Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  The one on the right took three steps and launched itself at the other with a loud, piercing screech that lanced directly to the inner portions of my ears surpassing my auditory detection and reaching back into the formations of my memory. I had felt this piercing sensation on only one other occasion before. In a time that felt further away than time itself, before everything had happened, my sister Hithelyn had wandered a little too far into the Breckenwood and was confronted by a bear cub. Frightened to hysteria, she shrieked unlike anything I thought a young girl could be capable of. That shriek created the same probing lance as the attacking screech I had just heard. As the other combatant parried her attack with a silent and stoic demeanor that could not have been more opposite, I knew. These little "Ravens", this "Malice and Vile" were my sisters. And as such, no amount of patience could prevent me from action.

  There is a clarity that comes with primal desperation. A focus that descends to one’s senses that boarders on the supernatural. In this moment, I was able to utilize the full ability of the dynamic link between my senses and their information's assimilation into my conscious decisions. First, I needed a weapon. No, I needed two. As I bounded from behind our pillar and outside of the veil of protection provided by Kinarin's blanket of invisibility, my attention and attack was directed toward the two closest guards. Hoping to draw their engagement separately, before any of the others could respond, my efforts were not directed at eliminating them, but disarming them.

  Such was the impressive nature of the demonstration of my sisters that none of the guards, nor any of the others in the throne room noticed my initial movement. In seconds I was able to both disarm and end my two first targets. However, as useful as desperation was at focusing one's sensory abilities, it conversely affected one's ability to plan beyond the initial, emotionally driven reaction. As such, beyond the weapons I now held, I had no clue what I was going to do.

  "Vismorda," said the man atop the dais in a voice of authority demanding all attend, "I believe we should postpone the full display of your demonstration to a time less, intrusive."

  At the sound of his voice, everyone including my sisters focused their attention on him, leaving me standing, in the open, on my own. I saw his eyes focus on me, and just as a great conductor controls the pace of an orchestra with simply a hand gesture, his eyes directed all others to focus in kind.

  "Who do we have here?" asked Vismorda.

  My eyes darted from Jesolin to Vismorda and finally landed on my sisters. Their icy gaze found mine and echoed the familiarity of past memories formed into an unbreakable bond. A bond formed from tears, laughs, adventures, loss, and most importantly, love. But behind that bond, from inside their hearts, seeped a darkness and determination I did not recognize apart from its foothold within the beautifully dark woman, the robed man, and the man atop the dais.

  My speechlessness prompted Vismorda to walk over to my sisters who fluidly moved to stand on each side of her. "Oh, I see it now. The high cheek bones, the angular features, the tears forming in your eyes. You must be Drin," she said placing her hands on my sisters’ shoulders. "While I was breaking them, they told me how you and their father would come and rescue them. But as you can see, they need no rescuing."

  "Vennesulte would not agree with your observations," said the young monk causing me to snap my head in his direction. He, too, broke the veil of covering offered by Kinarin.

  "And who is this?" asked Mordin.

  "It appears our guards have not been as thorough as I would have liked," said Jesolin. "We cannot have boys running around my castle. Mordin, can you please lead a special task force of your necromancers to search every inch of our new home."

  "You do not want me to deal with," he paused as he looked at Vennesulte and I, "this intrusion?"

  "As amused by their futile resistance as I am sure you would be, I am afraid your skills will be more useful in locating others that may or may not be dwelling here," he said. "Besides, I have a more suitable plan to deal with our two young bravehearts."

  "As you wish, My Lord," said the man named Mordin as he withdrew himself from the throne room while bidding the guards to follow.

  "Now," said Jesolin, "let us resolve our little dilemma. Vismorda?"

  The woman known as Vismorda withdrew her hands from my sisters' shoulders and took two steps back. As she did, I saw my sisters adopt the subtle and coiled stances of predators on the hunt. Their hands gripped their daggers a little more tightly. Their feet separated and their knees slightly bent. Their chins slightly lowered and their eyes set in their determination holding no signs of a familial bond. In appearance, they were every bit my sisters, but in intent, they had changed. Neither of them wished sit in my lap telling stories of our past adventures as we had on the last evening I had seen them.

  The woman name Vismorda uttered a one-word command, a word I did not recognize from the common language. Unfortunately, my recognition was not a prerequisite for my sister’s next actions, because they clearly understood what it meant. With the same shriek we had heard earlier, Hithelyn launched herself at me with a speed and force I had not considered she possessed. When her blade struck mine, I felt the shutter of its force radiate through my entire arm. The blow forced me to retreat and momentarily interrupted my fighting rhythm. She pressed her attack and continued to drive me backward through the throne room.

  Vennesulte was faring no better than I. While Hithelyn's furry was a mixed display of auditory and physical assaults, Jinola's possessed a quiet but equally lethal intent. True to her childhood character, she showed no grand gesture as she began their engagement. She merely walked to where Vennesulte was standing and attacked; however, her ferocity was no less than her sister’s. As such, she drew the boy monk into her own sphere of influence and pressed him back as well.

  It was becoming clear that these were not the wild, childhood tantrums I had seen from my sisters when I would antagonize them beyond their threshold of tolerance. These individual and equal expressions of combat were the calculated attempts of foes attempting to end our lives, or at the very least, subdue us. And as such, the violent nature of our responses had to be elevated to match theirs thereby ensuring our survival, a survival that was necessary if I was to ever help them again.

  So, I pressed into her next strike and, although her blade met mine with enough force to stay it, I could tell my superior physical stature was beginning to have an effect. However, had I not received training from Kinarin, my fate would have already been sealed. Once the initial shock of what my sisters had become had dissipated, my intentional, rhythmic form returned and I was beginning to assert my superiority. Vennesulte had apparently gained the effects of his training and discipline as well, because he was beginning to break Jinola's defense.

  At almost the same time, we both struck flesh. My mass was much greater than my sister’s, which necessarily meant my strength was proportionately greater. As such, my successful blow should have followed the laws of physics resulting in a predictable reaction sending Hithelyn’s young and small frame sprawling across the floor from the force. But it did not. Neither did Vennesulte’s effect Jinola as it should have. Both of them simply absorbed the force with their heads and turned back to coldly and malevolently stare at us, the bruises already forming.

  "That is enough!” said Jesolin, halting our battles with the power of his voice. “I do not want my new little Ravens to be damaged further. I have plans for them. Turning toward Vismorda, he continued, "Vismorda, please withdraw them and finish this. I am well pleased with their progress."

  The woman uttered another unfamiliar single word command and my sisters sheathed their blades and instantly returned to stand at her sides. "There, there my little Ravens. Let me show you how this is done. Go. Stand by Lord Kahl. Watch and learn, my little Ravens."

  My sisters did as they were instructed quietly and without delay or complaint, even Hithelyn. If the battle between Vennesulte, myself, and my sisters was not sufficient enough
to let descend the realization that they were no longer mine, then the vision of them standing next to an utter monster of mountainous proportion, as they affectionately placed their hands on the arms of his throne, did. And in that moment, I raged.

  I raged against the summation of everything. Even the very air around me drew my anger as I raised my two blades to challenge this woman. All my pleasant memories of time with my sisters were stained to soot black by the backdrop of the pure and hateful evil now taking root in their hearts. As she stepped forward and unsheathed her sword, I vowed to all that I claimed as myself to end this now. Powered by this rage, I knew there was nothing that would stop me from saving my sisters. And with that knowledge, I attacked.

  All barriers were torn to shreds as my training unhinged its full dominance in my mind, body and will. I was utterly unmanned. I was sure our battle would be over soon for who could stand against an assassin when fueled by the powerful desire of using his skills of killing to save. And while I was driving my blades into her defenses with speed, power, and a lethal intent, sure that I would soon find her flesh, I did not. It was as if she knew my actions before I acted. No matter how sure I was that I was soon to take advantage of an opening I knew was there, it dissolved before my blades found it. I felt myself becoming winded. I felt my blades getting heavier and my steps becoming less precise.

  Vennesulte must have seen this subtle shift too, because he joined in the battle at precisely the exact moment that should have allowed us to gain the upper hand, but it did not. This woman, this Vismorda, was defending our different strikes, kicks and punches seemingly without thought. She lost no ground but was not intentionally seeking to gain any either. When I saw my young monk friend becoming winded as well, I knew we were in trouble, a trouble that we would not be able to escape ourselves. I looked to where we had been hiding, hoping to see Kinarin join us. Certainly, we would be victorious when he did. But he did not. Instead of seeing the blinding speed and laser focus of his will wielding his full faculties to our saving, instead of watching as his daggers blended smoothly with the wind, instead of seeing him standing over this woman, triumphant in our rescue, I saw nothing.

  As the moments passed and her physicality surged beyond ours, we each felt the sting of her blade as it cut flesh. Both of our injuries were not lethal. Indeed, they were only superficial, but nevertheless, we had been bloodied. Two more cuts to each of us rendered any question about the outcome, moot. It had been decided before it had been begun. We could not continue any longer and needed to act out of desperation lest we die and my sisters remain to be further absolved by this utter evil. With a final surge, we both collected everything we had in reserves and struck. But the only thing we met were the knuckles of her fists and the heels of her boots. Bloodied and beaten, both Vennesulte and I hit the ground hard.

  "That is enough, Vismorda," said Lord Jesolin as he smiled approvingly.

  "I should end them, My Lord. We do not want them to continue breathing," she said. "Plus, it will give a great lesson for my little Ravens."

  "Your Ravens?" said Jesolin, not bothering to hide the implicit threat hidden in his words.

  "I am sorry, My Lord. Your Ravens," she said. "But we should kill them now."

  "Vismorda," he said as he stood and walked over to her, "while their death would provide a very constructive lesson for Malice and Vile, I do believe the greater lesson would be achieved by allowing them to see what becomes of those who oppose us. Let us then do to these two what has been done to others. Send them to the dungeons to await Mordin. They are to become part of our Dead Guard."

  "Yes, My Lord," she said as he lightly and affectionately stroked her cheek. "It will be done."

  With one last look, I turned my attention to where Vennesulte, Kinarin and I had been hiding, shrouded by Kinarin’s mysterious technique. Somewhere, in the deepest reaches of my understanding, I could not comprehend his absence. How could he not help? How could he leave us to whatever horrible fate claimed our futures? His very inaction contradicted everything I had come to understand about him, what I had come to know about all assassins. What I had seen as the embodiment of free will, to act without regard to consequences in moments when consequences demanded attention and altered behavior, had been instantly dissolved by one simple act of perceived betrayal. I tried to stand but stumbled and fell. Perhaps it was the heavy demand of my most recent realization weighing me down, or perhaps it was the lingering effects of being soundly beaten by this woman, regardless; however, I lacked the strength, ambition, and even desire.

  “Get him up,” I heard the woman named Vismorda say. A few seconds later, I felt two sets of heavy, strong hands grip me under my armpits and yank me to my feet. Barely able to support myself, I was half carried away. “And that is how it is done,” I heard her say just before the door I had been pushed through closed.

  Quantacio

  (Reparation)

  "Rumor has it, brother, that the council of elders is thinking about naming a new chief. You would not know anything about this would you?" asked the large, broad shouldered gypsy as he entered his younger brother's tent. Mordin was sitting in the corner with an opened book and paid the challenge no heed as he lazily turned another page. "Well, brother? What do you know of these rumors?" asked Oolos again. Mordin offered no response except to turn another page in his dusty, leather-bound book, seemingly unaware of his older brother’s explicit challenge. "Brother!" shouted Oolos, "enough of this charade!"

  As Mordin looked up, he saw a large and imposing figure, made more so by the flickering light of the candle by which he read. However, he knew his brother’s imposing nature, albeit physically superior, was due in larger part to his high status within the clan, a status that was soon going to change. "Excuse me, but I do not remember ever interrupting you in your tent when you are otherwise engaged without seeking permission first. Tell me, what is the nature of your malcontent?" asked Mordin as he looked up quizzically.

  "Mordin, I am in no mood to play this circling game tonight. If you were ever or could ever be direct, then do me this favor once, be so now. What do you know about this?" asked Oolos as he took a step forward.

  "Why do you assume I know something? I have long been considered inconsequential next to your shadow. I have been nothing but a repulsion to the council of elders ever since," he let the statement trail off as his eyes trailed into his past.

  "We have long past that. You cannot possibly still harbor illness toward me because of it. After all, I did everything I could, talked to as many of the elder council members as I could, even made promises whose bindings I am still under today," said Oolos as he continued to plead his case.

  "Nevertheless, brother," Mordin said, returning his attention to his dusty book, "it is still because of your lie that I went to speak with our rivals. And because of that, I was tricked to give them information of our passages."

  "Mordin, you cannot blame me! We were both still young and I needed the council to think I had been able to infiltrate the other clans and gain the information we needed to end our battles. We were losing and we would not have lasted the winter. You know that. I did only what I had to do," said Oolos as he turned his palms up in a sign of surrender.

  The younger gypsy remained silent for several moments while he looked up at his older brother. "Is that it? You did what you had to do? Is there no consideration for how I suffered, still suffer under the brand of a traitor?"

  "You were found faultless because you acted on the words of our enemies," he retorted.

  "Yes, of course. After all, how was I to know the girl you suggested I pursue would actually be used to gain my confidence from our clan rivals?" said Mordin as he turned yet another page.

  Striding boldly forward, Oolos knocked the book out of Mordin's hands who stood up to meet his brother's hard gaze. But it was not even. It was never even and could never be even. His older brother's physicality was dominant in all but the most severe situations, and Mordin was not a se
vere physical imposition. But nevertheless, he found himself with a manifested courage fueled by years of repression. So, his end was not to simply stand and confront his brother, but to shove him and demand he leave his tent. Unused to being challenged by anyone, let alone his younger and smaller brother, Oolos absorbed the shove by taking two small steps backward. But that was not the end of the elder's actions. He returned the shove by planting both of his palms on Mordin's chest pushing him so thoroughly, he fell backward into his chair, the momentum so great it toppled it over.

  Laying on his back, Mordin began to laugh. "You find this funny? Is even this just a game to you?" Oolos demanded as Mordin continued to laugh. "Mordin! Your brother's future hangs in the balance and, in case you did not know, is tied to yours! For both of our livelihoods, what is the source of your laughter?"

  Allowing his laughter to completely subside, he breathed deeply. He very deliberately placed one foot on the ground and then the other. He rather dramatically straightened up and walked to stand in front of his brother again, taking time to deliberately right his chair and place it exactly where it had been, "Oolos, are you aware of what has been happening?"

  "What do you mean?" he asked, unsure the turn Mordin was taking.

  "Surely you cannot have missed the rise of the clan's young champion?" Mordin asked. "From what I have heard, Vismorda certainly has not missed," he paused as he grinned, "his rise."

  "Be careful, brother, this game is on the verge of becoming one you cannot finish," said Oolos as he moved only inches from his brother's face, a threat clearly etched in the depth of his stare.

  "Well then," said Mordin maintaining his position, "it appears my inability to finish is a family trait, a trait not shared by our young friend, Jesolin. Or so I am told."