Ashkii Dighin- The Hunt for the Hypnotist

by Adam Lynch

  Only Ashkii with his hawk-like vision saw the arrow reach its target. Neither him nor Kel heard the arrow’s impact—it was far off. Kel stood confused about the cue that she was waiting for, but Ashkii, seeing that the hunt was successful, pressed towards their breakfast.

  “What did you shoot at?” Kel inquired.

  “Breakfast,” he said.

  They walked almost twenty minutes before locating the deceased deer at a small clearing. The arrow that had pierced its chest radiated off the sun’s rays like a heavenly star. As Ashkii went to retrieve it, Kel gaped at the animal, astounded. “A caribou,” she said. “How spontaneous. Caribou are never found this south of Seasons. I always thought they resided in the mountains of Winteria.”

  “Lucky us,” said Ashkii, retrieving the arrow and prepping its dissection. Ashkii suddenly felt an odd sense of déjà vu being this close to the caribou. Suddenly, he felt the animal’s pain like it was his own—like the animal was a part of him. But this, like all other things that had disturbed him, he ignored and repressed like it was never there.

  “How long does the arrow keep its glow after it’s been released?” Kel asked, Ashkii for once appreciating the distraction.

  “An hour.”

  Kel nodded, studying his breakfast preparations with intrigue. “Interesting,” she said.

  Pulling out her Bow of Embers, she strung it, aiming the arrow towards a pile of dried leaves, yet no flames had emerged from it. She tried again, no such luck. “Blast it,” she said with a tone she’d hoped would allure Ashkii’s attention. “My tools have overheated or something. I was going to use them to start a fire for our breakfast.”

  Ashkii lent her no attention, immersed in his task. Scoffing, Kel pulled out a small book from her satchel, flipping the pages to study a certain one. For a second her stilled focus had earned a curious peek from Ashkii. But when he saw the book that she was reading from, he abruptly stood up, startling her.

  “What? What is it?” she asked, noticing his compressed alerted state.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m looking up a quick spell I can use to start our fire with.”

  He approached her, closing the book and taking it from her. “Don’t. Witchcraft attracts demons.”

  “Relax, it’s just a tiny little fire spell. People everywhere in Seasons do witchcraft. It’s not like one little spell is going to have Abaddon possess our bodies.”

  “Don’t do it while you’re around me. Messing with something you don’t understand can invite a whole realm of disaster. That’s the last thing I need to deal with on this mission. I’ll make the fire myself. No witchcraft.”

  “I’ve done way bigger spells in the past—many times too. Not once have I ever attracted a demon. There’s good power in that book we could use—possibly for helping us locate the Hypnotist.”

  Ashkii gave her direct stern eye contact. “No witchcraft. I’ll find the Hypnotist on my own.” At this, he walked away with the book, returning to cleaning the caribou.

  “You like what you can control,” she said, Ashkii ignoring her words. Waiting for a response and not getting one, she nodded. “Got it,” she said, walking deeper into the forest. “I’ll find wood we can burn.”

  Once everything was made and the meat was ready to eat, Ashkii and Kel sat next to each other, the fire in front of them warming their bodies. The closer they reached Winteria, the harsher the temperature had dropped.

  For a while they ate silently, staring into the fire, pondering over their own troubled thoughts. To distract himself from them, Ashkii thought up a conversation to start with Kel.

  “Tell me about this war with Seasons,” he said suddenly.

  While chewing, she turned to look at him. Her eye brows sprang, seemingly fascinated by the fact that he had for once started a conversation. “Sure,” she said, leaning towards him, captivated. “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s the objective? How did it start?”

  “No one knows how it’d initially started. Autumnum became involved when three clans were terrorized, each from warriors of the other three nations.”

  “You’re saying that Summeria, Winteria, and Springeria all sent warriors to assassinate an Autumnan clan? Were there any witnesses to confirm this?”

  “Yes, several. They were all caught in the act.”

  Ashkii nodded, no expression on his face. “Did all three attacks occur at the same time?”

  “No. Different days, but all within seven.”

  “What brought the other regions to war? When did each join?”

  “As I’ve said, no one knows how the war started. Our spies say that every region claims to be retaliating after other nations have terrorized three of their territories. Winteria says Springeria started the war. Summeria says Winteria struck first. Springeria says Autumnum. Autumnum says Summeria. It’s a circle of confusion.”

  “Are all the nations aware of this?”

  “It’s been public knowledge for a while now. Nobody cares. All the nations have been looking for an excuse to go to war. King Salem of Winteria, an immortal werewolf/vampire hybrid who declares himself a god, has been thirsting for expansion for a long time. The Summerians, a democratic assembly, have had a history of power and expansion in the past—especially in the time when a powerful leader had ruled over them, a ruler who’d conquered all of Seasons for a time known as The Great. The tribe of Autumnum has had history with sacrificing outsiders to their gods. Though it’s true that many generations later Autumnum is more trying of outsiders—given that they pass various trials and tests—but history never really changes. Lastly, Springeria has always been greatly feared because of the long-living and powerful kitsune, especially Queen Chiharu Fantasia, who is not only an enchanting yousei, but a powerful 800-year-old, 8-tailed kitsune. War is inevitable when you live in a land of that much power and history.”

  “Perhaps… but that’s not what started this war. This chaos and confusion was all purposely organized. A force of some kind had set this all in motion to accomplish a separate agenda.”

  A smile lit up her face, her interest intense. “And what force do you think this could be?”

  He raised his glance, locking on her. “I think it’s the Hypnotist.”

  Her eyebrows sprang. “Why would it do this?”

  “To prevent the nations from forming against it—chaos is also a good distraction to deter attention. However, it could have remained a ghost, but it chose to make everyone aware of its existence with its mark and letters to all four regions...”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but knowing I believe will reveal its motive.”

  Kel nodded, grinning as if impressed. “So the Hypnotist separated the four regions to prevent them from uniting against it, beckoning chaos so it could carry out its motives safely. Yet it ensures its existence is recognized to all of Seasons? Don’t these theories counteract each another?”

  “Not if it’s wanting attention from someone...”

  “But why?”

  He aimed his glance at the fire. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Kel smiled, keeping her gaze on him. “Did you want to know about the Sky Pirates as well?” she offered.

  Ashkii hesitated. Then he nodded, aiming his eyes back on her. “Sure,” he said. “You think they could be relevant to the case?”

  She was suddenly intense. “Anything could be relevant to this case,” she said. “It’s important that you keep your mind open, always learning about everything happening around you.”

  “Fine. Then who are the Sky Pirates?”

  “They are foreigners who have suddenly invaded Seasons at all sides. This was shortly after the civil war began. They march in large numbers, though none of them are very skilled fighters. they’re men and women of different sizes and ages. All have black skin and are bald. All have gray eyes. All have the number 6 on their foreheads and right wrist. All carry two sabers or cutlasses. All have clothes
and boots that are pure white, ripped, old, and used up.”

  “Shared marks, identical appearances? So they’re an organized cult. Have you identified their leader?”

  “If they have one we haven’t seen him or her yet.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Nobody knows. But we do know that they’re hostile and refuse to communicate. Spirit Hunters have captured and interrogated many of them but none have ever spoken a word. We’re not even sure that they can speak at all. The only reactions we ever got from them are violent grunts and hisses. I’ve seen it myself. It’s very haunting.”

  “What have they done so far in Seasons?”

  “They march around every region aimlessly, no destination ever reached. When obstructed they fight to subdue, but never to kill...”

  “They don’t kill?”

  “Never. It’s been said that when their swords pierce and impale, the cuts never kill their opponents, but weaken them like a poison or a tranquilizer.”

  “So they’re an entirely separate organization from the Hypnotist then, unrelated motives and all.”

  “As far as we know.”

  “But it’s possible that the Hypnotist could be be involved with them in some way. There’s simply no way of knowing for certain until we start gathering evidence. We can speculate and theorize all we want but we’ll never get answers until we investigate our leads.”

  “Well, I’ve finished eating. Are you ready to cross the Winterian border and search for Rolf Valentine?”

  He rose up, having his mind set. “Yes, let’s go,” he said.

  Rolf Valentine

  The animal skins they wore shielded them from the harsh winds and temperature drops of Winteria. Light snowfall sprinkled the air near the border, falling heavier as they traveled in. Elevation steepened. From where they walked they saw white forests of pine, spruce, juniper, and birch trees, freezing but moving rivers, narrow valleys, tall towers, glacier mountains and mammoth castles. From this view, they saw the king’s colossal castle submerged in the tallest peak—named after the royal family: Valentine Peak.

  Continuing the downward steep path, Ashkii and Kel spotted a city of cottages and brick housing ahead. They entered a dense mist, fogging the enchanted orbs of light that had rested on Gothic architecture. Approaching, they heard a loud muffled ruckus—coming from inside a building. It sounded like a brawl—hollering, roaring, cheering, banging, and clamor. Additionally, Ashkii heard dancing and music, bagpipes, accordions, fiddles, and tin whistles being played. Closing in, their eyes processed a dark, brick tavern. Smoke from a fire was coming from a chimney on a slanted roof. Light from inside illuminated all the windows, reinforced with glass. A picket fence squared the back yard. Straight ahead was the back door—but Ashkii knew it’d draw less suspicion if they took the front door.

  Rolf Valentine was said to be seen in pubs—perhaps if they were fortunate, they’d find him in this one.

  “He’s in there, I can sense it,” said Kel, Ashkii looking at her. She didn’t express it well, but Ashkii had recognized a game face well enough to see an intense bitterness hidden inside her. But he didn’t care enough to wonder why that was.

  “Wear this,” he said, handing her a tartan cape while he put on a commoner’s cloak—this would ensure his Spirit Bow was masked. “Keep your hair covered.”

  Entering the tavern, the noise that came from it rose substantially. The crowd was so immersed by the fight between two werewolves that no one noticed Ashkii and Kel entering in, sneaking back to the bar. It was a lively tavern of bagpipe, accordion, fiddle, and fin whistle music. It was a packed house—even in the morning, (perhaps the party from last night was still going on). Red-Bloods filled the room, half-naked men and women (werewolves) in kilts, plaids, tartan socks, ghillie brogues, tartan skirts and tonnages banging on the tables and standing and cheering on the brawl—some dancing to the music being played. Traditionally highland dressed vampires relaxed by the bar, drinking glasses of blood, watching the fight or engaging in their own sexual intimacies.

  Ashkii and Kel found their seats at the bar, next to two hugging vampires stimulating, caressing, and kissing each other—they were too engrossed in their romance to notice their new neighbors. This relieved Ashkii’s anxiety of attracting suspicion, allowing him to concentrate on examining the room. Fortunately, their search for Rolf Valentine ended the moment it had started. He was right in the center of madness. He was there, as if on the tallest mountain, roaring and proclaiming his identity to all of Seasons. The arrogant, obnoxious, aggressive, and impulsive types were always the easiest to find. They were never known for their stealth ability—but they never had to be. Rolf was proving this again for all witnesses to see—that he was not a man to be crossed. He was a black eight-foot tall werewolf dressed only in a ripped kilt, tartan socks, and belted plaid. He was cut, bulky, and every bit intimidating. His fur prickled like knives, white tattoos on his bare chest. Though all Red-Bloods had red eyes, Rolf’s eyes had a passionate hostility in them—sadism and dominance were his satisfactions. The bright-orange mark on his neck had confirmed his name—who else had ever beared the Hypnotist’s mark and lived? But there was one more thing that caught Ashkii’s attention about him. There was a chain locked around his neck, a luminous green stone attached to it as an emblem. That too looked to be curse of some kind. What could it mean?

  Rolf’s opponent, though not as large and intimidating, put up a competitive match. He was a white werewolf, short and stocky, sharp teeth, and large gripping claws. They knifed each other’s skin with claws, punctured each other’s faces with fists, kicked each other off their feet, and bit chunks of flesh off each other’s backs. They rammed each other against walls, and slammed one another to the floor. Blood was pooled, property was vandalized, bodies were flying from one side of the tavern to the other. A large expansive area, yet the fighters covered every inch of it every second. A perfect display of how dangerous werewolves were—a great reminder to Ashkii (from everything he’d ever read about them) how cautious and strategic he must be in ever approaching one.

  He’d wait until the fight was over—wait until Rolf had reverted back to his human form. Only then would he be able to begin a strategy in approaching him. Until then, Ashkii thought it wise to study everyone and everything in the room. Awareness of possible risk, danger and opportunity was important in ensuring success in a mission. He must uncover anything that could pose a problem and everyting that could be used to promote victory—and it was a good thing that he did this.

  Isolated in the tavern’s dark corner, Ashkii saw a man dressed in a commoner cloak like his. He sat alone at a table, segregated by all his peers. He sat still as a statue, locking watchful eyes on his target—it was clear that he had one. It was also clear that he was a spy or an assassin—anyone paying attention would have noticed. Amateur. Isolation and non-participation made him appear conspicuous. And retaining such narrow sight would prevent him from spotting interference or other threats. His problem was that he wasn’t treating the crowd as individual threats, but one threat as a whole, making him think that his target was the only individual that he had to be careful not to regrettably engage. Regardless of who his target was, this assassin was a problem for Ashkii—perhaps compromising tonight’s pursuit entirely. One reckless move and he could rouse sober attention—and risk breaching Ashkii’s identity as well.

  But the problem was that this was such a golden opportunity. They were fortunate enough to find Rolf in the first pub that they had searched. He and everyone in the tavern was drunk, making it safer than ever to approach him with conversation without suspicion. Approaching him anywhere else could alert him, and interrogation was a much more difficult option to pursue than casually questioning a drunk man. Ashkii was going to have to take this risk.

  Then suddenly and abruptly, Kel climbed onto Ashkii’s lap, her legs wrapping around his torso. One arm wrapped around his neck, the other carried a glass of humanoid blood.
Her eyes captivated, her lips invited, and her body provocatively suggested. Her breasts pressed up against him, her face barely an inch from his. He’d never been this close to her before, springing a reaction from him that he wasn’t prepared to give.

  “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” he asked, his tone raised, his face almost blushing.

  “Look around you. We’re blending in.”

  “You’re distracting me.”

  “Don’t let it. Just play the hard-to-impress noble while I play the orgasm-inducing whore.” Loosening his breastplate and revealing his chest, she poured drops of blood on him, leaning in to lick it clean. Ashkii immediately flinched, alerted.

  “What’s the matter with you? Has your sanity left you?”

  She grinned, looking up at him from his chest. “I’m playing the part. Just follow my lead. I’m an actor. I know what I’m doing.”

  Ashkii shook his head, not knowing what to say. But she was right. It made them more invisible to the wandering eyes. Even so though, he found her over-eagerness disturbing. Like her consciousness had lacked any sensibility, boundary, and sanitation sense.

  But then Ashkii noticed something even more disturbing… on the other side of the tavern from where Ashkii sat was a pale young girl—or so she appeared to be. But she had to be a vampire Red-Blood, forever aged as a child until the day she’d cease feeding. Although, it was odd that her eyes were not red like all the other Red-Bloods—instead, they were a bright purple. What concerned Ashkii most was the fact that she was staring right at them. Had she somehow seen through them? But how could she with the performance that Kel was putting on? But something else was off. She wasn’t doing anything. She wasn’t whispering to anybody around her. She wasn’t pointing them out. She wasn’t approaching them. She wasn’t doing anything… but staring right at them.