Ashkii Dighin- The Hunt for the Hypnotist

by Adam Lynch

  Again, without shifting an inch, Ashkii and Kel were abruptly thrust towards the center of the throne before the king—like a gust of wind had swept them off their feet and sent them flying.

  The king relished their reactions, enjoying seeing how astounded they were. When they regained their graces, the king approached them slowly. “Tell me your names,” he said, studying both of them. “I’d like to know.”

  “Kelanassa Kaliete,” she said first, no hesitation. Salem nodded, looking to Ashkii next. Annoyed, Ashkii shook his head, his glance wandering off without a care.

  “If you’re going to kill us, go and do it,” he challenged. “Otherwise ask what you want so we can get this over with.”

  Again, Salem was amused by Ashkii’s reaction, closing in on him. Then he whispered. “What makes you think I’m going to kill you?” This allured back Ashkii’s attention, the king amused by this as well. “You’re the Spirit Gatherer. The one and only. If you were to die, then so would the legend, wouldn’t it? Talk about anticlimactic, huh?”

  “What do you want then?” Ashkii asked, no shred of intimidation on his face.

  Salem loved every minute of it, stepping even closer towards him. “I want you to tell me your name.”

  “Ashkii Dighin,” he said.

  “Ashkii Dighin.” The king examined him. Ten seconds later he stepped from him to where he could see both Kel and Ashkii together. He shifted his gaze from one to another, then shrugged. “What brings you too together? The Spirit Gatherer in need of a sex toy?”

  Kel scoffed, sneering.

  “We’re hunting the Hypnotist,” informed Ashkii. “Kelanssa is immune to illusions. With her, I’m able to track down the Hypnotist without being led astray.”

  For the first time, Salem looked impressed, nodding. “Really?” he asked, facing her. “That’s very interesting. I’ve never heard of somebody who could do that.” He paused, keeping his glance. “Well, I was going to kill Kelanassa, but now that I know this—I’ll have my court wizard study her as well.” He faced Ashkii. “And of course we’re going to study the Spirit Gatherer.” He paused a moment, shifting from each of their faces. “I’m happy to hear that a party of your talents was looking into this great nuisance of ours. It’s a nuisance we all share… all of Seasons. So… have you learned anything about it? This Hypnotist?”

  “If you let us go, we can learn more.”

  “Yes, it’s rather unfortunate—how you were given into my hands before you could take care of this universal infliction of ours. But you’re here now and I can’t simply let this power walk out. I’ve known about the Spirit Bow a long time and have long desired it. I will have it—if not by the natural, then by the unnatural. Nothing is unattainable.” He paused again, facing each of them. “Though there is something I am puzzled about...” He thought for a moment. “What business did you have with my brother? Did you think he would have known something?”

  “His glowing mark—we needed to inquire about it. He not only wears the mark of the Hypnotist, living, but unlike all others, his glows. We wanted to know why that is.”

  “What’s this? You say that my brother wears the mark? Alive? I had not known of this. This is most certainly interesting. Quite the mystery.” He thought a moment about it. “How about this: I’ll inquire my brother about it later, then I’ll inform you of what he tells me.”

  “He won’t remember,” said Kel suddenly, attracting both Ashkii’s and the king’s attention. “That’s what he told us when we asked him. But before the other hunter attacked Rolf and gave away our positions, out of nowhere he said he was starting to remember. But thanks to that interruption, I fear the opportunity may have passed.”

  The king nodded. “I see. Yes. Thank you for your information. It has been noted. I will continue my search for this Hypnotist. I’ll find it and make its power mine. If I can capture the Spirit Gatherer, then surely it’s only a matter of time. Any who have read the legends know that the Spirit Bow is one of the greatest and most difficult powers to acquire. Possessing it is even more difficult than finding a needle in a haystack they say. Just one is able—one whom Heaven has willed. That said, I’d like one of you to answer me this question: Do you think that Heaven could be willed to change its mind? That the power of the Spirit Bow could become another’s?”

  There was a brief silence as Salem scrutinized each of his captives with eager interest. When he saw Kel suddenly smirking, he locked his eyes on her, attracting Ashkii’s full attention as well. “Perhaps,” she said. “But never through sheer force.”

  He nodded, then facing Ashkii, raising his index finger. “One more question before you go. The Spirit Bow is said to penetrate any physical and magical substance—nothing can hinder its sheer force of will demanding death. So now I wonder, Ashkii Dighin… do you think that the Spirit Bow could force its will over an immortal man?”

  Taking three steps back, Salem stood tall, spreading his arms from his body, opening himself. His face displayed his eagerness for sadism, gazing manically at Ashkii. “Go on, Spirit Gatherer. Nothing has been removed from your person—though it’s true that nobody could have taken the Spirit Bow from you anyway. But if you can kill me—here’s your chance to do so.”

  “I have no reason nor desire to kill a king,” he said. “I want you to set us free.”

  “How about this then: If you kill me, you’re free to go. Don’t worry about my people. If the immortal king falls, the castle will crumble under the Spirit Gatherer’s feet. So let us see who is mightier.”

  Having heard this, Ashkii strung his bow, aiming. The bow shined as bright as the sun, chimed as clear as Heaven’s bells, and appeared as majestic as Excalibur. It was a sight that marveled every Red-Blood witnessing it, all of them gaping in awe.

  Aiming for the head, Ashkii released the shot—a perfect hit. Salem grunted, the force of the arrow pulling back his head—yet he restored, his face brimming with sardonic laughter.

  “Again,” he said.

  Immediately, Ashkii released another, and then another—all in the same place. Time was added, but that was all—no harm was brought to him. Distressed with this, Ashkii emptied his quiver, launching arrow after arrow. He attacked the heart, gut, neck, brain, ear, mouth, and even an eye. Yet, Salem was unfazed by it all. He shot his head for the ceiling with his arms spread wide, palms open, cackling with a voice box that he shouldn’t even have. He couldn’t pull the arrows out—he wouldn’t be able to until an hour had passed when the Spirit Arrows had become regular arrows. But not touching them, he must have known this. And despite this inconvenience, he cackled on without a care.

  Ashkii couldn’t believe it—even all of Salem’s nobles were amazed. He’d never seen anything like it. No beast had ever stood its ground after taking that many hits from the Spirit Bow—no matter its size or might. All had fallen in the past. But not Salem, the immortal king. He wasn’t even fazed. What was he? How was this possible? It’s like there was no life in him at all. He was a walking zombie, an artificial being.

  Ashkii faced Kel for her reaction. She had her arms crossed, a glare of impatience—it wasn’t what he expected. How could she not be surprised by this?

  “Ha, well look at that? You say that the Spirit Bow’s power cannot be repossessed through sheer will? I own will. All have told me what is possible and what is not, but I’ve redefined possibility. I take what I want and the world gives it to me. It is I who’ve granted the gift of the vampire to those who desire beauty and youth. It is I who’ve granted the gift of the werewolf to those who desire strength and power. I am King Salem Valentine. I am God. I create and destroy. I outlive all those around me. Nothing can take my life. Not even the weapon of Heaven itself. If there are other gods out there then I am above them all. Have I not proven this? I will continue to evolve—claiming the Spirit Bow as mine—and in time, all will be made new. The Sky Pirates will be eradicated, the Hypnotist will be brought before me, Seasons will be unified, and I will recreat
e peace for all.”

  At this, the entire assembly roared, Hail King Salem. Hail the god of Seasons.

  Captive

  Bound in iron chains, Ashkii and Kel were escorted by two Red-Bloods across a bridge to the east tower parallel to the castle. The tower, made of stone, was dark, massive, and looked as ancient as the castle. Its height rose two-thirds to the castle’s peak. Upon approach, he saw a dark mist enveloping its circumference. Ashkii sensed a great disturbance from within. It reeked. Witchcraft abounded there—it was likely that fiends had as well. He could almost hear their demonic cackles.

  Off the high elevated Gothic bridge, Ashkii saw all of Winteria—vast mountains, lighted cities, foggy valleys, white and green trees, the falling snow, and the phenomenon that he could no longer deny.

  There was it was again.

  Just how he’d thought he’d seen it before.

  His eyes had not deceived him. His mind had not been in a haze.

  It couldn’t be missed.

  There it was. There is stood.

  Despite not being fully conscious at the time, his processes were not mistaken. It was as red as the blood in his veins and as big as two moons.

  What was it? He still hadn’t known. But there was no doubting its existence this time. Whatever this was, it was real.

  But it didn’t look natural… It couldn’t be...

  “What is that?” Ashkii asked his escort, facing him.

  “Glory to it!” he snapped, his tone defensive. “That is the vessel for our god, King Salem. The blood of those we feast go to it, strengthening our god and empowering all those who share his blood—every Red-Blood, ye hear?”

  “Hail the god of Seasons,” shouted Kel’s escort. Kel appeared annoyed by the situation.

  Creaking the tower’s doors, taking a torch, the escorts led Ashkii and Kel down the steps to the dungeon at the bottom floor. The dungeon was almost as dark as the steps, just a few torches illuminating the area. From what was visible, Ashkii saw two rows of cells going down the hall, filled with Spirit Hunters, Sun-Shields, and others whom Ashkii didn’t recognize. Sky Pirates? No… but they closely resembled the Red-Blood vampires. They were pale, skinny, had white hair, sharp nails, and... yellow eyes. Several were crammed in one cell, all varying with age—from teenagers to elders. White-Bloods?

  Ashkii and Kel were thrown in the cell across from them. With nothing to say, their escorts locked the cells and went on their way—not men for idol chatter, obviously.

  Ugh, disgusting werewolves,” said Kel. “Cocky fools didn’t even strip us of our knives and longbows. They’ll pay dearly for that when we get out of here.”

  Ashkii, not knowing what to say, turned from her, studying his surroundings outside of the cell’s door.

  “It’s all because of that stupid idiot that we’re in here,” she went on. “Where did he even come from? Did you see him? How could have I allowed this to happen?” Then suddenly, she pulled out her bow, startling Ashkii as she rammed it against the rattling cell door as hard as she could—hitting it again and again, saying, “Stupid cock-sucking piece of—”

  “Quiet, Inmate!” roared a werewolf Red-Blood suddenly, ramming the cell door in front of her so hard that she fell back, startled. Then he faced Ashkii. “And you, back off the cell door.”

  Calm and collected, he did just that, eyes attentive on what the unstable Red-Blood might do next. For a moment, the Red-Blood held a fixated glare, then he jerked away, continuing his patrol.

  “Don’t draw any more attention to us,” Ashkii said to Kel without looking at her.

  She scoffed, spitting to the side.

  What came over her all of a sudden? Ashkii never pictured her as the loss-of-temper type. This girl was becoming more and more unpredictable—Ashkii didn’t like that.

  “It’s best if you just whisper, friends,” said a voice suddenly from across the hall. He was a Winterian with yellow eyes. He was a foot above Ashkii’s height. He had pale skin and short white hair and a beard. He was broad, though muscular, standing confidently tall. He had a warm look about him—a comforting glow. Ashkii was quickly drawn back towards the cell door.

  “Are you not one of them?” he asked him.

  “It depends on your meaning, friend. As a Winterian, or as a sharer of the cursed blood?”

  “Are you a White-Blood?”

  He seemed astonished to hear this. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, that’s right. I am indeed a White-Blood. You know of us? There are not many outside of Winteria who remember our kind.”

  “I’ve read about Winteria’s history. You’re a Winterian who doesn’t share the curse—the blood of Salem Valentine.”

  “That’s right. White-Bloods are Winteria’s true people, before the curse of Salem Valentine had reigned. Salem claims to have offered his people a gift—a gift that was forced upon them none the less—but a gift… that he promised would offer all his people strength, power, youth, and beauty.”

  “And you refused the gift? Which is why you’re in here?”

  “Yes. We rebel against this gift—this curse. It’s not who we are. It’s not who God intended us to be. Salem claims to have given his people power through this gift, but what this ‘gift’ has really done is given him control. All Red-Bloods share his blood. All vampires and werewolves have the blood of their king running inside them.”

  “And what of the red moon? How does that connect with all of this?”

  “Ah, you’ve seen that. The red moon is the source of Salem’s power. It is where his life-force—his blood—is contained. It is how his body retains immortality.”

  Ashkii nodded, thinking a moment to himself. Then he returned contact. “There has to be something feeding it, regenerating it. What sustains the moon from dying out like all other things?”

  “A good observation. The moon is sustained and kept running by the feeding of all those who share Salem’s blood. You see, every time a Red-Blood feeds on someone who doesn’t share the king’s blood, their blood is raised to the moon, adsorbed. Constant feeding and sacrifices not only keep the moon regenerating strong, but makes it stronger—strengthening all those who share the same blood.”

  “How is all this possible? Who could claim the moon as his or her own vessel?”

  “It is not the moon itself. The red moon was artificiality created by the king’s court wizard, Oztior. But it was not formed by his hands, but through the summoning of a great and powerful demon. Killing Oztior will not stop the curse. It will not stop the moon’s blood regeneration. The only way to end Salem’s immortality is by destroying the moon itself—for it is the moon that holds his life-force.”

  “Even if I was to destroy it, how would such a thing be possible?”

  The man shrugged, shaking his head. “You got me,” he said. “I don’t know. But if you find out, you let me know, yeah?”

  “Assuming we make it out of here.”

  He winked, a smile brimming on his face—this confused Ashkii. “Worry not, friend. There is a power above that is always in control.”

  Ashkii didn’t understand what he meant by that, but he left the bars, finding a place against the wall to sit. He curved a glance Kel’s way. She seemed preoccupied with something else. Her attention was focused outside the cell door, like she was waiting for something. Noticing his gaze, she faced him, Ashkii then turning away.

  “Sorry if I had seemed… irritable,” she said. “I am not good when I’m not in control of something either.”

  Confused with her meaning, his attention returned to her. “Either?”

  “We have much in common—you and I. We share a lot of the same history… and tragedy.”

  “You know nothing of me.”

  “I know what I’ve learned… and what I see is familiar.”

  Before voicing his reply, he lost thought of it after hearing what she said. So instead, he shook his head, turning away. Kel studied his reaction, seemingly intrigued.

  Suddenly, they heard s
omeone racing down the dungeon hall. The Red-Blood from earlier—he’d seemed to be in a rush getting to the dungeon door. “What are you, deaf?” he asked the Red-Bloods posted there. “Move it, you imbeciles! Do you not hear the alarm sounding?”

  The two guards faced each other, puzzled. This made the impatient Red-Blood even more furiously impatient. “Exactly right,” one of the guards replied to him. “I hear nothing.”

  “Me neither,” the other agreed, crossing his arms, facing the impatient Red-Blood. “What are you on about?”

  “For the hope of Seasons, clean out your ears then! Those blaring howls were so loud I can feel them ringing. Now move!”

  The guards, facing each other, were still confused. But with the other so persistent and assertive, they left their posts and rushed out the door with him—The dungeon had quickly become vacant of watchmen.

  It was unfortunate that the Red-Bloods had seized Ashkii’s quiver where his arrows were held, (knowing that they couldn’t touch the arrows themselves). It had seemed that they were smart enough to know that with a Spirit Arrow, Ashkii could have shattered the cell lock. This present time would have been the opportune moment to act while the werewolves were out of the vicinity.

  Aside from his and Kelanassa’s quiver of arrows, the Red-Bloods hadn’t collected any of their other items and weapons. Strange of them, Ashkii thought. Were they that unintimidated? That confident in their own strength and security?

  Ashkii faced Kel who met eye contact with him. “Any thoughts come to mind for our escape?” he asked her.

  Before she had a moment to respond, the dungeon door suddenly burst open, loud, obnoxious Red-Bloods piling in—but all of them were vampires this time around. They had the same accents as the ones back at the tavern—carrying drinks and vulgarly seducing each other. Fooling around like a bunch of raunchy teenagers, males and females rammed their partners against cell doors, kissing and stripping each other. A couple did this in front of the White-Bloods, and another in front of Ashkii and Kel’s cell. They were all so bold and intoxicated that they left themselves vulnerably available for any of the armed prisoners to strike. Did they not care or were they somehow certain that the prisoners wouldn’t act? Or were they simply fools?