Ragged Heroes

by Andy Peloquin

  “Adela! Stay with me!” Sulanna shouted in her ear. “Do not close your eyes.”

  She snapped back to reality, a sharp pain prickling up her spine, which she could only guess was due to the poison circulating through her veins. She attempted to say something, anything, but her tongue and lips were so puffed up, the words were a mumbled moan.

  “Almost there. A bit more,” Sulanna said.

  She fought to breathe, rasping until her chest hurt. Her mother whispered something encouraging, but she heard only murmurs. She was surprised at her mother’s persistence, a testament to a courage she never knew Sulanna possessed. Sure, she watched her mother deal with the stresses her father inflicted on the family since early childhood, but she never saw her hit anyone before.

  She tried to think of questions she might ask, but they were swept away with the pain.

  “Alden!” Sulanna howled for her father, springing the latch to the door of their home before kicking it open. “Alden. I need you!”

  Her mother knelt, taking Adela to the ground with her in a heap. She gasped for air, laying Adela on an oversized wolfskin rug spread across the floorboards of their cottage.

  Adela crumpled face down. The coarse hair scratched at her cheek, forcing her to focus on the odd décor, three times the size of any normal-sized wolf. Until about the age of twelve, she begged her father and mother to tell her how they came by it, which resulted in a variety of outlandish stories. She eventually stopped asking.

  Adela squinted at the world, a hodgepodge of greys and blacks, yellows, and browns. She embraced the sensation of numbness washing over her body and rolled to her back while inhaling the familiar aroma of hay, spice, and ginger filling the room.

  “Alden!”

  The heavy footsteps of her father resounded from the loft in the large one-room cottage. She closed her eyes, imagining him descending from the ladder in the room, his wide frame bounding down the rungs. He was built to be a fighter but somehow managed to build a life in Egis, away from the wars of men. While the townsfolk lived in the shadow of the assassin’s guild, the Dusk Legion, residing in Lonmere to the north, they were far removed from the contending nations to the south.

  Adela suspected Brenn was with the Dusk Legion, or had been in his younger years, based on the adventurous stories he shared during their time together. Though even when pressed, he never admitted to any affiliation. Yet Adela was not blind to the twinkle in his eye.

  “Sulanna.” Alden Forgaaf drew his wife’s name out, both grim and grating, interrupting Adela’s thoughts. His knees banged against the floor on either side of her head, settling down on the rug. He grabbed her and carefully rolled her over to her back. “By the gods, what happened?”

  Adela strained to see her father’s face. His long strands of unkempt black and grey hair falling over his icy-blue eyes or the full beard which often blotched out the redness of his lips would have been a welcomed sight. She liked to think of him as being rugged and tough, a rock weathering every storm, but for the past many years he—

  “Blood and spit!” Sulanna choked. Her words elevated into a screech. “Our daughter is dying and you are holed up in our home, slicing at your wrists. Again! How deep did you—Alden! No, no, no! I cannot do this anymore!”

  “Dying?” he repeated. Her father’s fingertips, sticky with his fresh, warm blood, touched her cheek. “The world needs our sacrifice, Sulanna. I suspect what you will tell me will more so prove my point—we are being punished. We failed our charge, and the world has fallen to chaos. The old-dark have won; the gods no longer hear our prayers.”

  “We are not talking about this,” Sulanna said.

  “Thank Svarog I was paying penance, or she may already be dead,” Alden whispered. “What happened to her?”

  Adela felt lightheaded and numb. “Father—”

  Sulanna screeched at Alden, making Adela jolt. She feared her last moments would reflect the past decade: her mother yelling at her father. “She is poisoned. Wit is coming for us.”

  “Wit? Witigor Sirska? How is that possible?” Alden’s calm demeanor twisted in absolute confusion. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sulanna,” Brenn appeared in the already open door, stealing whatever more Sulanna might have told Alden. “Tell me she is alive.”

  “Hardly.” She whimpered as her mother’s firm grip clasped at her face, squeezing her jawbone. “Adela, keep your eyes open!”

  “Brenn Dardrogan?” Alden’s boots scraped on the floor, shifting his weight as though he might stand. “What in the Nine Lands are you doing in my home?”

  Adela heard Brenn, his shadow falling over her. “Open her mouth. Rehor gave me milroot powder.”

  “Rehor…Malankov?” Alden rumbled, turning on his wife. “How long have you been speaking with the Dusk Legion, Sulanna? You know they cannot be trusted!” he barked. “No wonder we have been found by Wit! They are likely in league with him.”

  So Brenn was an assassin in the Dusk Legion!

  “You are a lot of things, Alden Forgaaf, but being stupid enough to believe the Legion would work with anyone from Eldhaft is not one of them,” Sulanna snapped back. “Let Brenn save her life! We are not with the Crimson Sun anymore. We do not hold any allegiances.” Sulanna softened her voice to address Brenn. “Will it cure her?”

  “No,” Brenn hesitated. Despite being blind to the room, Adela could feel the uneasy, lingering look he gave Alden and Sulanna. “But this rosewort will set her right as rain in a few hours. We only need to wait until the milroot runs its course.”

  Adela’s mouth was forced open, feeling a substance like salt being sprinkled on her tongue and lips.

  “How convenient that you have the cure for my daughter’s ailment. Should I also guess you passed them in the road by happenstance?” Alden growled.

  “It is a small town, Alden, and Rehor is rarely without a remedy,” Brenn said. “Sulanna sought me out, not the other way around.”

  “Leave him alone,” Sulanna said.

  Adela gasped, long and deep, the milroot instantly taking effect on her body. She flung her hands out, one grasping her mother’s leg and the other her father’s hand. The blurred vision washed away instantly like she had cleared the surface of a lake after being too long submerged.

  “What have you done…” Alden mumbled, squeezing Adela’s fingers. “The Dusk Legion…”

  The words echoed in Adela’s skull.

  “Adela.” Sulanna grabbed her hand, holding it firmly on her thigh. “Do you remember what happened?”

  “Yes, I remember,” she said. Her heart thumped inside her chest; her skin burned from the inside out. She was immediately filled with energy, like she might start running at any moment, even if she lacked the desire. Her mind raced; her words flooded from her trembling lips. “What have you given me? I feel like I am on fire.”

  “A little milled magic,” Brenn said, stepping back into the frame of the doorway. His grey eyes were fastened to Alden and Sulanna with trepidation. “Sometimes the Legion will use it to boost their vigor, numb their pain, or heighten their senses.” Brenn took a slow breath, scratching at the black scruff on his chin. The grey patches bespoke his age. “You still have the poison inside your veins, Adela. When the fire you feel begins to fade, you must chew and swallow this rosewort.”

  She bobbed her head, letting go of her parents to take the thick brown root with dark spots. Her other hand grazed against the rough pelt beneath her, warmed by the fire burning on the hearth of the northern wall. The low-lit fire suggested Alden had done little to tend to the home while she and Sulanna were out for a morning walk. Fortunately, the bluish light penetrated through the bottom of the red curtains covering the windows on either side of the open door, lighting the cottage.

  “It will taste terrible,” Brenn added, “but it is better than death.”

  “She will be okay then?” Sulanna asked shakily. “Thank you, Brenn. We are in your debt.”

&n
bsp; Adela met her mother’s wide eyes, absent of the bravery she saw moments earlier. “I will be okay.”

  Alden spoke behind them. “My body is but a vessel for you, Svarog. Show us the path to righteousness. Show us the path to honor. Show us the path to glory.” He used his blade to cut along his pinkish, scarred skin, mirroring the pockmarks and scars from wrist to elbow. Blood trickled and dropped to the floor behind Adela.

  “Father.” Adela scooted closer to him.

  He lifted the knife to her. “We must atone for the evil inside of us, daughter.”

  “Alden! Stop!” Sulanna jerked Adela away. “By the gods, she is your daughter…”

  Brenn froze by the door.

  Adela inhaled, watching the blood dribble from Alden’s arm. Her hand trembled, wanting to please her father and take the knife. He was trying to teach her something important, if only her mother would allow her to learn. She lost count of how often she watched him. He prayed to his gods when he cut his skin, but she knew in her heart the reason for his self-mutilation was deeper than any of them could understand.

  Her mother certainly did not know.

  “What are you doing?” Brenn swallowed, watching Alden place the blade against his skin to make a second cut.

  Sulanna was without forgiveness, attempting to pull Adela closer. “He clings to old ways, Brenn. Ways he promised to bury a long time ago. Though I do not think he holds any vows sacred anymore.”

  “Let me go, Mother,” Adela said.

  Alden’s bottom lip trembled. “You know who I am and what must be done, Sulanna. Our daughter is stronger than the sheep outside our door. She is better than them.”

  “She is a child!”

  “I am not a child,” Adela said, pulling away from Sulanna.

  “Have you forgotten what we have endured? What we have sacrificed? What we have seen?” Alden asked. His beard quivered as though he was on the fringe of tears. “Adela must learn the way to repentance and forgiveness, or she will never reach the Thrice Ten Kingdom.”

  “I am not the one who has forgotten,” Sulanna said. “You will not make it to the land of the gods like this. Neither will your daughter.”

  Alden’s eyes flashed with madness. “We are all evil, Sulanna. This is the only way!”

  Adela shuddered, no more capable of deciphering their riddled speech now than any other time when she heard them bickering in the dead of night.

  She only knew her father must be right.

  Brenn brushed his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I respect folks keeping their secrets secret, but this begs for some explanation. Your family has been in Egis for almost twenty years, and this is the first I have heard any mention of the Crimson Sun. I do not see what the gods have to do with anything, but you have rightly pissed off the Vornic of Eldhaft, which will endanger the entire town and the Dusk Legion. So, tell me what is going on.”

  “Father…” Adela started. Hearing the title of the Crimson Sun again made her shudder. She could not imagine how her parents might have been connected to the group of notable mercenaries from the East. Adela reached for Alden, the rock of their family. Her mentor.

  Everyone lied, even fathers.

  “We promised,” Alden said with sudden harshness, clutching his wrist and ignoring her outstretched hand. Red blood washed over his fingers as he looked piteously at Sulanna. “We promised,” he repeated softer.

  Sulanna’s voice cracked. “You have broken more promises in twenty years than I have the heart to count. And we are going to need Brenn’s help if we are going to survive Witigor…if our daughter is going to survive.” She looked to Brenn. “No matter what happens, you will take care of her?”

  Adela was not sure if the milroot did more than kindle a fire inside her, but she could not track her thoughts or her emotions. One moment she felt like crying, and the next, she wanted to hit something.

  Brenn closed the front door of the cottage softly, something which should have been done when they arrived, and crossed his arms. The room darkened under the dim light of the hearth. “I have looked after Adela for years, like I would my own child. Nothing will change that, but you should know I have a very low tolerance for the Crimson Sun and their affiliates.”

  “We know,” Sulanna said. “We have known you were with the Dusk Legion for a long time.”

  “How?” he asked.

  Sulanna gulped. “The Crimson Sun has access to all sorts of information.”

  Alden gritted his teeth, hearing Brenn. “Adela has a father, and only needs one father.” He gripped the knife in his hand as though he aimed to make another cut. “For honor and glory.”

  Adela watched her father, balling her hand into a fist around the rosewort to keep from reaching for the blade.

  Sulanna grimaced, turning from Alden. “But we have not been with the Crimson Sun since before Adela was born. It was years ago that we crossed paths with Witigor Sirska—long before he was a Vornic. His betrayal led to the death of a dear friend, and my father. We narrowly escaped the same fate.”

  Adela listened, watching Alden raise the knife back against his flesh. The blood thickened, collecting over his forearm before running over the curve of his wrist and pooling at his knees, staining the wolkskin rug.

  Her mind wandered to the first time she saw him cut himself; she imagined she was about three, hiding under a blanket behind his wooden chair while he carved at his skin and whispered his prayers. Her mother called his faith madness, but this was not faith. This was not love. No. She began to see that her father knew the evil—the hate—inside himself; he was bleeding out his evil.

  She could think of no other answer.

  “Witigor tried to kill you?” Brenn asked, ruffling his brow at Alden. Adela struggled to pull her gaze from the blood to look at the assassin. Her friend. She could only imagine what he might think of her, seeing the household in which she was raised. What would he think if he knew her thoughts? Would he stare at her like he did her father?

  Her fingers drifted to the scar on her own forearm, tracing the mark hidden beneath the fabric of her tunic. Her heart yearned to take the knife from her father and trace the scar, to see what she might feel.

  “We should have killed him,” Sulanna said.

  Alden said, “We have killed enough. We are not the Legion. We are not assassins.”

  “How many people have you killed?” Adela’s throat dried at her father’s insistence, further hinting at the lesson he wanted to teach her. He was withholding himself from embracing the evil inside him. He hurt himself to stop killing those who deserved it.

  “Too many,” he answered her. “Without a doubt, Witigor deserves to die, as we all do.” Alden dropped the blade to the floorboards. “We are not the ones to kill him.”

  Adela gritted her teeth. “If we all agree he deserves to die, then hire Brenn to kill him. He is an assassin, right?”

  Brenn frowned. “For Adela’s sake, be smart and leave town.”

  Adela crossed her arms. He thought she was a child, too.

  “You have every right to be angry,” Sulanna said. “Your father and I have not been honest—”

  “I did not say I was angry,” Adela said. The eerie calm of her voice even gave her chills. Anger was an emotion for children.

  Feeling her skin grow cold, she shoved the rosewort in her mouth and chewed, which also kept her from speaking anything more. Running away was the coward’s way.

  The spongy, dirt-flavored plant made her choke lightly, but she did not stop until it was small enough to swallow.

  Sulanna rose from the floor, leaving Alden kneeling and splattered in red. She said what Adela expected her to say. “Brenn is right. We will leave—”

  Heavy footsteps clomped up the outside steps, beyond the closed door, silencing her.

  Knuckles rapped against the door. “Sulanna Maelthirren and Alden Forgaaf, open the door.”

  “It’s him,” Sulanna said. Her blue eyes flashed with terror, grabbing Ad
ela and directing her to the ladder to the loft. She refused to hide, watching Alden stand up in front of them, jerking his sleeve down over his mutilated arm.

  “Is there another way out?” Brenn asked, leaning to peer behind the curtain of the window.

  Before anyone could respond to him, the door slowly creaked open. Brenn stepped away toward the fireplace, his footsteps soundless. Morning’s light flooded once again into the cottage.

  Three men and one woman, each wearing green and golden embroidered cloaks, entered through the door with daggers already drawn. They formed a barricade with their bodies. Witigor Sirska strode in behind them and shut the door.

  He removed his pointed hat from his head and rubbed his beard nonchalantly. Adela immediately noticed the bruise beneath the grey hair, a dark spot in the dim light, where Sulanna slugged him an hour or so earlier. Wit nodded, almost knowingly, glancing around the room.

  “Here you have been hiding under my nose for all these years. Sulanna, you do not look to have aged a day, where Alden looks almost twenty years younger. How peculiar! And your neighbors say you have a daughter. I am ever eager to hear this romantic story,” Witigor said, a thin smile spreading across his lips. He continued to survey the room and paused on Brenn’s large frame. “I do not know who you are yet, but we will discover your connection to these criminals. Was it not written in Roger Battyl’s The Conquest of Truth, ‘whomever stands among the shadows is full of darkness?’ How black is your heart, stranger?”

  Alden shielded Adela with his body without providing any explanation to what Witigor suggested, especially regarding her younger parents. How could anyone become old and then young again?

  The Vornic must be mad!

  Brenn crossed his arms over his thick chest, refusing to answer the question. “I cannot help you. You would be wise to leave.”

  Witigor laughed. “Oh! You are bold, stranger. You must be ill-informed. Do you know who you are speaking with?”

  Brenn rumbled in his throat. “You are too far from home to be so cocky, Vornic Sirska. Need I remind you that you stand in the shadow of Lonmere and have few friends to keep you safe.”