Blood Mercenaries Origins

by Ben Wolf

  As Elegy approached, Ghazal groped for him with his free hand until he got ahold of Elegy’s forearms.

  “Sift them both, Elegy,” Ghazal said. “You are the last Xyonate in Sefera.”

  Elegy glanced at them, his face blank.

  “Sift them,” Ghazal repeated, his voice breaking. He wouldn’t last much longer, not with most of his blood covering Ferne. “Xyon demands their blood. You are the finest Xyonate I have ever known. You must avenge our sect. You must deliver their souls to Xyon. This is my final command to you. Sift them, Elegy.”

  Ghazal’s grip faltered, and he slumped to the floor, barely breathing.

  Elegy crouched down next to him, studied him for a brief moment, then drove his knife into Ghazal’s chest. Ghazal convulsed once, then he went still.

  Elegy pulled the knife out and stood, facing Mehta and Ferne.

  Mehta ushered Ferne behind him. If sifting Elegy were to be his last act, then he would do it with the same dedication as when he’d sifted for Xyon.

  But he wouldn’t be doing it for Xyon, nor would he do it for Laeri. He would do it for Ferne, and he would do it for himself.

  Only Elegy stood between them and their escape, between Mehta and the cratered mountain that marked his homeland. Between Mehta and freedom from the Xyonates, once and for all. Between Mehta and avenging his family’s demise.

  Whether he lived or died, that freedom was assured, but if he failed to defeat Elegy, Ferne would perish as well. Mehta couldn’t let that happen. Not after Rulfran’s sacrifice. Not after Elanil’s bitter accusations. Ferne deserved to live, and Mehta would ensure that she did.

  He approached Elegy, his knife poised, his thirst heightened. Maybe Elegy’s blood would finally sate him.

  “Hold.” Elegy raised his right hand, still holding his knife in it with his thumb, but extending his fingers as if to halt Mehta’s progress.

  Mehta stopped. He didn’t know why, but he stopped.

  “I will not fight you,” Elegy said.

  Mehta studied him. “Why not?”

  “Any order whose leader can be slain by a small girl is not worthy of my loyalty,” Elegy replied. “I will continue to serve Xyon, but I will not do it here. The Xyonates of Sefera are no more.”

  Mehta didn’t lower his guard. This could still be a trap. “You swore that as long as you served Xyon, you would pursue me to death.”

  “Ghazal’s unworthiness severed me from my oath. He can no longer direct my blade. Thus, you are no longer my enemy, nor are you my commission.” Elegy pointed his knife past Mehta, at Ferne. “That girl stripped Ghazal of his power with the knife in her hand. In the end, she is more of a Xyonate than he was.”

  “She will never be a Xyonate if I have any say in things.”

  Elegy nodded. “A pity. She could become a cunning sifter someday.”

  Mehta said nothing. He’d been where Ferne was now, a small child teetering on the edge of two lives. He would do everything he could to ensure that she didn’t fall into the wrong one.

  Something cracked above them, and both Mehta and Elegy recoiled.

  The fire had entirely engulfed the ceiling. The wooden crossbeams overhead burned with bright flames. It was only a matter of time before the ceiling collapsed. Even if it didn’t, the flames would soon be visible to much of Sefera, if they weren’t already. Escaping would prove much harder with all the added attention.

  Mehta faced Ferne and extended his free hand. “We need to leave now.”

  When Mehta turned back to Elegy, he was already gone.

  Mehta smirked, tugged Ferne’s hand, and as they fled the fiery altar room, Mehta retrieved his knives. Still dubious of Elegy’s sincerity, Mehta scanned every corner and every shadow of the temple as they hurried to escape.

  But he was nowhere to be found. Despite it all, Elegy had never lied to Mehta, and he hadn’t lied this time, either.

  On their way out, they headed down to the store room to retrieve the supplies and money they’d set aside. Then they slipped into the cold streets of Sefera, leaving the burning monument to Laeri behind them.

  Two weeks later, the familiar sight of the cratered mountain loomed in the distance. It sat between two taller peaks of similar height, both of them pointed, jagged, and topped with snow. A valley ran between the peaks, decorated with the vivid oranges and yellows of late autumn.

  Mehta could hardly believe his eyes. It looked just like he remembered.

  “Is that it?” Excitement lined Ferne’s voice.

  Mehta nodded and looked down at her. “That’s it. Come on. We’re almost there.”

  Together, they descended into the valley.

  From what Mehta could remember, the village hadn’t changed much since he’d left so many years prior. The same wooden buildings lined the cobblestone streets, and brown-skinned people like him still plied their trades, eking out livings wherever and however they could.

  Rugged people. Robust people. Mountain people.

  His people.

  The setting sun had just reached the peaks of the mountains behind them. As far as Mehta knew, the village was safe enough at night, apart from the occasional wolf or bear that wandered into town in search of prey gone astray from its owners—chickens, pigs, goats, or in rare cases, small children.

  Ferne lagged behind him by a step, weary from the constant travel since they’d left Sefera, but they’d made it. She could rest for as long as she wanted once they found somewhere to stay for the night.

  As they walked, Mehta recognized a familiar, sturdy dwelling made of pine and stone. Its location, its look, the trees around it, and the landscape in the background—he knew it all. This dwelling had been his home.

  When he’d left, his parents lay facedown in a puddle of muddy blood in front of the house. The soldiers in black armor had killed them, and Mehta hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. He’d sifted countless other parents since then, himself.

  What’s more, he was responsible, at least in part, for the deaths of Rulfran and Elanil. He’d done what he could to make it up to Ferne by avenging their deaths, but he’d also tried to spare her from unnecessary carnage in the process.

  But even so, Ferne was no longer fully innocent. She’d slain Ghazal. Yes, she’d done it in desperation, as a means of defending herself, but she’d done it nonetheless. It didn’t matter that Elegy had delivered the final blow. Ferne had ensured Ghazal’s death. She had sifted him.

  “Is this…?” Ferne looked up at him.

  Mehta nodded. “My home.”

  He stepped up to the door and rapped on it.

  He had lived here with his parents, grandparents, and his infant sister. His grandparents had been old when he’d been taken, but to his knowledge, the soldiers wearing the three-horned ram sigil had left them alive. If they had survived this many years, then perhaps—

  The door opened, and a young, brown-skinned woman with long black hair stared at Mehta from the doorway.

  For the first time in twenty years, Mehta remembered his mother’s face. This woman’s appearance was almost a perfect match, except thinner and younger.

  Was this his younger sister? Mehta couldn’t even remember her name.

  “What do you want?” The young woman glanced at Ferne, whose pale skin and blonde hair stood out against the village’s brown-skinned population.

  What should Mehta say? What could he say?

  “I…” he started. “I used to live here. Many years ago.”

  The young woman stared at him.

  “You look so much like…” Little things came back to Mehta—his memory of her bearing, the way she stood, the way she moved. This young woman demonstrated all of that, almost as if she were a mirror version of his mother.

  Mehta’s throat seized. He hadn’t allowed himself any semblance of real emotion in so long, so the sensation of profound sadness and the possibility of recovering some of what he’d lost caught him off guard.

  He finished, “…so much like my m
other.”

  The young woman recoiled at first, then she squinted at him. “Who are you?”

  “My name is—” He stopped. He’d almost said, “Requiem.” Instead, he said, “My name is Mehta. This used to be my home. My parents were killed many years ago, and I was taken away.”

  “You are Mehta?” The young woman shook her head and glanced at Ferne again. “That is impossible.”

  Mehta shook his head. “I am Mehta. I am alive. I have come home.”

  A man’s scratchy voice from inside called, “Who is it?”

  “No one, Grandfather,” the woman said.

  “Grandfather is alive?” Mehta’s heart jumped in his chest.

  The woman stiffened in the doorway, on edge. “I think you need to go.”

  Mehta’s heart sank. “No… I can’t leave. This was my home once. You have no idea what I’ve endured to get back.”

  “I don’t know you, and everything you’ve said is common knowledge around here,” she said. “Please go.”

  As the woman moved to close the door, a wizened, white-haired head emerged from the darkness behind her. A familiar face appeared in the doorway next to the woman’s. Mehta’s grandfather.

  Mehta wanted to speak, to call out to him, but given the woman’s final words to him, he knew that the only way he’d progress any further would be if Grandfather recognized him. It would take a miracle, but it was all he had at this point.

  The woman stepped aside, and Grandfather’s withered form filled the doorway. He squinted at Mehta and studied him up and down.

  Mehta held his breath and pleaded with Laeri for favor.

  Chapter Ten

  “Mehta?” Grandfather’s eyes opened wide. “Have you returned to us as a ghost, or are you yet made of flesh and bone?”

  Mehta’s mouth hung open, and it curled into a smile. He lunged forward, arms wide, and wrapped his grandfather in a tight hug. It was an impulse, an urge he would normally not gratify. He’d been trained to ignore impulses unless they would save his life or grant him an advantage.

  Then again, perhaps that’s why he’d done it now.

  The old man returned Mehta’s embrace, patting him on his back. When Mehta finally let go, Grandfather held him by his shoulders and looked him up and down.

  “What has become of you, my boy?”

  Mehta’s words caught in his throat, but he finally replied, “It’s a long story.”

  Grandfather nodded and motioned toward the young woman who once again stood in the doorway. “This is your sister, Palomi.”

  Palomi. Now he remembered her name. She’d been an infant when he was taken. The Xyonate training had not only stripped him of nearly his entire identity but also most of his early memories.

  Even so, what few intact memories he still harbored had returned him home to the last of his kin. For all his divine power, Xyon had failed to fully consume Mehta’s being.

  Mehta wanted to embrace her as well, but she still stared at him with skepticism in her dark eyes. He wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded to her instead.

  Then her eyes softened, and her posture relaxed. “If Grandfather recognizes you, that is good enough for me… for now. Welcome home.”

  She opened her arms and beckoned him forward.

  Emotion welled in Mehta’s chest. Everything within him resisted it, fought it, beat it back, but for the first time since the soldiers had taken him so many years earlier, he realized he didn’t have to quell his emotions anymore.

  Tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he stopped fighting them. Instead, he let them flow as he embraced his little sister for the first time in his life.

  That night, they all shared a grand feast of elk meat, roasted vegetables, and wild rice, paid for out of the plunder Mehta had taken from the Temple of Laeri. Palomi had prepared the food, and Grandfather had roasted it over the open fire pit behind their house.

  With full bellies, they retired to the pinewood furniture and down-filled pillows in the modest common room. As Mehta, his grandfather, and Palomi discussed Mehta’s life with the Xyonates and his subsequent escape from it, Ferne fell asleep, curled up on a large cushion in front of the glowing hearth.

  Palomi recoiled in reaction to Mehta’s stories, but Grandfather just nodded with a sad, knowing expression on his face. When Mehta finished describing the final battle at the Temple of Laeri, Grandfather spoke first.

  “I am sorry you have endured such a harsh, violent upbringing. I must admit, I do not entirely know what to make of you upon hearing what you have just shared.”

  Mehta glanced between Grandfather and Palomi. “If you’re worried I mean to do you harm…”

  Grandfather waved his hand. “If you had meant to sift us, as you say, I am certain you already would have done it. What concerns me is your ongoing thirst for more death. A thirst that, by your own admission, is somewhat unpredictable.”

  “I am learning how to manage it.” Mehta nodded toward Ferne, still asleep before the fire. “Ferne’s father, and Ferne herself, have helped me in that regard.”

  Palomi had been quiet for most of the evening, but she finally said, “She seems like a good child.”

  “She is,” Mehta agreed. “The things she has seen in her young life rival those of mine. I had hoped she would be safe here.”

  “I pray that she will find respite here among the mountains,” Grandfather started, “but the reality is that life here is hard for everyone. Yes, we can hunt and gather and grow a few crops where the soil will cooperate, and timber is plentiful, but we are not without enemies.”

  The soldiers in black. The three-horned ram sigil.

  Mehta asked, “Are they the same soldiers who took me all those years ago?”

  “The very same.” Grandfather glanced between them. “They have afflicted us since before either of you were born.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Lord Valdis’s men,” Palomi replied.

  Mehta glanced between them.

  “Lord Blayne Valdis rules a province of Xenthan, the country beyond the cratered mountain.” Grandfather pointed vaguely in the direction of the mountain, even though the house’s walls obscured it from view. “His men regularly raid the border towns and villages of Etrijan.”

  “What about Etrijan’s army? Don’t they protect the border?” Mehta asked.

  Grandfather shook his head. “The nearest fortress is fifty miles from here, and the nearest outpost is thirty. They can’t be bothered. Xenthan and Etrijan share friendly relations, so a little raiding and extortion here and there is overlooked. But make no mistake—it was Valdis’s men who slew your parents and took you away.”

  Mehta exhaled a silent, furious breath. It was bad enough that Lord Valdis’s men had altered the course of his life forever, but it enraged him that even now, decades later, they were still harassing this tiny village.

  “Why has no one stopped them? Why haven’t the able men in this village taken action?”

  “The last time anyone stood up to them was the day your parents were killed,” Grandfather said. “And it was your father who led them.”

  Mehta’s mouth opened. It all made sense now. They’d killed his father and mother as examples, and they’d taken him away as well.

  But they’d left Palomi there. Upon reflection, taking her would have proven troublesome; they couldn’t care for an infant or effectively sell one into service like they could with a young boy.

  And they’d left Mehta’s grandparents behind as well, and they’d left them alive. No point leaving an infant girl behind without someone to care for her.

  Ultimately, Lord Valdis and his men robbed Mehta of the chance to know his family. But in doing so, they’d inadvertently turned him into the most dangerous person they would ever encounter. And he intended to encounter them sooner rather than later.

  “You said he lives beyond the mountain,” Mehta said. “Where?”

  Grandfather squinted at him. “What are you scheming, Mehta?”


  “I mean to bring this Lord Valdis and his men a reckoning.”

  Grandfather shook his head. “He is a dark sorcerer, and his men are ruthless, skilled fighters. It is a fool’s errand.”

  “Then I am a fool.” Mehta hadn’t dealt with any sorcerers in his time as a Xyonate, but they had to be made of blood and bone like anyone else.

  “What do you hope to achieve?” Grandfather asked. “Vengeance will not resurrect your parents, nor will it salve your wounded spirit.”

  For all Mehta knew, Grandfather hadn’t killed anyone, ever. Even if he had, Mehta had certainly sifted many more. In this area, Mehta favored his experience over his grandfather’s wisdom. “Even if it does not, perhaps it will keep the remainder of my family safe.”

  Palomi glared at him. “You cannot keep us safe by leaving. We need you here. If you were truly my brother, you would understand that.”

  Her words dug into Mehta’s gut, as painful as Lament’s knife back in the alley in Sefera, but he didn’t hold them against her. She would never comprehend what he’d endured, no matter how thoroughly he explained his life to her.

  Palomi had likely never even ventured out of this valley. She didn’t know how the world worked, how dangerous it was, how tyrants preyed on the weak—until someone stopped them. The Xyonates had been one of many tools utilized by those in power to keep their power. Now it was time to turn those tools against them.

  “At best, cutting off a tree’s branches yields a warm fire for a night. At worst, it means a mess to clean up, and more branches will grow in the place of those cut off.” Mehta said. “But when you cut down the entire tree, no branches can regrow.”

  Palomi and Grandfather stared at him.

  “This Lord Valdis is the tree,” Mehta continued. “We can fight and resist his soldiers—the branches—indefinitely, but he can always send more. The only way to end these raids is to strike at the root of the problem.”

  “And what of her?” Palomi nodded toward Ferne, who still slept on her cushion before the hearth. “What role will she play in your fool’s errand?”