by Sohan Ahmad
Without the wind to guide the Wind’s sight, a maze of leaves and branches harassed his every step. Stay patient. He reminded himself, sniffing like a seasoned hound. I am almost there. Before the sun had begun its descent, he arrived at the end of the scarlet trail to hear the hunter’s whistling.
“Welcome, Saint,” the deadly Drake stated with a smirk, sitting atop a crippled log as he finished wrapping his wounded leg. “For a moment, I feared that I had misjudged your love for this boy.”
“Where is Tyr?” Zephyrus asked, aiming his crippled sight towards the point of his nose.
“The loudmouthed brat is unharmed,” the hunter answered, pulling tight the cloth on his wound. “Your disciple has no respect. I was forced to tether both his wrists and his loud mouth for his own safety. What have you been teaching him?”
“Release him,” Zephyrus commanded, ignoring the hunter’s rant. “You care more about my blade than his life, it is clear.”
“Truth rings in your words,” the Saint hunter admitted. “I have no desire to fulfill a rich brat’s contract, however; I cannot oblige. Sebastian…Apologies, Tyr will not be allowed to interfere with our battle. I want you focused,” he claimed. “Kill me, and the boy is yours once more.”
Neither moved as a chilled swirl of scattered leaves swam through the air like a school of green and auburn fish. Shortly thereafter, the first veiny blade touched the earth, and the two sword gods unsheathed, exchanging a series of vicious blows. Like an intricate dance, their steel clashed, weaving a mural of light throughout the sunless, woodland cage, summoning once frightened creatures from their dens.
With each attack, Zephyrus found his footing less and less familiar until finally, his back crashed into a pillar of bark. The Crimson Swordsman would not allow such a blessing to slip from his grasp. He seamlessly drew Sting, the third of six from his hip, like a flaming arrow toward the blind Saint’s head, hoping to skewer him to the tree. It was a slender needle of twisted, hardened ivory that had belonged to the fallen northern Saint of Thrust.
Zephyrus staggered to his left, avoiding death by the ivory needle’s breadth, only to feel a wolf-skin boot hammer his gut. As the Wind buckled to the soil, the hunter pounced like a jungle cat, seamlessly switching between Dominion Blades as he blotted out what little light seeped in through the clouds of leaves and branches.
His fangs nearly reached, but the Saint rolled right and jumped to his feet. Zephyrus retaliated with a crescent moon of ivory malice that decimated the space in front of him. Yet to his surprise, a slender cedar pole dangled between them, shaving his blade’s godlike speed just enough for the hunter to keep his head. Eviscerated chips of wood floated through the slowed vacuum of air, drinking in the splatter from the drifter’s dripping chest.
Still tethered, Tyr watched helplessly as the crimson demon bathed in fortune’s favor. He struggled to break free from bondage, tearing through flesh as taut vines seared his wrists and ankles. This is my fault! If only I had listened. I have to escape! He chewed through the cloth that covered his mouth, twisting and digging his wrists against his restraints, but the offer of trickling blood was not enough to release him. Before he could curse the gods for his weakness, the Crimson Swordsman vanished from sight. “Master, above you!”
Tyr! “I’m coming,” Zephyrus answered, losing the scent of his target.
“You dare ignore me!” the hunter shouted from high above with furled brow, launching an ivory bolt of lightning toward the Wind.
The wind! Zephyrus felt the air above him twist, raising his sword just in time to meet the incoming Dominion Blade. I’ve gotten slow. Despite the Saint’s best efforts, Sting managed to scrape away a chunk of his flesh. The Wind inhaled slow, heavy breaths of ever cooling autumn air as bitter, thick sweat oozed from his pores. It seems time has no patience for an old warrior. I need to free Tyr while I am still able.
Mounting wounds broke his focus once more as Tyr called out, “Don’t step back!” Yet again, it was an instant too late as the hooded hunter knocked the Saint into a patch of barbed bushes.
Thin, emerald needles pierced the hobbled old sword’s exposed neck and palms, twisting his face in a grimace. He struggled back to his feet to the tune of the Crimson demon’s cackle. “Oh, God of Wind, you can barely stand. It pains me to see you so weak and wretched. If you request it of me, I can grant mercy.”
Zephyrus spat out a clump of blood from his mouth in disgust. “Gloating like an entitled child—I pity you.”
Throbbing trails of cold blood bubbled throughout the hunter’s pale skin as his crimson eyes shone like rubies dipped in fury. He delved once again into his inventory, shedding Thrash in favor of Orthos, the Iron Mirage. Suddenly, the hunter split the dual blade of refined iron that had once belonged to the western Saint of Smoke, affixing a cord to each end of the two pommels. He stalked the Saint with bloody eyes, whistling his song of murder.
With each step, he spun iron into blur. The slightest twirl of his wrist sent arrows of black death toward Zephyrus. What little trace of wind that trickled in between the trees guided him narrowly out of danger. However, each escape would sacrifice flesh in protection of heart and throat, for it was all he could do to survive in his withered state.
Aggressive yet never reckless, the hunter charged, striking Zephyrus simultaneously with both blades. The Wind raised Gale in defense, thwarting the dual attack, but without hesitation, the Crimson Swordsman relinquished grip on iron, unleashing another of his trophies with fierce speed.
Again, the wind steered the Wind’s hand, but in that fraction of an instant, the hunter whispered a caution: “Magnificent reaction, but Razor might surprise you.” The truth of the blade was deception; it was as formless as fire, bending around ivory guard to butcher the Saint’s unguarded eye.
However, there was no time to mourn the loss of a useless organ. One after another, the hunter unleashed deadly combinations, allowing no opening for retaliation until finally, he released the last of his relics. The former eastern Saint of Waves’s Moon was a doubly curved, hiltless blade of silver steel that flew back and forth toward the Saint for a taste of his head. The flying guillotine circled the Wind like a Darakan sand shark as his forehead gleamed with a dense sweat, swirling together with warm, trickling blood. Before he could move to wipe the perspiration from his brow, a sharp retreating wind raised alert: It comes. His nerves softened like melted metal before tensing to deflect the flying blade into a slender column of bark behind him when just beyond, he smelled a familiar scent—Tyr! It was too late though for silver steel cut deep, sending the tree crashing toward the bound boy.
Tyr trembled at the sight of falling timber. However, if this was to be his end, he would not go quietly. He squirmed and jostled as fiercely as he could, nearly dislodging his joints to escape, but his efforts bore little fruit. “Master!” he cried out, praying to be saved once more. As lumber crashed, a cloud of soot and dust hovered in the air. I’m alive? The thunderous roar that Tyr expected was little more than a loud thud. “Master!” he shouted upon opening his eyes.
Zephyrus was a hunched shadow, surrounded by glimmering light. “Turn so I can cut your bindings,” he whispered, shrugging off the broken tree. His sword arm dangled limp and his spine stood crooked as thick scarlet spewed from hacking lungs. “Hurry!”
Tyr wriggled his legs, shuffling to expose his tethered wrists. With one twist of the Wind’s blade, he was released. “Master, sit, you need to rest. Give me your sword, and I’ll kill that coward,” the boy begged.
“Run, child,” Zephyrus said with a smile, shaking his head as the white of his teeth bubbled with a fierce red. “There is nothing more you can do here.”
“I won’t! I can’t!” the young Breeze argued, staring at his master’s broken body. “You’ll die if you keep fighting. Let me help you!”
“You are nothing but a burden, be gone from my sight!” Zephyrus barked. There’s no time. His warm smile turned to ice, souring the words he wis
hed he could say. “Leave and never look back, boy!”
Suddenly, a forgotten sound sang through Tyr’s mind, echoing the Wind’s warning. A woman’s voice? Who was that? Yet there was no time to dwell on such mystery. His eyes blurred with sorrow as they caught his outstretched hand fleeing from the Wind. Then, his feet began to do the same, and tears streamed forth, scattering into the wind as he fled. It’s not fair! Why am I so damn weak? He wasted his life to raise me and all I can do in return is run like a coward.
“Tyr!” With back turned, Zephyrus shouted for the entire forest to hear, lifting his heavenly blade with the one arm that remained. “Thank you for being my son and my pride!”
These heartfelt words flew across the cool current into the youth’s ears. Tears continued to trail behind Tyr’s fleeing feet, and only one thought kept him from returning: A son does not disobey his father.
As he escaped, the crimson demon emerged from the shadow of debris to reunite with his prize. Blood continued to drip from the wound in his hand as he dragged his sword tip through the freshly shaken soil, whistling his tune that hummed of murder. “You had two arms the last time I saw you, Saint.” He scanned the surroundings further. “So, you finally managed to free the boy? I hope his life was worth the cost, old man.”
The broken, battered Wind smiled, answering with the truest words he could find: “Do you know what the wind just whispered to me?”
“Do tell.” The Saint killer paused to listen. “It would be improper to deny you your last words.”
Zephyrus took no insult, smirking in response. “Though my fate ends here, the sole reason I was born into this world was to place a sword in that child’s hands. It also offered a warning. Someday, years from now, that boy will kill you and avenge me.”
“How disappointing.” The hunter dismissed his words with a snicker. “It appears that death’s approach has robbed you of sanity.”
“On the contrary,” Zephyrus remarked. “My mind has never felt so clear.” He steeled his resolve and prepared for a final stand. “Saint hunter, who are you? I should know the name of the man who seeks to bury mine.”
A tremor of veins throbbed within the hunter’s blazing eyes. “Only a coward would accept death so easily. You do not deserve to know my name!”
Though the Saint killer’s steps had slowed and his breaths hastened, the Wind had one arm. Run Tyr! Each ensuing clash of metal buckled the shattered bones in his back, slowly scraping away at the old warrior’s flesh. Don’t look back.
Meanwhile, Tyr had completed his escape from the cage of green. Once his legs stopped pumping and the breath returned to his chest, he was greeted by the caw of ravens. Oh no! Their cries were erratic and sharp, jarring loose the resolve that had allowed him to run. What have I done? What kind of son abandons his father? I have to go back. It’s not too late. I can still save him.
He wiped the drying tears from his cooled cheeks, but as he neared the gate of tall oaks, he heard a terrible scream echo through the wind. The ravens’ cries grew louder and louder. “Shut up!” Tyr shouted, charging into the forest. It’s not him, I won’t believe it. Then, without warning, a bolt of light flew toward him, whisking past his face to stab a nearby oak. Was that Gale? He hurried back to confirm his suspicions, dislodging the object from its stone sheathe. If it’s here, then Master . . .
The Crimson Swordsman appeared from the shadows of the green ocean, alive and well, whistling once again as he dangled a dripping head near his waist. A flood of memories rushed into Tyr’s head as he gazed into its lifeless eyes. “Give him back,” he mumbled. Tears of love burned his eyes, every memory gripping at his heart with a twisted strangle. “Give him back!”
The hunter did not expect to see the Breeze so soon. He did not run. Perhaps I underestimated this child. Zephyrus, you raised a worthy swordsman. Now that his task was done, the Saint Killer rested the Wind’s head atop the grass behind him. “I have taken much from you, little warrior. Hand me the sword, and out of respect for your master, I will forget the contract on your life.”
Tyr lifted Gale with both hands, squeezing tightly. The blade felt light in his hands, the grooves of the grip fitting naturally into his slender fingers as he glared at his father’s killer with cold, dead eyes. He lowered stance and drew the blade behind him as he proclaimed, “I am disciple to the Wind.” Using the power from his coiled legs, he sprang forward with no regard for his life. “I’m going to kill you or join my master, you filthy coward!”
The hooded Drake chuckled at the boy’s threat, but Tyr’s fury was pure. It sharpened his senses to a narrow point as his eyes saw only the apple of the enemy’s pale throat. Hands felt only the leather of the sword’s grip. Nose sniffed only the putrid vapor that spewed from the demon’s cracked lips. Ears heard only the beating of his own heart. Finally, lips tasted only the cold breath that slipped in and out of his lungs. Steady like Master taught me.
Time paused for an instant as he carved through air like it was never there, and the Saint slayer’s indifference quickly turned to panic. He swayed as far back as his reflexes would allow, but the blade’s gale force wind sucked him into a twister of ivory steel, slicing him from chin to brow. Blood rained down his pale cheeks like scarlet tears, and his smooth, flawless skin burst open as he grimaced in pain. His cowl flew back in his stagger, revealing a scar of burned flesh atop his pointed, pale head that screamed at the touch of the sun’s harsh light.
Fucking brat! Searing pain returned the Saint killer’s calm as he planted palm against the unbalanced boy’s face, slamming him to the earth. I was careless. The Saint killer retreated to the shade within his of hood and pressed the sole of his wolf-skin boot pressed against Tyr’s throat, trapping him like a fly caught in spider’s string. If the boy’s arms were slightly longer, I would have lost my head. He recalled the fallen Saint’s final words, shouting as if speaking directly to the scattered Wind, “He could not kill me, Zephyrus Lenalo, but he excites me!”
“Keep his name out of your mouth!” Tyr shouted back.
“You should be happy brat,” the Saint killer replied. “I have chosen not to kill you today. Train as if your life dangles on a string. One day, when you are ready, come find me, and I shall grant you the chance to avenge your master. It may take decades, but I have my hopes, just as Zephyrus did. To ensure you don’t end up as food for the worms like your master, I shall bestow a gift to forever feed your hunger for vengeance.”
“You don’t deserve to say his name, coward!” Tyr continued to thrash, spilling both fury and spit, but the hunter barely budged, dropping his head low enough for his hot breath to strangle the boy’s lungs.
“Stay still,” he warned, his bloodred pupils locked with Tyr’s sapphire blues. “Or I will hack off your limbs.”
The young Breeze finally succumbed as tears leaked down his face, watering the untrimmed grass beneath his yellow strands. “Hah, sobbing like a suckling infant,” his father’s killer cackled, like the spotted yellow dogs that roam the western deserts. “Your master would be ashamed.”
“You should kill me now,” Tyr replied, his tears drying within the heat of his pride. “Because I won’t show you mercy. I’ll hunt you to the ends of this world until I send you to hell, demon!” His eyes were bold yet steady, his words stern and without hesitation.
The Crimson Swordsman’s wide grin flattened. “Amusing.” It was the only word that slipped out before he sliced the boy’s right eye dead within its socket. Not a flinch or sound. You continue to impress me, child. With that, he finally released the boy from beneath his heel to carefully retrieve his ivory prize. “I can see now why your brother wants you dead. Since you did not relinquish the sword as asked, your life is still mine to take whenever I so choose. But rest assured that I prefer to pluck exotic fruit at their ripest,” he warned. “I will never forget this scar on my face, and I pray for your sake that you never forget yours. When we meet again, make certain that you are worthy of my respect and fear, as your
master was.” After sheathing his new blade within its gold and leather scabbard, he turned his back to whisper a confession into the wind: “Forgive my earlier rudeness, Zephyrus. My name is . . .” A strong gust washed away sound and carried his identity into the heavens as the hunter faded into the trees to retrieve his other trophy.
Tyr watched the Saint slayer vanish into the horizon with his one living eye before succumbing to exhaustion, not to rise again until chirping birds woke him the following afternoon. At first, his feet moved on instinct, hobbling toward the nearby pond as he often did after a hard day of training. The young Breeze washed the blood that created a crusted half-mask over his face, soaking his hands in silence as if he did not see that he could not see.
Once the crimson cooled from his skin, he dragged his worn and battered body into the splintered remains of his home. He’s taken everything from me. Tyr smashed through their bedding, ripped through the walls, and reduced all furniture to kindling before eventually collapsing to the wooden floor in tears. What do I do? the young Breeze lamented as he lay there on his back, gazing out into the sky through an opening in the fallen roof.
Slumber came once again, taking his mind into the darkness of twilight. There were no dreams, no nightmares, only a vast emptiness where he stood alone. Finally, at the dawn of the second day, he arose from his daze to rummage through littered books and broken shelves until he found his master’s hidden stash of coin. With sack in hand, Tyr left for Scilia, not returning until after the sun had begun its descent. He arrived with freshly wrapped linen around his crippled eye, two new blades, and a spade to dig a simple, shallow grave for his master’s headless corpse. He shoveled mounds of parched soil from earth to grass until he eventually arose from the freshly tilled pit, covered in dirt, sweat, and worms.