by Greg Curtis
Everyone who had had a hand in Elwene’s death would suffer and die for it. That was his vow. But first he had to know who they were. Every name and every action they had taken. All of them.
Finell checked the camp site out carefully before he risked making a move, making sure that everyone was down, that no one was left untouched by the poison. Even one brigand with a sword could ruin all his plans. But as he hunted and hunted through the camp site, he could see no one still standing. Thirty two men, he counted them. All of them down, writhing in their bedrolls, dying slowly. All of them had drunk the ale, and all of them were down. But it was only what he’d expected. They were celebrating. They were spending their gold from whatever foul deed they’d last committed, and they had no clue that they were being hunted. Even here in the human lands.
Why would any of them have refused the ale? They wouldn’t have. Not unless they knew it was poisoned. And if they’d known that then none of them would have drunk it, and the chances were that the innkeeper would already be hanging by his fingernails somewhere as they tortured him to death.
After a good long time lying in the undergrowth looking over the camp, and finding nothing other than it should have been, Finell gathered his nerve and cautiously stood up, revealing himself.
No one came running for him. No arrows came his way. None of the seemingly ill suddenly got up and drew their weapons. They just lay there, dying slowly and painfully. None of them even noticed him.
Then, when he took his first few careful steps out into the clearing and still nothing happened, he let himself breathe quietly again. If it was an ambush, it was a good one. If they were acting, they knew how to play their parts.
He took a few more steps, and with each one his confidence grew. Though he was still tense, ready to sprint for the safety of the trees at the first hint of trouble.
Soon Finell was almost at the bed rolls, and he could smell the sickness. He could smell the piss of grown men unable to walk, losing control of their bladders. Losing control of their bowels as well. He could smell the aroma of unwashed clothes and stale sweat. Though the chances were that they didn’t wash that often anyway.
“You!” Taking his courage in his hands Finell kicked the foot of the nearest brigand, and got nothing back. The man didn’t even notice him, caught up in his agony as he was. But some of the others did.
“Help!” They called out to him from their deathbeds. They begged him to find the town healer. A few even tried to stand, to get him to bring them into town and the apothecary. But they couldn’t stand. And though they didn’t know it, the apothecary couldn’t have helped them. Only death would bring them the release from suffering that they so craved. There was no cure.
Save for that poxy envoy.
The sudden memory of that troubled him. There was no known cure for the poison, and yet someone had obviously found one. And if their leader was truly a ranger as they claimed, then he might be familiar with many herbs and potions. If any of these men knew a cure, or of someone who might know of one, it was him. But he lay in his tent, crying out as loudly as any of them. Unless it was a ruse. The thought took hold of his mind. It could be a trick.
The town folk had whispered that Anders was a ranger, and rangers were supposed to be smart as well as wary. Their senses as sharp as those of the wolves that ran with them. A common soldier might not think that his ale was poisoned, but a ranger was sharper than that.
Yet he still cried out in pain from his tent. And he had done so long before he had surely guessed that Finell was spying on him. If it was an act, it was a good one. Worthy of a true street performer. Besides, would he have let his own men be poisoned?
“Anders.” Finell called out for him, letting the brigand know that he was there, ready to sprint for the safety of the forest at the first sign that he was not as sick as his men. But there was no sign. He called again and heard only more groaning.
Cautiously Finell approached the tent, his knife out before him, just in case, and his feet making no sound on the grass. And then when he was close enough that he could reach out and open the tent, he used its blade to push the flap aside just a little.
Inside the tent he found the leader, just as sick as all the rest of his men, and just as foul. He too stank of piss and sweat. He too lay on his bed roll, crying out as his joints burnt. And he too scarcely noticed him when Finell pushed the flap all the way open and entered. It wasn’t a trick.
Once he was inside, Finell took a few moments to study him. To take in the sight of his enemy. Of the man who had so brutally murdered his beloved sister. And he knew a goodly amount of pleasure at the sight of his suffering. But there was more to come. Unbeknown to the scar faced man, he had some more plans for him. More suffering for him to endure before death finally claimed his soul. A lot more suffering.
“Anders.” He called his name gently as if he knew him, and when he didn’t respond at first, called him again and again until finally he saw some sign of awareness in him.
“Get up.” Of course he couldn’t get up. He couldn’t do much more than lie there and moan. But still he opened his eyes and looked at him.
“Who are you?” In answer Finell simply lowered his hood and let his ears stick out from the mud caked mess that was his hair.
“An elf.” The big man let his disgust show even through his pain. “I’m sick and an elf annoys me. Miserable poxy fate. What do you want elf?”
“You’re dying. And soon you’ll be dead.” Finell enjoyed telling him that. He enjoyed seeing the look of horror appearing on the big man’s face. It was always the same. The bigger and stronger a man was, the safer he felt on the battlefield, and the more frightened he was when he could see his time coming off it. This one was huge. He was powerful. And he had thought he was invincible. And now he couldn’t yet understand that his end was coming, and that there was nothing he could do about it.
“What?” It was early in the poison’s cycle yet. The man still had his wits left to him, even though Finell had not been sparing with the witchbane. That was good since he needed him to answer some questions before he died. And then he wanted him to suffer for as long as possible before death claimed him.
“How do you know?”
“The sages surely told you that too much ale was bad for you. They were right. There was poison, in the ale.” Finell could not keep a broad grin from his face as he said it, though it possibly gave too much away. The big man stared at him, understanding slowly appearing in his eyes.
“You! Elf spawn! You did this!” He sounded angry, almost to the point of screaming, and Finell knew that if he’d been able he would have killed him then and there. But he wasn’t able and instead he had to settle for shouting and clenching his useless fists between cries of pain.
“Who are you sharp ear? Why did you do this?” He didn’t recognise him Finell realised. Even though he had seen him several times. But then he had only been the boy behind the inn’s bar who had brought them all their drinks, and the next day carried out the barrels to their camp site. He wouldn’t remember that. He wouldn’t remember anyone so insignificant. Finell understood the man only too well.
“Just a friend.” Finell smiled sweetly at the brigand, but his smile was a lie. Even the man slowly dying of witchbane poisoning surely knew that. “But a friend who can ease your pain. For a price even end it. I can let you live. But I really don’t want to.”
“And you really couldn’t.” The big man spat the accusation out as hatred suddenly filled him. He tried to get up, tried to reach for his sword, but he couldn’t. His body simply wouldn’t let him, and instead the effort caused him to cry out in pain a little more before he collapsed back on to his bedroll, gasping.
“Your master wouldn’t let you. I knew I should have killed that black hearted little runt in the city when I had the chance. We could have fought our way out of the realm. We could have waded though the blood of his pathetic little soldiers without trouble. Elves! Treacherous, foul blood
ed, little creatures. Vermin of the forest.” He spat at him, but his spittle missed Finell by a good couple of paces.
But that wasn’t what he cared about. Not when he’d heard the brigand almost name his master. And especially not when he’d all but said that that master was an elf. The very idea shocked Finell, and he wanted desperately to deny it. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be true. And yet the brigand had no reason to lie.
“Oh but I think you couldn’t.” Finell stalled for time as he couldn’t think what to say, and he desperately wanted to know who had given this foul creature the order to hurt Elwene.
“Really elf!” The big man spat at him again, and missed by an even wider mark. Maybe his sight was already starting to fail. “We killed his entire troop when they thought they were getting ready to ambush us. We cut their heads off. Sixty of his finest soldiers, and they were little more than children with toy swords.”
“And then when I told him what we had done to his precious soldiers, he nearly wet himself in front of me. A coward as well as a fool.”
“So how did he explain that little failure to his most exalted high lord anyway? Or didn’t he have to? He did say once before after we killed the stupid little brat’s parents that he could twist that runt any way he wanted.”
“And how did he explain the price? A full jar of moon silver. Three full weights of gold pieces. Surely he had to empty the treasury to pay for us.”
Finell stood there almost rooted to the ground. His entire world seemed to go black somehow, and it was as though the floor was opening up beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole. This man had killed his parents? And his sister? For the longest time he stood there, unable to think, his mouth simply hanging open.
And the worst of it was that he knew who his master had to be. It couldn’t be him. But it had to be.
Y’aris! It was a nightmare. His closest advisor. His protector. The one who had saved him from all those enemies. His friend for so many years. And yet he was also a traitor. A betrayer. A demon follower. It all made no sense and yet it also made perfect sense.
Finell felt as though he’d just fallen into a pit of darkness. A well of despair. His misery grew as bit by bit he slowly understood it all.
Y’aris hadn’t fled simply because he’d been driven from the town. He’d feared the trial. He’d fled because he had done all those things the elders’ said he had. He hadn’t hired demon worshippers by some sort of accident. He worshipped the same demon. He hadn’t defended him from enemies, he’d created enemies out of his friends and even his family, and then killed them. And all those dead bodies, they were innocent elves. He’d destroyed his family, murdered them, all of them, and with each new death moved a little closer to him. He’d lied to him. Every day, every hour, every second he’d lied to him.
It was a long time before Finell realised that the brigand was talking to him, calling him names, abusing him, and a lot longer before he could pay him any attention. And then he didn’t want to. All he wanted to do was take his knife and stick it through the big man’s heart. Again and again and again. But that would be too quick. And first there was one thing that he needed to know. He waited for the brigand to ask.
“Elf, you said you could stop this. What do you want?”
“Want? Me? Why should I want anything from you? After all, what have you got to offer?”
“Coin, gold and moon silver, services that no others can undertake. Whatever you want.”
“You can tell me where your master walks.”
“Walks? That black hearted runt doesn’t walk anywhere. He rides with his servants, a few puny soldiers and those foul priests. We saw him a few days back, riding among them, his face a veil of anger. He rode south on the old copper trail, but where he rides too I don’t know.”
“Priests?”
“Grey cloaked men. Wrapped from head to foot in grey. Their faces masked. Hands covered in leather. Feet wrapped up in leather bindings. And they carry whips instead of true weapons.”
“Inquisitors!” It could only be them, and Y’aris had been very insistent that they hire them as he recalled. But priests? That didn’t seem right to him. Unless they were priests to the demon he followed. But it made sense. He hadn’t hired them as inquisitors at all. He’d simply brought his master’s servants into the city so that they could work his evil with him. All while he lied to him and told him that they would find his enemies. They hadn’t. They’d betrayed his friends. His family. His house. They were his enemies.
All those people dead. All innocent as the elders had said. All lies from Y’aris. And all given freely to his demon serving kin by him. Y’aris had lied to him and like a fool he’d believed him. And because of that he’d turned against his own people. His family. The elders had spoken the truth. Every word.
“My master? Not yours?” The brigand had finally realised something of the truth. Something of why Finell had poisoned him.
“So he’s your enemy, and you want him. I can get him for you. I can track them. Lead you straight to him. Their horses’ hooves marked the trail south very clearly.”
“I can track them myself.” It might have been many years since Finell had done his training in the wilds, but he still knew enough he thought. And in any case the brigand would be dead soon.
“Not like me. And even if you found them, what could you do against his forces? You are alone after all. Aren’t you? Poison is never the weapon of soldiers. And you will need soldiers to kill him. Soldiers like us.”
“I seem to be doing well enough don’t you think?” Finell mocked him, and wasn’t at all surprised to see the flash of pure hatred on his enemy’s face. “After all I got you and all your men.”
Anders screamed then, a sound of anguish and rage. A sound that pleased Finell more than he could have imagined. But the brigand controlled himself soon enough as he knew he had to fight for his life. Or at least he thought he could save his life.
“Y’aris doesn’t seem the sort to drink ale. And his priests, they don’t seem the sort to drink at all. There is something wrong with them. Something not quite of the living.” But what did a man dying in agony truly know of the living? All he really knew was that he didn’t want to die. And he hoped Finell might save him. There was no hope. And since he had told him nearly all he needed to know, there was little point in letting him believe he had a chance.
“There is no cure.” Finell spat on the big man as he writhed in agony on his bedroll in front of him. “But for the knowledge of his path I can take your mind off the pain of the poison for a bit.” He drew his belt knife carefully, concealing it in his sleeve so that he wouldn’t see, already knowing what he wanted to do. What he needed to do. For justice for his sister if nothing else. It could be the only righteous act he would perform in his entire life.
“Please. Anything.” The scar-faced brigand was in no position to argue, and he knew it. But he also didn’t understand. He still thought Finell might do something for him if he gave him what he asked for.
“Then close your eyes and pray.” Unbelievably the big man did just that, though Finell had to wonder which god he prayed to. One of the humans’ nine divines? The Mother? Or more likely some demon. But it didn’t matter as he saw his enemy lying there, completely helpless before him, and he knew that his moment had come.
He raised his knife high above his head in both hands, and then with every hate filled muscle and tendon in his body he brought it down straight into the man’s groin, tearing his entire manhood free with a single lusty blow.
The big man screamed. An ear piercing shriek that would have woken the dead. A sound that warmed Finell’s soul. And then he shrieked some more as he bucked and writhed and finally brought his hands down to the gash between his legs. He would have reached for him if Finell hadn’t backed away, and maybe harmed him. But no amount of rage and hatred would let him reach him. After that he fell back and screamed a lot more, all while Finell stood there and watched. And most importantly,
while no one from the rest of the camp came rushing to his aid.
In time the screaming stopped, and instead he actually began crying. For the pain, for the loss of his manhood, or maybe even in fear of the darkness coming, Finell didn’t know which, and he didn’t really care. It was enough that he suffered. That he suffered as no man before him.
“Why?” It was little more than a whisper. Between the poison and the blood loss he probably didn’t have that much strength left. But he had enough to ask. And Finell had a need to tell him.
“Because that young woman that you raped and murdered was my sister.! Because those two parents that you killed, were my parents.! And because you need to go to the underworld screaming in agony for your evil!. So that you can be gnawed on for eternity by the demons and know that it is what you deserve.”
It should have been a victory, and in a way it was. The understanding slowly growing in the brigand’s eyes was heart warming, as was the fear behind it. But it still didn’t bring back his sister. It didn’t undo what had been done to her. And it didn’t bring back his parents either. The world was dark and cold and this little spark of warmth would not last him long he knew. But maybe when he found Y’aris and did the same to him, it would last a little longer. And in the end, that was all he had left.