wanted to. They fled.


    Brennik was tired, very tired. He needed rest. But there was still a mission to complete. The mercenary had seen many situations like this; he knew the raiders wouldn¡¯t attack again. Fear was a great shield. Now, he needed to check on his troops¡ªor, in this case, his employers.


    The cook was dead¡ªwell, I won¡¯t need to go after his utensils, he thought¡ªand an elderly woman was gravely wounded. One of the three mercenaries had a deep wound, but it didn¡¯t seem lethal. Aside from them, there were only minor injuries.


    Should I conserve my energy or weave the mercenary¡¯s wound? I didn¡¯t have the chance to assess him in combat. Maybe it¡¯s more useful for me to recover first¡­


    ¡°No!¡± Elowen cried out in desperation. ¡°Grandma, you can¡¯t go now¡­ No!¡± She repeated no after no, between sobs and tears.


    Brennik stopped his thoughts as he observed the scene. Something was wrong with his reasoning.


    ¡°Weaver! You can heal her, can¡¯t you? Please!¡±


    Elowen turned to Brennik. Though she was a young adult, for some reason, her gaze reminded him of the children from the Massacre of Kynnyav. Brennik noticed his eyes begin to tremble. That suffocating sentiment he used to feel when he was under the command of Sadorn.


    Of course! Again! I¡¯m thinking in military terms. The priority of life isn¡¯t what will bring the best martial result. Maybe the priority of life is life itself¡­


    ¡°Of course, lady,¡± Brennik replied.


    The wound was deep. The damage was severe. It wouldn¡¯t be long before the lady passed away.


    Brennik cut the palm of his left hand with his dagger, then cut the palm of his right hand with the other, staining the dagger¡¯s sheath red.


    He placed his bleeding hands above where the arrows had pierced her. His blood began to flow in an abnormal volume, twisting its way through the air, entering where the arrows were lodged. The entire caravan gathered to witness the scene. The weaver¡¯s blood was poured into the wounds, and, as if the blood had a life of its own, it began a healing process for the woman.


    When the old lady opened her eyes, the people of the caravan were certain of one thing: they had witnessed a miracle. Maybe he wasn¡¯t a demon, nor death. Maybe he was a savior, maybe life.


    It was an intense healing process, and Brennik was beginning to lose his strength. He saw the joy with which Elowen embraced her grandmother. There were tears in her eyes, but it seemed like this time they were tears of joy. Brennik smiled, he couldn¡¯t remember the last time he smiled, it had been a long time. His vision started to darken gradually, and his body began to soften. He saw the young lady turn to him, her almond-shaped eyes shining, but this time they were filled with gratitude. What a strange feeling, have I ever felt this before?¡ªwondered the mercenary, just before his vision darkened completely and his body gave in, cradled in Elowen¡¯s arms.