Ashkii Dighin- The Hunt for the Hypnotist

by Adam Lynch

  Suddenly, there was a quaking slam. An earsplitting cheer followed, everyone’s attention spiking towards the fighters. The match was over. Rolf had his white-furred adversary pinned to the ground. His claws were at his neck, crushing his throat. His victim struggled to utter sound. Rolf glared at him with the eyes of Abaddon, grinding his teeth like a dragon. He had enjoyed watching his victim squirm like a helpless newborn. “Fret nae, brother. You’ll have your rematch when we meit again in Hell.” With a smirk, he bounced his opponent’s head off the ground. Then he squeezed his neck until a loud pop sounded, releasing it with beastly vigor. Then, having one foot set on his head, he howled at the top of his lungs, quaking the residence with his thunderous voice. Cheers deafened the room. Then Rolf stepped out of the spotlight, reverting back to his human form. Ashkii had tried to get a look at him, but too many were swarming him.

  When the incident had ended, Kelanassa turned her attention from it and faced Ashkii. Her complexion was strong, stern and intense. She appeared angry from what they saw, but then she forced a grin, seemingly eager to get back to what must had been a distraction for her. “Hmp, well,” she scoffed, massaging Ashkii’s shoulder. “Every man must fall eventually… even the great Rolf Valentine.” In saying his name, her fingernails dug deep in his shoulder. Clearly, she held bitterness with him, but he didn’t have time right now to ask why.

  Have ye heard what happened to th’ Antelope Clan in Autumnum? Hearing this question had immediately peaked Ashkii’s interest, eavesdropping in. It was a conversation between two male vampire Red-Bloods, sitting to the left of him.

  “There was an attack, an’ a bad one at that,” the same vampire continued.

  “Sky Pirates?”

  “Nae. A wendigo!”

  Ashkii flinched when he heard that name, his heart skipping a beat. He nearly passed out and fell out of the stool. “What’s wrong?” Kel whispered, leaning in on him. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Be silent,” he said, eavesdropping again.

  “A wendigo?” asked the other Red-Blood, surprised.

  “Aye. Pools of blood, chewed flesh, decapitated limbs an’ heads, dissected bodies, torn organs—it was a cannibalistic mess. Not a single member survived.”

  “Wasn’t that the village across th’ border from here?”

  “Aye, an’ close to the village that had suffered the greatest wendigo devastation in all of Season’s known history. Do ye remember it?”

  “The clan that was wiped out 14 years ago? Wasn’t it one of Autumnum’s big families?”

  “Do ye remember its name?”

  Ashkii’s hearing narrowed, awaiting his answer.

  “Aye, the end of the Caribou Clan,” said an intruding voice suddenly, a large, dark man slamming his arms over the bar as he sat in between Ashkii and the conversing vampires. “Give me the usual,” he said to the bartender. “But brew it strong this time.” He slammed his fist on the table to emphasize his point. “No more of that weak jobby.” The bartender nodded, no reaction—doing as told.

  Even if Ashkii had never heard or seen Rolf Valentine before, his chained stone and mark of the Hypnotist had shined a spotlight on him. It wasn’t long before Rolf noticed Ashkii and Kel staring at him, turning to face them with a hostile glare. “What ye starin’ at, ye wee scunner? Ye lookin’ to get your eyes gouged out?”

  Kel’s glare fell from him, suddenly appearing emotionless. No longer interested in her role, she removed herself from Ashkii’s lap, pulling a stool beside him away from Rolf. Rolf scoffed, turning away, not caring that Ashkii’s glance had never faltered. “Rolf Valentine?” he asked in their accent, knowing their language and culture well from all the books he’d studied.

  Rolf immediately spun back towards him, his expression so hostile it looked like he was going to do exactly what he said. Ashkii knew he’d better choose his next words carefully.

  “Where did ye get the mark?”

  Whatever it was was, something had suddenly compelled Rolf’s interest to the conversation. He was engaged, smirking.

  “Aye, I survived the Hypnotist. I’ve said it a thousand times.”

  “Why does ye mark glow?”

  He shook his head. “Ah dinnae ken. I don’t remember any of it. I slept and arose with it. The jobby couldn’t kill me.”

  Suddenly, sat at the end of the bar behind Rolf was the child vampire with the purple eyes. She sat like a statue staring straight at Ashkii—it was impossible not to see her. When Rolf’s drink was served, he scooped it off the bar. Chugging it, something suddenly stopped him midway. Slowly, he set it down, bug-eyed. Then he faced Ashkii, nearly gaping, staring silently until the words that he had wanted to say came to him. “Hell’s bells,” he uttered. “I think it’s all coming back to me suddenly.”

  “Laird Valentine! Assassin!” Out sprang a man in front of Rolf, taking an incoming arrow in his place. It had all happened so fast.

  “What in hell?” Rolf asked, jumping out of his stool, knocking Ashkii and the other neighbors off their seats. His attention narrowed on the spy fighting off other werewolves at the other end of the tavern.

  “The Spirit Gatherer! It’s him!” announced a vampire at the bar suddenly, pointing at the Spirit Bow that had been revealed after the cloak was knocked off upon Ashkii’s fall. Hearing this, Rolf spun towards them, his body retaining what was about to burst. All other vampires hissed and sprang off their stools into defensive positions.

  Then, as Rolf transformed into his wolf form, an adjacent Red-Blood pointed at Ashkii and Kel and said, Assassins from Autumnum. They’ve come for our pub next.

  Overcome by rage, Rolf pounded the bar. He shuddered manically as he transformed, towering over everyone in the tavern. Once fully changed, he sounded a thunderous roar. “Get them,” he asserted, the entire tavern becoming an instant riot.

  Before Kel unsheathed her Knife of Embers, a swarm of vampires pinned her to the ground. They licked her neck before they went in for their first bite. But before one could taste her, Rolf yanked him off by his hair, scowling at him. “I want them alive,” he warned him, then dropping him.

  Rolling out of the way, Ashkii barely eluded his first wave of lunging Red-Bloods, centering himself in the room. He scanned his surroundings, continuously shifting from one area to the next to avoid becoming trapped. The doors were immediately barricaded—the first thing that they had ensured. Red-Bloods—they were everywhere he looked. There were nearly a hundred—all wanting to kill him. What could he do? He couldn’t fight them. One alone had the strength of ten men. Escape—it was his only option.

  A vampire snuck behind him, arm-locking his head. Struggling violently, Ashkii backed her against a table, slamming her. Out of his garments, he drew a wooden sake, gutting the vampire till he was freed. A violent hiss, Ashkii sprang from her clutches, evading a second vampire who was about to tackle him—and then another at his left.

  The other hunter—who was keeping the Red-Bloods distracted at the moment—was clearly on a suicide mission, having been prepared for this. Much to Ashkii’s misfortune, the hunter’s plan was, obviously, to assassinate Rolf and take out as many Red-Bloods as possible before meeting his end. His skill led him to slay three werewolves before they had all transformed. Once that happened, it was over. The werewolves caught up to him and ganged up on him in a corner. At that range, he was easily overpowered and subdued.

  Vaulting over tables, stools, and chairs, Ashkii shifted to an area less overrun. But seconds later, twenty werewolves swarmed in, one clutching Ashkii by his neck and launching him to the corner. Jumping to his feet, Ashkii attempted escape, but two steps out and he was surrounded—exactly what he didn’t want to happen. Blast it, he thought. It was over.

  Stringing his bow faster than shifting a stance, he aimed it at all who approached. At first glimpse of its divine glow, all Red-Bloods stumbled. But then Rolf stepped out of the crowd, bashing his wrists and shoving him against the wall. Ashkii made a swift recovery,
side-stepping, drawing his hunter’s knife. At this range, it was his last defense…

  Staring the eight-foot monster dead in the eyes, Ashkii lunged in for his strongest thrust. Shing! He struck vital areas in the gut that Rolf hadn’t even attempted to elude. It was a critical impact, yet it hadn’t fazed him. What was he?

  “A fair shot, mukker,” he informed, gripping him by the neck, choking him. “But if the Hypnotist couldn’t kill me, what makes you think you can?” At this, Rolf slammed his head so hard against the wall that he dropped unconscious.

  The God of Seasons

  Ashkii awoke with a migraine, his body numb, gradually freezing to death. The air was thick, hard to breathe. He saw the fog that came out of his breath. He couldn’t move his body. It felt like a giant icicle. Was it frozen? No… he was bound, limbs roped to some platform. His vision was gradually returning, but slowly. Everything right now was a blur, his mind not yet fully conscious.

  He curled up as high as he could, turning his head side to side. He couldn’t see them, but he felt like he was being carried, transported. Red-Bloods? They were carrying the platform he was tied against. Where were they taking him?

  It didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do. Realizing his state of helplessness, he rag-dolled, relaxing his body. He gazed up at the foggy night sky. Gazing at it a long time, he had wondered if what he was seeing was real. The moon. It was different—but tonight or in this region? It was mountainous… a stained red—the color of blood. Ashkii had never read of this. He was certain. What was this? Was he dreaming? Was he seeing things? Everything was still hazy. Sleepy… suddenly he was feeling weak again. Perhaps he should rest a while longer… restore his conscious—restore his senses...

  ○

  A time later Ashkii awoke again, coughing from the stench of wet dog—utterly revolting; he couldn’t breathe. It hastened his mind and body to recover, realizing he was being carried over the shoulder of a large werewolf.

  Ashkii. A voice called his name from across him. He faced the direction he heard it, seeing it was Kel. She too was being carried over the shoulder of a werewolf. “Ashkii, I can’t feel my body,” she said. “I think they paralyzed us with a special poison.” She was right. He couldn’t feel his body either. He could only move his neck—which he used to study his surroundings.

  They were inside a castle—a massive hall of pillars, statues, paintings, torches, crystal-lit orbs on stands, linen carpet, stairs, and stone—all made in dark Gothic-styled architecture. Ashkii saw much of the wizardry influence of Winteria that he’d always read about—relics, brooms, and furniture all floating in the air.

  The hall was decorated with passionately designed glass windows—all stretching nearly as tall and wide as the stone walls. From them, the red moon gave its light—was it real after all?

  Despite being inside the castle, fog continued departing from his breath, his face numb. He could barely feel it but he knew his body was freezing. Occasionally, he heard a soft howl of the wind, sweeping from one side of the hall to the other. Was this wind natural or witchcraft?

  It reeked in here, but Ashkii didn’t know if it was the castle or the werewolf his body was lying on.

  Besides the two werewolves carrying Ashkii and Kel, there weren’t any other bodies present in the area—not for at least half a mile at the end where Ashkii saw a large gathering of Red-Bloods. It was there that it was likely the king was present.

  Closing in, Ashkii saw a large gathering of richly dressed vampires, the king’s nobles. Werewolves wearing iron armor stood watch like gargoyles, guarding the nobles and the king. To the side of this large gathering was a tall, black, elderly man dressed in a fine wizard robe. His head balding, his eyes devilish red, his body frail, and his skin withering so severely one could see his excavating bones—these was all indicators of a sorcerer’s power. The price for practicing witchcraft had always been turning into a zombie. The more hideous a witch or sorcerer had appeared, the more powerful in the craft they were... and this man was the ugliest sorcerer Ashkii had ever seen.

  In the center of the area, elevated six steps was the royal throne—massive, ancient, dark, and made entirely of stone. It was built as a part of this castle like it was the heart of it. Sharing its age and brilliance, this castle as a whole was clearly a timeless treasure. Though appearing dark and cursed, this castle was probably as old as the land of Seasons.

  Then, straight ahead there was the king—King Salem Valentine: the said immortal hybrid. Both werewolf and vampire. He stood six foot. Though a king before his throne and in the presence of his nobles, he made audience clothed only in silk trousers—the rest of his body open in view of the public. Unlike the hideousness of all the sorcerers that had helped grant him his power, Salem had flawless, pale, vampire skin. He was very beautiful. His skin glowed like a lake off the moon’s light. His eyes were as luminescent as the stars. He had naturally perfect hair landing gracefully on his shoulders. His physique was perfectly proportioned—cut, healthy, and muscular. He had the face of a divine—it was no wonder that his people worshiped him as their god.

  Perhaps his nakedness was the very display of that power—doing whatever he wanted and doing it boldly. He was armed with no weapons or armor of any kind. He only had… his body.

  Ashkii and Kel arrived on time to witness the trial of the other Spirit Hunter that had been captured at the tavern. His Red-Blood escort had stepped to the side, leaving the captive with the king to question as he had likely commanded.

  The hunter stood tall facing him, unmoved—even unbound. But what was even stranger… was that he wasn’t stripped of his weapons. Did that mean that he and Kel weren’t stripped of theirs? Why would the king allow this? Was he really not intimidated of anyone?

  Despite this freedom, the hunter hadn’t acted, not even so much as a turn of his head. For a while, Salem only relished in his glance, seemingly fascinated at watching his reaction of this unconventional interrogation.

  Finally he asked him, “You acted alone, didn’t you?” His accent differed from all the Red-Bloods at the tavern, but Ashkii had remembered reading that Winteria was home to many varieties.

  The hunter hadn’t responded.

  Still, Salem smirked. “You acted alone in your assassination. Isolated from the orders of your chief and isolated from the other Spirit Hunters present in the tavern with you. At least this is what my brother thinks. But I want to hear it from you.” Salem aimed his hand toward Ashkii and Kel. “Do you know these hunters?”

  Awaiting patiently for his response, the hunter answered: “No. It is as your brother said.”

  Studying the hunter, Salem then faced the Red-Bloods carrying Ashkii and Kel. “You can set them down now by the way. After you do this, I want you to step away. And, Oztior, my court wizard...” he twisted his head over his shoulder towards the ghastly man. “You may remove the paralysis spell. Restore my guest’s energy. Let them feel powerful.”

  The second Salem ordered this, everything was done. Ashkii and Kel were dropped to the ground. The Red-Bloods stepped off to the side. And without Oztior doing as much as blinking an eye, Ashkii had not only felt something leave his body—allowing him to move again—but he felt something enter it as well. It strengthened him… empowered him. It was the strangest and most invasive feeling.

  Salem aimed his attention back on the Spirit Hunter, the hunter whose gaze had never parted from his face. The king displayed no expression. His emotion was difficult to read. “I believe you,” Salem said to him. “You made this response without even turning to look at the others at all. And I know Dyami didn’t send you. He’d never send a member of his tribe on a suicide mission. It would dishonor Autumnum. It’d be a disgrace. Yet, you acted anyway. You were going to sacrifice yourself to kill my brother. You were aware of his widespread curse and wanted to ensure you’d be the only one to suffer it. A culture that is not your own might view this as noble, and others like mine—foolish. And you were foolish. Obviou
sly, you didn’t know that my brother was impenetrable.” He paused for a moment, studying him intensely. “Tell me and be honest… do you feel regret? Regret that the only reason you failed in your mission was that you were an ignorant fool? Please tell me. I want to see it in your face. It’s been so long since I’ve felt any emotion of my own.”

  The hunter made no response, a focused grave glare. He had made it an effort to lock his eyes on the king. Never swaying off, he’d display strength—resolve. But then his eyes—which he had been so reliant on for showing pride—betrayed him, watering until they turned red. Then he swallowed. He had trusted willpower to retain his game face… but it wasn’t working…

  Salem standing close to him, scrutinized every second of it. When he was satisfied, he nodded, getting his answer. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what I thought.” Flashing his crystal nails, he battered the hunter’s head clean off—one swipe was all it took. Blood gushed out of the hunter’s neck as his body dropped to the ground. No one made any reaction to it—not even Ashkii or Kel. Ashkii couldn’t think for Kel, but the fact that he hadn’t reacted or felt something from this—was he as cold and empty as the Red-Bloods?

  Blood stained Salem’s nails, yet he relished in it, licking them clean with his vampire fangs. He enjoyed a moment of this before aiming his attention towards Ashkii and Kel, smirking. “Approach, Spirit Gatherer, and, wielder of the ember weapons.” Neither of them budged, showing no intimidation. But instead of this upsetting Salem, it amused him. “Oztior,” he called again his court wizard. “Our guests seem to be a little shy. Help them along, would you?”