My benefactor discovered the same truth. That first night, when I was watching the news, there was a brief notice of a fatal robbery. The victim was the same man who had given me this watch. The police said it happened one block and mere minutes after I had met him. As he had told me, he didn’t need the chronometer anymore and, soon, neither will I.
Within five minutes I will cross this street. A moving van with failing brakes will go through the stop light and strike me. It will be a painful death, I assure you. And there is nothing I can do to avoid it.
So I ask you again, would you take this watch?
THE PRACTICE OF VENGEANCE
Kharfon stood just beyond the small clearing, his sword at ready, and gazed warily at the path before him. Above, the moon was red and full, satiated perhaps by the blood of the small party which had set out with him on this journey of vengeance. Once there had been five: Alnikov, his younger, impetuous brother; Dhanik of the flaming red hair and temper, the twins Brun and Cahrn, and himself. Five young, strong and brave warriors determined to reach the foreboding castle of the dark magician Lyvorese. To avenge the kidnapping of Kharfon’s sister.
A journey of five months it was, five months in which his friends and comrades had fallen victim to the various traps and obstacles the magician had set in their way. Brun to a winged assassin attacking from the tree tops, Dhanik to a deadfall set in an otherwise peaceful stream, his only brother to the sword of one of Lyvorese’s undead guards. Just that afternoon, Cahrn had joined the others as he fell into a spiked pit. Kharfon’s knuckles whitened on the haft of his weapon. Now he had five to avenge. He swore to the uncaring and unhearing stars that his vengeance would be total and terrible to behold.
Kharfon studied the clearing once again. The path beyond was invitingly clear. But a warning rang within him, one that had sounded several times during his journey. One that had been eerily and unerringly correct. Stepping back, he hacked off a branch from a nearby tree and tossed it well into the center of the small glade. Almost immediately he felt a tremor at his feet. Seconds later the ground erupted and the head and gaping maw of a giant whurm shot up into the air... directly below where the limb had landed. Kharfon smiled coldly as he ran into the clearing, bringing back his sword with both hands, then swinging it across and through the body of the unholy creature stretching out into the moonlight. Green ichor exploded from the profane beast, covering him with slime. The creature tried to turn its head, tried to find its prey with its senseless eyes, crushing jaws. Kharfon avoided it easily as he brought his sword down once again, this time severing the head completely. There was no sound, no death knell; instead the body slid back swiftly into its underground lair. It’s head remained, the limb still clutched uselessly in its mouth. Kharfon managed a smile as he wiped his sword clean as best he could: one less minion of the magician to trouble him. He resumed his journey.
Resting on the limb of the tree, Kharfon gnawed at the haunch of the rabbit he had caught. It was morning, yet the forest remained deathly still. He had learned early on that daytime was the most dangerous for travel. Lyvorese had littered the way with sentries and guards, living and otherwise. They were nearly impossible to avoid during the sunlit hours. At evening, however, their senses were dimmed. At night they could often be avoided. Odd, he thought, that the magician’s power seemed to wane in the darkness. Never completely, but enough to give him hope. Hope of freedom for his sister, revenge for his comrades.
From his lofty perch he could see the mountains beyond. The magician’s aerie sat halfway up its face, seemingly impervious from attacks from above or below. Kharfon smiled sadly; the magician may indeed be correct.
His ruminations ceased at the sound of muffled voices below. He stretched himself along the sturdy branch and peered between the camouflaging leaves. A cadre of guards--five in all--appeared below him, dressed in leather armor with a blue crest on the front. They could only be under the employ of Lyvorese, no one else save a fool would be in these haunted woods. He watched as they passed below and beyond him, completely unaware of his presence. Possessing one of their uniforms could be useful later, he decided. He waited until their footsteps had disappeared before quietly climbing down. And quietly hunting them.
He trailed them a good twenty minutes before they took respite in a small clearing. A bow would be most useful now, he grimaced, but he had exhausted his supply of arrows two weeks previous. The soldiers remained oblivious to his lurking eyes as they busied themselves making a small fire, confident in their safety. Kharfon fingered the knife at his side. It would take care of one, surprise would allow him to dispatch the second. Which would leave him three to fight.
The guards turned in shock and fear as the loud scream erupted behind them. Even as they were drawing their swords Kharfon sprang into view, burying his knife in the throat of the guard nearest him, then slashing at the guard on his right. His sword dug into the man’s side, toppling him immediately to the ground. Kharfon wrested the weapon free, then brought it up in time to deflect his first attacker’s thrust. Kharfon ducked under, grabbed the man’s hair with his free hand and head-butted him savagely. The guard’s face erupted in blood from his broken nose. He gasped in pain and reached for his face, providing Kharfon the opportunity to strike him on the head with the flat of his blade. Kharfon didn’t pause to determine if the man was dead or merely stunned, he spun and jumped toward the remaining guards, swinging his sword in rapid, ever widening circles before him.
They tried to separate themselves but the clearing was too small, the undergrowth too near, to provide the space they needed. One began to reach for his knife and Kharfon attacked him instantly, driving him backward by the savagery and strength of his blows. The guard forgot the knife then and gripped his sword with both hands to defend himself. Then he backed up another step... and lost his balance as he hit the log he had so recently been sitting on. Those few seconds gave Kharfon the opening he needed, a quick slash opened the man as easily as a door.
Kharfon screamed then as a sword cut across his arm, ripping through skin and tendon. Kharfon spun to his right, his weapon up for the next blow. The last guard spun his sword, flicking his blade at arms, chest, legs. Kharfon deflected each attack easily, but he knew he couldn’t delay; one of the other guards might still be alive. Instead he smiled. “Are you ready to join your comrades?” he asked as he swung his own weapon and advanced.
The remaining guard stepped back, glanced quickly at the carnage around him, then at the enraged figure in front. Kharfon brought his sword down on other’s. Even using only one arm he nearly drove the man to his knees. The guard took two steps back, then roared a curse and hurled his weapon at Kharfon. Kharfon deflected it easily, then threw his own sword. His aim was much better; it buried itself to the hilt in the chest of his enemy.
Kharfon stood for a moment, gasping for breath, trying to calm the blood rage he had summoned within to provide the extra strength and speed he had required. Now that he was regaining control of himself he could feel the intense pain from the guard’s blow, but he still had work to do before he could tend to it. He retrieved his knife and sword, then studied his victims. Only one wore a uniform that was not ruined by his attack. He undressed the guard whose nose he had broken, then slit the man’s throat. Kharfon frowned as the clothing was too small for him, but it might provide him a few seconds of disguise. It would have to do, he realized. Then he tore his own jerkin apart to wrap his bleeding arm. He grimaced as he looked in his small pack since only two healing charms remained. How many did I waste? he chided himself, but recrimination was useless now.
Searching the dead guards uncovered nothing save several throwing knives; useful, but not as useful as additional charms. He had no choice this time, the wound was too severe. Muttering a soft curse, he pressed one of the charms against his damaged arm, then wrapped it tightly. He smiled as he felt the now-too-familiar flare of healing fire surge through him. Within hours all that would remain would be a scar, one of
many he had earned on his trek. But now he had only one charm left.
The small campfire still burned merrily so he squatted before it and warmed his hands. A fire was something he rarely permitted himself in these woods and he basked in its pleasant glow for several minutes. That was all he could allow himself he was sure. Sighing, he returned to the path, leaving the fire and dead for the minions of Lyvorese to find.
Three nights later he found himself at the bottom of the cliffs leading to the mage’s hideaway. He had been forced off the path two days pervious, first by the increasing number of guard patrols, then by the growing number of snares, traps and other dangers. Even travel by night had increased in peril, if such were possible. Twice he had been attacked by were-bats which had mistaken his silence for sleep. He had dispatched both, but not before he had endured numerous bites and scratches on his bare legs and arms. Even now blood continued to seep from a deep bite on his sword arm. Only a healing charm would close it but he was reluctant to use it as yet. Better to endure the pain now, he had decided, then spend his last, possibly life-saving gift, later.
He seized the nearest rock outcropping, pulled himself up, stretched across to seize another. The jagged cliff face offered ample toe- and hand-holds and he was able to reach the first ledge within a matter of minutes. From here the magician’s castle jutted defiantly from it’s stone background. Lights glowed in its two towers, the path to the front gate was invitingly close. Dark figures patrolled the parapet but from this distance it was impossible to determine if they were human. Kharfon sighed; a rope would be useful right now. He edged his way along the narrow ledge, stretched and pulled himself up to another, even smaller ledge. Then to another, then another, climbing upward until after three hours he was above the foreboding edifice.
From his small perch he studied the defenses the magician used. It wasn’t only guards who patrolled the perimeter. Black winged forms circled slowly above and beyond the residence, searching below for easy prey. But not searching above. He grinned. The magician was certain he could never be attacked from above and behind. He began a slow, perilous ascent.
Hunger burned at him, a persistent flame which he could not as yet extinguish. Kharfon had spent the day well hidden in a small niche in the cliff face, still wary about attacking the castle in sunlight. He was just above the parapets now, studying the patrolling guards, trying to gauge their pattern. The winged sentries maintained a perimeter beyond the manor walls, their attention focused outward, not in or behind.
Confident in his own power the magician was, and rightly so, Kharfon thought. Only one guard patrolled each section of the wall, and their concentration surely had to be centered on matters other than protection. He climbed as low as the foot and handholds allowed, but that still left a 20 foot drop to the stony surface. He needed something to break his fall and decided a guard would do nicely. But he had to draw one close.
He nearly hugged the cliff face as the guard approached on his endless rounds. It was not time yet and if the man looked up he would be immediately discovered. Kharfon willed himself still as the guard finished his round at the base of the cliff and started back. He waited until the man was ten paces away before tearing a large brass button off his jerkin and dropping it. It clicked softly on the parapets below, but not so softly that it didn’t capture the guard’s attention. The man turned immediately, sword drawn, peering into the darkness to discover the cause. He approached slowly, his attention still on the ground. Kharfon held his breath. One step, two steps. The guard stopped nearly beneath him, his attention attracted by something shining in the dim moonlight. He reached down to examine it...
...when Kharfon pushed himself away from the cliff and came crashing down on top of him. He landed on the guard’s back with both feet, then bounced off and fell painfully on the parapet. It took him seconds to catch his breath but when he finally regained his balance he discovered there was no need to hurry. The guard had been smashed against the stone walkway by his attack and rendered unconscious. Kharfon didn’t hesitate, he withdrew his knife and slashed the man’s throat, then turned as he heard a voice and approaching foot steps.
“What was that?” the approaching guard asked.
“Just a rat. Surprised me,” he responded as he quickly walked forward.
In the moonlight the man saw first the white symbol on the blue uniform and immediately relaxed. “You should be careful, Stiron. You could wake the dead. Or worse, the master.” Then Kharfon was close enough where the guard could see him fully. “Wait, you’re not...”
His attempt at his sword was stopped by Kharfon’s own running him through. “I hope so,” Kharfon muttered as he stepped back from the collapsing, lifeless sentinel. He cleaned the blade quickly on the man’s cape, then returned his weapon to its sheath. It only took him seconds to open the door to the turret and walk inside.
Torches along the wall illuminated the winding stone stairway. Kharfon didn’t know when his presence would be discovered so he moved as quickly as possible. At the bottom door he paused and placed his ear against it. Silence. Taking a deep breath, he opened it slowly and stepped across the threshold to find himself in a narrow hallway. The left disappeared into darkness, but the right appeared to lead into the heart of the castle. Grasping his sword, he turned almost instinctively to the right.
Kharfon noted immediately the austerity of his surroundings. No lavish tapestries or portraits adorned these walls, no exotic statuary interrupted the monotony of bare stone and wood as he progressed. When he came upon a suit of leather armor standing in a notch in the wall, he became wary.
The attack came not from that quarter, however, but from behind. He heard a door open and turned just as a figure he recognized sprung at him. “Dhanik,” he gasped as he parried the blow. The face was nearly unrecognizable, but the tattered clothing and the way the animated corpse held its head to one side, the result of the broken neck that killed him, left no doubt. “I will avenge us both, I swear,” he said as he dodged another sword stroke. His attacker said nothing, merely maintained his slow yet steady onslaught.
Kharfon cursed as he retreated. He couldn’t allow this distraction to continue much longer, especially if more animated guards were nearby. The Dhanik he now faced was stronger than any human, but also much slower. “I’m sorry, my friend,” he whispered as he parried another blow, then brought his own sword down. The blade went completely through the dead attacker’s sword arm, severing it from the body. The corpse stood and trembled briefly, then bent down and reached for its weapon. Kharfon brought his sword down once again. This time he decapitated his deceased friend. “Rest in peace,” he whispered to Dhanik’s remains, then turned and hurried onward.
Muffled voices caught his attention as he found himself in another hallway, this one stretching north and south. Was Dhanik the only guard? he wondered while he slowly approached. Was Lyvorese that confident in his exterior defenses that he saw no need for protection inside? Kharfon shrugged the questions away. He would find out soon enough.
He paused at the closed door and strained to listen. Only two people seemed to be on the other side and his breath caught as he recognized the soft muted tones of his sister. The high, mocking tones of the male voice were familiar as well. The voice of the man who had laughed at him as Kharfon stood chained and helpless while his sister was seized and taken from him. Lyvorese. Kharfon reached out and grabbed the handle. A slight turn proved the door was unlocked. Taking a deep breath, Kharfon burst into the room.
He found himself in a cavernous library. In the center of the room stood Lyvorese while Kharfon’s sister was seated primly near him. Both turned at the sound of his entrance. “What is this? How dare you enter my sanctuary!” the magician roared.
“You’ve taken something of mine,” Kharfon whispered as he advanced, sword at the ready. “That cannot be permitted.”
“Do you really think you are powerful enough to threaten me within my own home? Your effrontery is an intolerable
insult!” With that the magician raised his arms and began to chant.
“As is your continued existence.” Already Kharfon could discern shadowy forms beginning to appear around him. He was still too far from Lyvorese to threaten him with his sword. But a knife...
With one motion he grabbed it from his belt and hurled it. Too late the mage saw it, too late he recognized his danger. Then the knife buried itself up to the hilt in his chest. He let out one high pitched scream before collapsing to the floor.
The cloudy forms disappeared as quickly as they had arrived. Kharfon approached his fallen enemy. “You have preyed upon us for far too long, Lyvorese. Your death will be celebrated far and wide.”
“I think not, Kharfon.” the magician’s voice came from behind him.
Kharfon gasped and spun. The person sitting primly in the chair was no longer his sister, but the grinning, confident mage. With a sinking heart he turned back to the still figure at his feet. Before his eyes its features were changing; the hair darkened and lengthened, the facial features softened, the clothing and torso altered. Kharfon groaned and fell to his knees as he realized it was not the magician he had just slain, but his own sister.
“She was becoming quite tiring. Complaining everyday, having fits of the vapors. Better this way, don’t you think?”
Kharfon rose slowly then stared at Lyvorese. “You have cost me everything, magician. My friends and now my sister. Kill me now. For I most certainly will kill you!”
Lyvorese merely sat with folded hands. “We could do that. But I have other plans for you.”
Before & Beyond Page 10