by Mike
*
The rain let up early the next morning, leaving the chill like an unwanted house guest. Quint gathered up his belongings, bundling up in his bed roll to ward off the cold, and began what would be, he hoped, the last leg of his journey. It appeared, for now, he had lost all pursuit and the way was clear.
The landscape began to change as they drew nearer to Stormland. Gone were the flat lands and farms as they gave way to soft rises and boulder strewn hollows. Rocks of varying sizes, from gourd sized to house size, dappled the hills for as far as could be seen.
They were making decent time and had left early enough there was no traffic yet on the road. All those who would be heading into town, would most likely be doing so from one of the waypoints along the thoroughfare. Those leaving town, at a fast pace, would be hard pressed to have reached this point by this time of day. The road was empty, except for Wren, Quint and his thoughts of the future to occupy it.
When the crossbow bolt took his horse in the flank, causing it to rear and fall, it surprised them both.
*
Johns had waited to the appointed time and at the appropriate place. Along the road into Stormland there was a place far enough from the city where Quint was supposed to be coming from, where he would be alone on the road. At least, Johns hoped he would be. The last thing he needed was to be interrupted, or worse, have someone try to save Quint. Unfortunately, he had to trust in the Blood Mage and his information. This would be the time and the place in which he would be able to kill Quint. After he destroyed the blade of course.
Again, he was bothered by this notion. The logic of it was lacking. If this blade was as formidable as the Mage believed, wouldn’t it be better for him to keep it after killing Quint?
This wasn’t the first time he had contemplated this, but again, he was brought back to the Mage’s words of warning to not wield the blade. He felt, in his gut, in this at least, the Mage was telling him the truth.
The whole meeting with the Mage had left Johns uneasy and fraught with questions. The foremost question was why the Mage had given this information to him at all. Johns had to believe it had everything to do with the sword and really nothing to do with Johns. For whatever reason, the Mage wished to see the blade destroyed. Not just destroyed but witnessed by Quint. But what did it matter if Quint sees it, if he was going to kill him anyways? Was it for the benefit of the sword? But wouldn’t breaking the weapon destroy it?
Again, Johns was bothered by this whole scenario and wondered if he should do things his way, instead of how the Mage had told him to, and again, he decided to stick to the original plan. This was magic, and it shouldn’t be trifled with. What was most likely, if he didn’t follow the plan was, the Mage had put a spell on him and he would be cursed, or worse, he would die. In the end, he had put all doubts aside and found a boulder which would hide him from the road and waited to ambush Quint.
*
When his horse screamed and toppled, it surprised Quint so much, he was unable to throw himself free. The horse landed on his leg. He didn’t need to hear his bones breaking to know it was broken, the pain was indicator enough, and he almost passed out. The horse managed to right itself, but not before doing more damage to Quint’s leg, threatening darkness all over again. All Quint could do was move his head from side to side to try and see where the attack had come from.
“Quint?” Wren’s voice, filled with concern, called his name.
“Yeah, Wren. I’m alright.” Quint answered in his mind, not wanting to talk aloud until he understood who or what had attacked him.
“You don’t sound alright. You are injured. Badly, by the sound of it.”
“The horse broke my leg in the fall. I’m not sure if I can even stand. Can you heal it?”
Wren paused momentarily before answering. “I could heal it, but if you don’t have it set properly, your leg will not be properly healed and will cause you problems for the rest of your life.”
The prospect of a poorly healed leg was not something Quint wanted to have trouble him for the rest of his life but given the fact his life could well be over soon from whomever had attacked them, it didn’t appear to be much of an issue.
Quint continued to scan the area, watching out for his attacker. “Well, given our circums…” Quint stopped talking. Captain Johns had stepped out from behind a nearby boulder, wielding a crossbow. Quint made to get to his feet.
“Heal me… NOW!” Quint shouted in his mind at Wren, and was rewarded as the warmth, usually accompanying the healing, rapidly speed through his body, like being empty and then being filled with sunshine. Minor cuts and bruises he had received from the fall, disappeared, and the pain in his leg subsided and he stood immediately to face Johns. Pulling the sword from his sheath as he stood.
“It’s Johns isn’t?”
“Yeah,” Quint answered aloud.
Johns approached unhurriedly, continuing to aim the crossbow at him. Quint knew he was most likely going to die. The Captain had no interest in returning him to the Minister to receive a trial. Or justice. He would kill him here, and now. In fact, he had to wonder what was keeping Johns from shooting and killing him now.
Johns came within a few feet of him and stopped. He was close enough for Quint to see how much Johns had changed in the short months of this pursuit. He always carried some extra weight on him. Not fat just extra pounds. Those were gone now, and his skin, in places, was slack because of it. Quint never paid much attention to the Captain when he was in court. Their paths had never really passed much, but he knew of him. Had seen him, now and again. The man before him, no longer resembled the man he had seen and known. “Drop the blade, Linksill,” Johns aimed the crossbow directly at his heart.
There wasn’t a chance he would do as Johns ordered. Johns meant to kill him either way, but at least with his sword, he stood a chance. At his healthiest, with the help of Wren, he knew he was more than a match for the Captain. Unfortunately, he wasn’t at peak condition. Sure, he was healed, but he could already tell his leg was not right. It had healed, but not the way it should. If he had time, he could have learned to fight with this handicap, but as it was, he had no idea how it would affect his fighting ability. But the point was moot, as Johns pointed the crossbow at him. Though, if he could get him to fire his shot and miss, then the weapon was useless given how close they now were. There was no way the Captain could reload and fire again before Quint closed with him.
This whole thing felt off to Quint. Johns should have shot and killed him already. Could have taken the weapon from him without any difficulty. Instead, they stood, squared off, facing each other.
When he made no move to comply. Johns shrugged and lowered the crossbow a little and fired. The bolt struck Quint below the right hip, spinning him from the impact. The force of the bolt striking him momentarily kept the pain at bay, then it hit him in a rush. Dropping to his knees, he reeled from the pain. The sound of steel ringing against sheath brought Quint out of his fog of pain. Forcing himself to stand, he turned to face Johns, who was now approaching him, crossbow discarded, sword drawn.
Quint readied a fighting stance with difficulty. His right leg did not sit right, and blood was pouring from his wound rapidly. Pain, radiated from the bolt, buried deep in this thigh. He was going to be damned if he was going to let Johns kill him without a fight though. Raising Wren, he pointed the blade at the Captain.
“This doesn’t need to happen, Captain. If you would let me continue on my way; I mean to beseech the Witch of Time for a Delving. With her vision, she will prove I am innocent. I did not kill Elutia.”
Whether his plead would be entertained by the Captain, he knew not. Johns had made it abundantly clear he had no interest in allowing Quint to live.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Johns began to circle him, forcing Quint to shift painfully to keep the Captain in front of him. Every movement caused more pain, more blood loss. He did not have
time for this.
“Why?” Quint pleaded. “Why? You can escort me there, and if the Witch determines I speak false, well then, you can kill me. But, at least let me try to plead my case!”
“I can’t. If I were to allow that, they would once again search for the person who killed Elutia.” Johns stopped briefly, before circling back the other way a slight bit quicker, causing Quint to all but hop to keep Johns in front of him. The man was purposely wearing him down, it occurred to Quint, but it was his last statement which scattered all other thoughts like a gale tosses dry leaves. Why would it matter if they began searching for the killer again? Didn’t he want to catch the real killer?
The truth hit Quint like a battering ram and stole his breath, leaving him hollow.
“You killed her?” It was more statement than question, for he already knew the answer.
Captain Johns grimaced and stopped circling.
“I had never meant her any harm. I loved her, you see?” There was a pleading in his voice, as he tried to give reason to his madness. “I loved her. I had loved her for as long as I can remember.” His stance began to relax some, and the point of his blade drooped slightly.
“We had been close friends once, you know? Since childhood. I knew my station would never have allowed me to court the Minister’s daughter. There was a time when I thought she had felt the same and we would defy the social norms standing in our way.”
Johns stance hardened again. His eyes met Quint’s, fury burned in them. Quint blanched at the sight.
“Then you came. You came, and you took her from me,” he spat out. “After you arrived, she had no more time for me, no more time for her old friend!” The way he said the word, told Quint all he needed to know about what the man thought of that station in Elutia’s life.
The sad thing was, Elutia had never mentioned Johns to him. It was possible she had hesitated to tell him of a past flirtation with the Captain, but it was unlikely. They had, early on, divulged most of their past love lives. Johns had not been on Elutia’s list. Obviously, he had felt there was more to their relationship than Elutia had ever felt.
Quint had little time to ponder this though as the anger Johns was feeling towards him was rapidly escalating to violence as the Captain closed the distance with an overhand swing. Quint who had been deep in thought, barely got Wren up to parry. In fact, it was really Wren who parried, taking control of his reflexes in time. Steel on steel rang out and echoed off the surrounding rocks and hills, crisp and clear, like bells rung in warning.
Johns continued to batter Quint, striking high and hard, causing Quint to back step, which was painful.
“If he continues like this, we will not last long, Quint.” The sword informed him. Not that he needed the sword’s assessment of the situation. It was becoming clear to him there was no way he was going to win this. He would die by Johns’ hand, and the truth would die with him. Elutia’s killer would walk free. Sending a silent apology to his late beloved, he would do his best to stay alive for as long as he could. Maybe he could get a lucky strike in.
Luck wasn’t in his cards. Johns was rested, unwounded and full of hate. He had all the advantage he needed to defeat Quint. Despite Quint’s wounds and loss of blood, he still put up a solid defense. Defense, because with the constant attacks coming from the Captain, he never stood a chance of getting off an attack. Back pedaling, he tried to keep some distance between him and Johns. The Captain always managed to keep the distance to a minimum, always pressing the attack. When he stepped back once more with his wounded leg, it gave out and he stumble to the left. A stumble which saved his life as Johns missed his swing completely.
Rolling as he fell, he came to rest on his stomach. Turning, he saw Johns approaching him. He tried to crawl away. There was a decent sized rock jutted out from the earth near where he fell. He used it to pull himself up, but Johns reached him first. A soldier’s boot slammed down upon the wrist of his sword hand, nearly making him release Wren. Only the magical connection kept Wren within his grasps.
“Release the blade, Quint.”
All Quint could do was moan as the weight of the man’s hard soled boot dug into his wrist grinding it against the stone underneath.
“Don’t let him take me, Quint,” Wren’s quiet plea pressed into his thoughts.
“Why?” Quint managed to concentrate long enough to ask.
“He is going to destroy me.”
“What? How?”
Johns pressed harder on his wrist and all thoughts of conversation fled from the pain.
“Release. The. Blade. Quint… Now!”
Quint held on tighter. His knuckles pale and the veins in his forearm stood out, his muscles tightened his grip. He would not let go. Couldn’t let go really, but even if he could, he would do everything in his power to not give in and release the blade. He would not let his friend go. He would not let Johns have the sword. All he could do was stare down the length of his arm at Wren’s form. It’s strange colored blade and beautiful hilt.
His vision was so captured by the blade, he didn’t hear nor see what the Captain did next. He knew Johns had said something, knew the heel shifted slightly on his arm, but when the man’s blade fell upon his wrist, severing it, he felt nothing. It wasn’t until the Captain moved his weight off John’s arm completely did the pain hit him like a thousand hot pokers piercing his flesh simultaneously.
Blood poured from his wrist in a steady stream, pulsing periodically. Lifting his severed wrist up, he absent-mindedly wrapped his other hand over his empty wrist in a sad attempt to stop the bleeding.
Johns, he noticed, had picked up his severed hand. His hand still held fast to the weapon. No longer attached, his hand still would not release the blade. What was more curious was Johns wasn’t attempting to get the hand to release the sword. Instead, he had reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a vial. The vial held some strange liquid. The liquid moved constantly in a swirling pattern.
He unstopped the vial, laid Wren down on the rock face, and began to pour the liquid over the blade. Quint could do nothing but watch in quiet fascination as the liquid coated the blade of its own accord. When the liquid reached the edge of the blade, it wouldn’t drip off. Instead it wrapped around the edge and continued to the other side. As soon as the last of the liquid was poured from the vial, it absorbed into the metal and disappeared. Where the liquid had once been, the sword had lost its violet color and grew gray.
Johns turned to look at Quint. A smile of triumph was plastered all over the man’s face. He knew he had won, knew there was nothing Quint could do to stop what was going to happen next. Not quite understanding what was occurring, Wren’s words drifted back to him. He was going to destroy Wren. Somehow, the liquid made the blade vulnerable. He was sure of it, and when Johns brought Wren down, holding onto Quint’s severed hand, he smashed it against the rock.
Wren snapped.
Quint barely managed to stifle a sob as he watched the two halves of the sword fall to either side of the rock. His severed hand finally let go of the blade, and Johns tossed it aside, a no longer needed piece of meat. Quint crawled over and grabbed Wren by the hilt.
“Wren?” Desperately, he called out to Wren.
There was no answer. He could sense nothing of his friend.
“Wren?”
Again, there was nothing.
“Quint?” Soft and faint, Wren finally answered back.
“Wren… you are alive?” I thought you were gone.”
“Not quite, but I feel myself fading. I feel you fading as well.” Wren spoke the truth. Quint was losing vast amounts of life blood. He was fading and fading fast. How he was still conscious was a mystery. This was the end for them both.
“I am going to heal you Quint. I won’t be able to do much, but it will stop the bleeding and close up the wound on your wrist.”
“How?” Quint asked Wren “You can only heal once each day.”
&n
bsp; “True. But there is something I didn’t tell you about my creation. It is true the Mage transferred my soul from my body to the sword, but he couldn’t use a normal soul. He had to use the soul of another Essence Mage. That is how I have the abilities I do. How I can heal you. I use Essence Magic. I pull my essence from my soul and use it activate my powers. I only heal once because, it drains too much from my soul, so I can’t do it again. At least. Not without draining all of my essence.”
Wren fell silent. Allowing his words to register with Quint.
“No. I can’t let you do that Wren.”
“It isn’t for you to decide my friend. Goodbye.”
Quint felt the warmth flow through him as Wren’s healing took hold.
Johns watched as Quint crawled over to the broken pieces of his sword. His sword was broken. He was broken. Everything he had desired was now coming to fruition. The expression on Quint’s face was all the pleasure he needed. He had destroyed this man, taken his love from him, taken his position from him and now, he had taken his sword from him. There was only one thing left to do take his life from him.
Johns stepped back over to Quint and looked down upon the broken man as he cradled the former magical blade. Johns raised his sword high above his head, preparing to swing it down and end Quint’s life.
Johns swung the blade down.
He froze, mid-swing. Muscles rigid, he could no longer move. Desperately, he fought against his own body. Desperately, he tried to force the sword to finish its arc and cut into Quint. Yet, his body refused to respond.
Suddenly, his vision blurred, and a face appeared before his. It was a face he knew all too well. Blood red eyes stared out at him, as the image of the Blood Mage’s face hovered in front of his.