This story tells of the events of the weeks leading up to Sastre's arrival in the City of No Names. It isn't really his "origin" (he's already an established, famous Hunter when this story takes place) despite the title, its just a little project I wanted to start.

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"Origins"

PART I

ARRIVAL



Sastre came in on the tide, literally.

On the beach before him, a knot of curious orc children with ramshackle fishing poles or lengths of twine and hooks watched as the strange human half swam, have staggered toward them. Another wave crashed against the Hunter’s back, causing him to stumble forward, sputtering and cursing as he wiped salt water from his eyes. At the same time, he caught his foot on some unseen obstruction beneath the churning water’s surface, and he immediately found himself underwater as he fell. Giving up on even attempting to arrive on shore with any shred of dignity, Sastre simply let the rising tide push him closer and closer to the beach, where he eventually was tossed unceremoniously in the damp sand at the feet of a half dozen or so of the most hideous children he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. Rolling over onto his back, Sastre reached up with a limp arm and removed the clot of seaweed that had attached itself to his face. Blinking his eyes against the salty water and the bright sun that hovered directly overhead, the Hunter smiled cautiously up at the orc younglings.

“Greetings,” he said in broken orcish, coughing up an amazing amount of sour bile and seawater.

One of the children poked him in the chest with her fishing pole.

“Hey!” Sastre shouted, jumping to his feet, and immediately regretting it. His vision swam, his stomach twisted, and his legs—still weak and rubbery from the long swim to shore—threatened to give out from under him. The children gasped and backed away, fearing that this stranger was about to collapse on top of them. The Hunter wobbled a little, weaving from side to side, his arms outstretched to try and balance himself, his eyes clenched shut to close out the spinning of the world around him.

“I’m alright,” he said, sounding more like he was reassuring himself than the startled children. “I… I’m alright…”

He was not alright.

Sastre groaned as he toppled over, his entire body aching from the exertion of his long, trying swim. Weakly, he threw his arm over his eyes, finding some small comfort from the pressure as he blocked out the glare of the sun. He lay there for some time—how long, he wasn’t really sure—until, finally, a growl snapped him out of his daze. Lifting his arm slightly, the Hunter opened one eye and stared up at the visage of an angry orcling staring down at him, brandishing his little fishing pole like a sword. He growled again and moved closer, several of the bigger, braver children following his example.

“What?” Sastre asked, a nervous catch in his voice. “Hey, what’d I do, huh?” He sat up, rubbing the bridge of his nose in vain attempt to get rid of his throbbing headache. He looked at the kids again, a chuckle escaping him. “Come on,” he said, gesturing toward their impromptu weapons. “What do you think you’re going to do with those, huh?” As he tried once again to stand to his feet, the sopping-wet Hunter got his answer.

With a chorus of ancient battle cries, the orc children leapt atop him, forcing him back to the ground as they pounded away at him with their sticks and fishing poles, a couple of them even lashing him with their lengths of twine. The hooks, luckily, were unable to get through his leather armor, but the melee weapons wielded by the others were managing to find gaps in his defenses, gaps that he’d be sure to look into at a later time, of course.

Seeing no easy way out of the situation short of battering a group of violent, savage, hideous children, Sastre simply lay there, taking their abuse, and reflecting on what a rotten day it’d been…

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Several hours earlier…

The ship bobbed up and down on the swells.

It was early morning, just after dawn, and below decks a game of dice that had been played all throughout the night continued, the participating parties still alert and awake despite nearly ten straight hours of play. The stakes were high, far higher than either player had been expecting, and quitting at this stage of the game wasn’t only unthinkable, it was nearly impossible. Above, the shouts of the sailors as they scrambled through the rigging filtered down, their words unintelligible, not that either of the players at the small table were really paying any attention.

Sastre took the dice in his hand, clenching them tightly and closing his eyes, praying to St. Alaya for luck, though he doubted that her esteemed personage would bother bestowing such for the purpose of a foolish game, no matter how much was at stake. Still, though, it never hurt to ask.

He slowly opened his pale blue eyes to gaze intently at his opponent, a yellow-colored dragonborn who had also been fighting in the endless little “wars” that raged throughout the Barbanic Lands. He was a merc, by the look of him, who had no doubt been hired on by the shifters, who were taking just about any help they could get lately, in Sastre’s opinion; he’d seen dragonborn, elves, even a dwarf or two, as well as several fellow humans of questionable allegiance during his travels across the deep wilderness of the north. Now the dragonborn—whose name Sastre had either forgotten or never caught to start with—was on his way home to Boler Island, along with several other travelers and refugees from the wars, including Sastre himself and an elven woman of some importance named Febrien, who was in turn accompanied by a half dozen shifters and a couple of haggard-looking eladrin to boot.

“Well, what’re ya waiting for?” the dragonborn asked in a gravelly voice. “I ain’t getting’ any younger here, ya know?” The yellow-scaled fighter turned his head and, with a sound that revolted Sastre, coughed up and spat out an amazing amount of phlegm that struck the floorboards with a sickening splat. “Let’s get goin’ here!” He slammed his meaty fist on the rickety table for emphases.

“Hold your horses, big guy,” Sastre replied calmly, rubbing the dice together in his hands. “This is for the win, you know. I need a little prep time, so just settle down.” For the win, he thought to himself, swallowing hard. Please, please, let me win this… I just need to get seven or higher, damn it! Seven or higher will win me the game… If I don’t make this roll, I’m done for!

It was true, actually. At the start of the game, both parties had agreed upon a sum to be paid by the loser to the winner when the contest came to an end. It was a pretty decent amount of money at stake, and the loser would certainly find his belt pouch quite a bit lighter by the time the winnings had been handed over. The only problem was, unknown to the dragonborn, Sastre’s pouch was already very, very light.

Empty, in fact.

Finally, feeling that luck was indeed with him, the Hunter let go of the dice, letting them drop to the table where they bounced and rolled, causing Sastre to bite his lip each and every time one of them began to slow, only to be tossed lightly to one side again as the ship swayed with the waves. The rules that they had agreed on had strictly stated that the dice must remain still for at least five seconds before the rolls were tallied up, which at times was a blessing, but at other times was a curse as well.

The first finally settled: five.

Sastre cried out, jumping to his feet—careful not to hit the table—and locking his eyes on the spinning second dice, his entire body rigid with tension. The dragonborn across from him was equally tense, his fists clenched and his deep, dark eyes wide with anticipation, for if he lost this match, he’d be losing most of the funds he’d acquired during his time in the Barbanic Lands.

Agonizingly slowly, the dice came to a stop...

One.

Sastre groaned and dropped back into his seat as the massive dragonborn leapt up and down, howling in glee at his victory. The yellow-scaled mercenary looked quite ridiculous as he danced around, and Sastre had the sudden urge to hurt him, though he immediately tossed that thought aside; this man had done nothing to warrant being hurt other than winning at a game of chance. Still, though, he didn’t have to hurt the dragonborn to get out of paying his debt…

Stealthily, the Hunter rose from his seat and dropped into a low crouch, making his way quickly and quietly toward the ladder that would take him above decks. It was a big ship, after all, and Sastre thought it likely that he’d be able to hide from the dragonborn for another few days until the ship docked at the City of No Names. He looked back over his shoulder, smiling at his cleverness as the mercenary continued to rejoice at his unexpected luck. Good, only a few feet more.

“Goin’ somewhere, Quicksilver?” a deep, grating voice asked from behind the Hunter as he reached the ladder. “Funny, I don’t remember you payin’ me yet… Could it be that maybe yer tryin’ to skip out on your part in all this?”

“Of course not,” Sastre replied, turning to flash a hurt look at the dragonborn. “I am deeply offended that you would think so little of me, my friend.” He shook his head and gestured up toward the deck above. “I’ve simply left my money up there, and I was on my way to retrieve it. One moment, please, and I’ll be back with your winnings.” Trying not to look too anxious to be away, Sastre turned back to the ladder.

“Quicksilver?”

Sastre cringed a little as he looked back over his shoulder. “Yes, what is it?” he asked, trying to sound irritated more than worried, and praying that he’d succeeded. “You’ll never get your money if you don’t let me go and fetch it.”

The dragonborn simply nodded as he sauntered over, a sly grin stretched across his reptilian features, making him look positively sinister in the dim light provided by the lantern that hung above the table, swaying in time with the ship. He stopped beside Sastre, reaching forward slowly and pulling the Hunter’s cloak back, gesturing toward his belt pouch. He prodded it with a single clawed finger, his expression turning to one of confusion, then quickly morphing yet again to a look of hot anger.

“What’s this then?” he growled, slicing open the bottom of the Hunter’s pouch with his claw, his body trembling with rage when only two copper pieces fell to the ground with a dull clang. His head snapped up, his dark eyes locking on Sastre’s. “You… You tried to cheat me!”

“That’s not true!” Sastre countered, slowly moving his hand toward his whip, which hung coiled on the opposite hip from his belt pouch. “I was supposed to win! Had everything gone according to plan, you would never have known about my lack of funds.” In a single, lighting fast movement, Sastre lashed out with his whip, hoping to stun the dragonborn long enough to escape. His opponent was too close, though, and he easily caught the human’s wrist, effectively stopping his blow.

“You lying, dirty bastard!” the reptilian man bellowed, reaching out with his other hand to grab the Hunter and toss him over his shoulder. With a strength born from rage, the dragonborn shot up the ladder, not slowing even a bit despite his heavy, fighting, writhing burden.

The sailors and handful of other passengers on deck dropped everything they were doing and gawked at the spectacle of the shrieking, cursing dragonborn and his equally loud and vulgar encumbrance. His footsteps seeming to shake the entire ship, the mercenary marched toward the railing, hoisting the struggling Sastre easily above his head.

“There ain’t no place fer cheaters on this boat, Quicksilver!” he shouted as he tossed Sastre overboard. The Hunter hit the water hard, having fallen over fifteen feet from the deck of the ship, and he sent up a spray of seawater as he plunged beneath the waves, only to come spluttering back up moments later. The ship, moving as fast as it was, had already pulled away from him, but he could still hear the dragonborn’s voice on the wind: “Enjoy the swim back to shore!”

Treading water for a moment, Sastre narrowed his eyes and searched the horizon around him, sighing in relief when he saw land only a few miles to the southwest. It would only be a couple hours’ swim, then he’d be safe on solid ground again, thankfully. He chuckled to himself, realizing that he’d managed to get out of paying his debt rather easily, for he’d always been fond of water and was a decent swimmer.

Besides, there couldn’t be anything worse waiting for him on shore than what would have awaited him had he stayed aboard ship…

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Sastre trudged down the road.

Cornfields rose up on either side of him, making him feel claustrophobic and more than a little uncomfortable as the setting sun turned the sky a shade of blood red. His legs—hell, his whole body—ached from his harsh treatment at the hands of first the orc children, then their none-too-happy parents, and followed still after by the pair of orcish Knights of the Golden Road who had personally escorted him to the border of their lands before letting him loose and setting him on his way. He was still wet, and cold, and his whip was as good as ruined from all that time in the ocean…

Oh well, it was only a couple days’ walk from Orcunda to the city of Belra, which had been his destination all along, really. And by swimming to shore and walking to Belra, he’d managed to skip the dragonborns’ City of No Names altogether. Besides, at least he was alive; that in itself was a blessing, for things had been pretty dicey for a while there. As the sun finally dipped entirely beyond the western horizon and darkness fell in full, Sastre plodded along, shivering a little in the cold night air, a single thought on his mind:

I need to get me a new whip…

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PART II:

WEEPING BRIAR



The sky opened up.

Thunder rumbled across the countryside as a deluge of icy rain poured down from on high, chilling the night air and turning the road from Orcunda to Belra to a dark, viscous stretch of mud and mire. Bolts of angry purple lightning spread across the sky, flashing in and out of the thick cloud cover, more than once reaching down to strike some distant point on the horizon. Hail soon accompanied the cold rain, and with it came a fierce wind that tore across the landscape, bending even the largest and strongest trees to the ground and turning the falling chunks of ice into dangerous projectiles.

Sastre trudged along through this tempest, his sopping-wet cloak held around him for its scant warmth and its scant protection from the whirling storms of hail that seemed to assail him with every step. His legs—which still had yet to recover from their swim and rough treatment at the hands of the orcs—were rubbery and wouldn’t stop shaking, and when he began to ascend a particularly steep hill to gain a bird’s eye view of the landscape around him, they gave out completely. The Hunter pitched forward as his legs went out from beneath him, hitting the ground hard with his right shoulder, which chose that inopportune moment to make its own pain and exhaustion known. He gasped as the muscles of his upper arm and shoulder spasmed, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out at the unexpected fire that shot through him.

He had slid halfway back down the incline before he managed to regain his senses.

Lying motionless in the mud for a moment, Sastre stared up at the angry sky, dark clouds backlit by extraordinary flashes of lighting. A hail stone slightly smaller in diameter than his fist struck the ground inches from his face, prompting him to stagger to his feet, rubbing his right shoulder and flexing the fingers of that same hand. His pale blue eyes turned upward, toward the top of the hill he’d been climbing, the very thought of his climbing back up causing his body to ache deeply. He sneezed, and cursed his rotten luck.

Sighing hopelessly, Sastre once again began to climb, his body protesting every step of the way.

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The ruins loomed up out of the darkness.

Sastre had spotted the remains of the village from atop the high hill that he’d managed—after several attempts—to climb. It sat far below, in the center of a valley between the hills, looking terribly ominous with its burned and dilapidated buildings, the skeletal remains of what once must have been a mill standing slightly apart from the village, beside a roaring river that had most certainly grown in both volume and speed from the continuing downpour. Abandoned as it was, though, the Hunter’s sharp eyes had caught some sort of movement from the buildings, and when he finally decided to approach, he did so warily, his cross-boomerang held tightly in his left hand.

After sliding and tumbling down the incline, Sastre had only to walk a mile or so before reaching the ruined settlement, his pride feeling just as bruised as the rest of him. He stopped at the town’s edge, his eyes narrowed and surveying the layout before he ventured in, searching for any sign of habitation, be it human or—

There!

Once again, as he had from his lofty position earlier, the Hunter saw the barest hint of a shadow move stealthily between two collapsing buildings near the center of the village. Readying his weapon, Sastre slipped silently over the threshold, running in a low crouch and keeping as much cover between himself and the shadow as possible, for he could still see it darting to and fro at times. After moving several yards into the ruins, Sastre stopped and stood, keeping in the shadows of an overhanging roof as he watched.

The storm, of course, picked that precise moment to intensify.

A blinding flash lit the ruined village, and just before Sastre clenched his eyes closed to shut out the dancing lights that obscured his vision, he saw a small, slender silhouette mostly hidden behind a rotting, overturned wagon across the empty village square. Without hesitation, the Hunter spun and tossed his weapon, the faint hum of it travelling through the air lost in the tumultuous storm that raged like a demon around him. Barely a second passed when, to his satisfaction, Sastre heard a muffled cry of pain from the direction of the unknown creature.

Wasting not a moment, the dark-haired human shot forward, leaving the cover of the building and vaulting over a destroyed merchant’s stall as he raced across the square. About halfway across, Sastre thrust his arm forward, catching the spinning blade expertly and holding it close to him, readying it for a melee confrontation. He reached the wagon, leaping over it to find—

A sword, cutting through the air toward him, its uncannily sharp blade slicing cleanly through the very drops of rain that fell, moving in slow motion to the Hunter’s battle-heightened senses. Gasping in surprise, Sastre clenched his teeth, mentally commanding his protesting body to dodge aside as the point of the long, curved blade arced toward him. Begrudgingly, and with no small amount of pain, his battered and exhausted body obeyed, and the slash that had been meant to take his head from his shoulders instead found itself biting into something a little less vital, yet still plenty painful.

Hitting the ground hard and rolling to his feet, Sastre crouched at the ready, blood flowing freely from the gash across his chest. The boomerang that he’d earlier thrown was held before him, its razor edges glistening coldly in a sudden flash of lightning. Barely six feet away from him crouched a figure enshrouded in a long, tan great-cloak, a weapon of superior craftsmanship held in its hands, which trembled ever-so-slightly. The two remained motionless, each gauging the threat level of the other.

Finally Sastre spoke, though the words were not in the common tongue of Boler Island. He gestured cautiously toward the blade wielded by his opponent and added a single word: katana.

Slowly, while still positioning the blade for a possible kill, the smaller figure nodded once and stood up straight, beckoning Sastre to do the same. In a fluid motion, the mysterious fighter pulled the cloak’s hood back, revealing the beautiful face of a young woman. Her hair was dark, and appeared to hang to just above her shoulders, though it was hard to say at the moment, plastered against her head as it was by the rain. Her features were delicate, but held a hard edge that spoke volumes about the life she’d led, for they were the stern features of a warrior. This observation was only backed up by her eyes: a dark, purple-grey that reminded Sastre of nothing so much as the flickering storm clouds above, and they held that same hard edge that seemed to lie just beneath the surface of her face, tempering an already beautiful set of features into something else entirely, something dangerous, and something to be feared.

Sastre was star stuck.

“Your Hai-lanese is terrible,” the young woman said with a ghost of a smile, lowering her blade but not her guard.

The brown-clad Hunter simply shrugged. “Apparently you should hear my orchish.” Looking the woman up and down, Sastre finally relaxed himself enough to stand, though he kept his cross-boomerang held tightly in his grasp. “My name is Sastre,” he said, finding himself nearly yelling to be heard above the storm. “Can we take this somewhere a little bit quieter… and drier?”

The stormy-eyed warrior flinched slightly at the sound of his name.

“Sastre?” she repeated incredulously. “As in Sastre Quicksilver?” When Sastre nodded, he was rewarded with a sudden laugh from the girl. It was a pretty laugh, almost musical, and the Hunter found himself smiling also. “We have a lot in common, you and me.” Finally, she sheathed her blade at her hip and beckoned the Hunter to follow after her as she made her way quickly between the buildings. “Come on!”

Only a step or two behind, Sastre followed.

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Even the fire in the hearth seemed subdued by the storm.

The old, dilapidated inn was a blessing to the exhausted, injured, and filthy Sastre, despite the questionable state of its roof. Most of the establishment was uninhabitable, the young woman had told him, but the common room had remained fairly intact. Intact, apparently, meant that the roof had only a few minor leaks, the windows were shattered, allowing a constant cold breeze to sweep through the dusty chamber, and the handful of animals that had decided to move in were relatively harmless. The hearth remained blessedly unbroken, though, and that was a far sight better than many of the places that the Hunter had made use of in the past.

Sastre sat beside the fireplace on the cold stone floor, carefully removing his drenched cloak, tunic, and vest of leather armor. He winced in pain as the slash across his chest reminded him of its presence, as if he had forgotten that a katana had cut him open in an attempt to remove his head from his shoulders. Setting the heavy, wet pile of clothing next to the fire, the Hunter stood to his feet, walking to the table upon which he’d set his pack. Rummaging through its contents, he removed a roll of bandages and a packet of herbs that he’d purchased some time ago for just such a situation. They would numb the wound, and keep it from festering.

“Is it bad?”

Sastre turned back toward the fire, where the mysterious, grey-eyed young woman sat tending a cut on her cheek, undoubtedly left by his cross-boomerang. For some reason, he suddenly felt bad about simply tossing the weapon at her without first making sure she was, in fact, an enemy. The throbbing pain from his own wound quickly changed his mind, though.

“No, not bad,” he replied with a shrug, clenching his teeth as the gesture caused the muscles in and around the gash to move in the process. “It’s just in an inconvenient place, that’s all. You don’t realize how often the muscles of your chest are used until—

“Until someone comes along and cuts you open, I get it.” The girl finished tending to her own minor injury before moving away from the low-burning fire, making her way toward Sastre as he applied the contents of the packet to his chest. “Your accent is strange,” she said softly, using a belt knife to cut a length of bandage from the roll. “Where are you from?”

Sastre shrugged, regretting it again. “Lots of places.” He watched the way she prepared the bandage, noticing that she seemed to really know what she was doing. Deciding that this stranger was probably not going to try and kill him anytime soon, the long-haired Hunter spoke again after several long, silent moments. “You said we had much in common. Tell me, what did you mean?”

“We share a common occupation,” she replied, wrapping the bandage around Sastre’s chest.

“Ah, you are a Hunter, then?”

The girl nodded, replying, “Yes, though not as famous as you, it would seem.”

Sastre smiled a little. “Few are.” He let the black-clad young woman finish, admiring her first aid abilities. Taking a spare tunic out from his pack and carefully pulling it over his head, he asked, “You have a name?”

“Solphi.”

“And what do you Hunt?”

She shrugged, returning to sit on the floor before the fire. “This and that. But I specialize in demons, devils, and others of their ilk.”

“Fascinating,” Sastre replied, a thoughtful look crossing his features as he pulled on another pair of trousers, oft-mended and patched but thankfully clean and dry. He crossed the few feet between them and dropped heavily before the hearth, sitting a few feet away from Solphi.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“No particular reason. I’ve just met precious few like you,” he answered. “After all, there are few brave enough to face off against such creatures.” He thought of his own few encounters with demons and decided that, given a choice, he’d rather face down an angry dragon than some of the demonic beings that lurked in the shadows out there. He was terribly curious about how a young girl like Solphi had come to Hunt those very creatures, but the unofficial “code” of Hunters made doing so very tacky at best, and downright insulting at worst. Every Hunter had a story, a reason for doing what they did, but it was no one’s business but their own.

“What brings you here, to this ruined little village?” Sastre asked, deciding not to push the girl for details about her past.

“This ‘ruined little village’ was once called Weeping Briar,” Solphi answered, her voice distant as she gazed into the fire. “I come here often, actually. I grew up here, until the demons came and took everyone away…”

An ominous, tense silence followed her words, one that Sastre feared would linger forever.

Solphi at last spoke again, abruptly changing the subject and making Sastre realize that he had very nearly crossed the line with his off-handed comments and inquiries. “You have an awful lot of scars to be the Sastre Quicksilver, don’t you?” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, the barest hint of a smile upon her lips. “I mean, I thought that Sastre Quicksilver was supposed to be so good that there was no creature alive that could touch him.”

“It would seem,” he said slowly, “that my reputation has been somewhat inflated. Besides, there are only two types of Hunter who don’t have any scars: those who do not live long enough to acquire them, and those who run from battle rather than risk such injury.” He flashed a smile at Solphi. “Tell me, what type of Hunter are you?”

Surprising, she returned his smile. “I have my share of scars, thank you. To be honest, it’s nice to know that you really aren’t invincible after all.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it means that someday you’ll mess up, get yourself killed, and it’ll be someone else’s turn to have a shot at all the wealth and glory.”

“What wealth and glory are you speaking of, exactly?” Sastre wondered. “Did you not know, I never charge for my services.”

“What do you mean you don’t charge a fee?!” Solphi exclaimed, her stormy eyes wide with disbelief. “Honestly, what the hell kind of Hunter doesn’t charge for his services?”

Gesturing toward his pile of threadbare, patched clothing Sastre responded simply, “A very poor one.”

The two Hunters shared a laugh over this, and Sastre found himself surprisingly drawn to the young woman who had slowly begun to move closer to him. It had been a very long time since he’d felt so attracted to someone, and he found the sensation startling. There was another unspoken rule among Hunters: you would only find comfort in the arms of another Hunter, for it was wrong to draw “civilians” into your world.

Solphi, apparently, was also aware of this rule.

Sastre simply smiled as her hand found his and she moved closer, thinking that perhaps there was some small comfort to be found in the midst of this storm after all.

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To be continued...

PART III

REMINISCENCE



The keep was an inferno.

Screams echoed throughout the halls and corridors as the children ran, their vision obscured by tears and smoke, their sobs broken by gagging as they choked on the ash-filled air. Accompanying the screams were the sounds battle: steel on steel, men grunting and growling, and heavy boots pounding up the stone steps of the tower. Filled with terror, the children just continued to run.

“Wait,” the elder of the three—a boy of about thirteen—said softly, stopping to hide in the relative shadow of a massive wooden door, thrown wide open. He was a handsome child, tall for his age and sporting a head of thick, dark hair. His eyes, wide yet lacking the animalistic fear of the other children, darted to and fro, scanning the hallway outside the door for any signs of danger. Flickering flames lit the passage, throwing the shadows of several combatants against the wall, causing the three young boys to shrink back instinctively.

“What… What’s happening?” one of them asked. This child was younger than the first, perhaps eight or nine years old, and his shoulder-length hair—slightly lighter than the older boy’s—was matted and dirty. He sniffled, bleary eyed, his tears cutting clean paths through the grime and soot that covered most of his face. Tugging on the sleeve of the older boy’s tunic, he sobbed, “I’m scared, Julien!”

“Hush, Florian!” the third boy, a lad of maybe eleven, hissed. His dark eyes, tear-filled and shimmering in the firelight, locked and held the gaze of the younger, terrified child. “Now is not the time for this, little brother. We must be quiet and careful, and we must flee like mother and father bade us.” He turned his attention to the older boy, Julien. “Master… What are these… these creatures who have come for us? What do they want?”

“They are hellspawn, Darian,” Julien replied softly, creeping forward to peer around the corner. “Creatures of the night, sent no doubt by one or more of my father’s enemies.” He stopped in place, head cocked as he listened to the distant cries, the sounds of battle having now given way to relative silence. Finally he spoke again, his voice filled with sorrow. “I fear that Griffon’s Hollow is now lost to us. Flight is the only option.”

Florian, the youngest of the three, started. “Lost?”

“Shhhhh.” Darian reached out, grabbing his younger brother by the arm. “Be strong, little brother.”

With a gesture, Julien beckoned the others to follow him as he slunk into the hallway. Pausing again, he looked back and forth, and when he was content that there was no danger, he ran quietly to the left. The long, spiraling staircase that would take the boys down into the depths of the keep, where the ancient tunnels and bolt holes were, was just down the hall. Julien knew that, if he and the others could reach those tunnels, they’d be able to escape the creatures that had come so suddenly and violently upon them.

“We’re almost there,” he whispered, turning for a moment to look back over his shoulder, pleased to see that both Darian and Florian were following close behind. “Only a few more—”

Suddenly, from out of the shadows of the stairway, a dark from leapt, grabbing Julien and tossing him brutally down the stairs. The boy’s cries echoed up before ending with a single, sharp yell of pain. Instinctively, Darian pushed his younger brother behind him, pulling a dagger from his belt and preparing to defend them from this evil beast. Firelight, flickering from down the hall, cast an eerie light over the figure, tall and clad in dark robes that caused his pallid face to stand out prominently. His eyes—for male he was—were dark and glowed with a deep red light, a red that matched the still-fresh blood that ran down his chin and dripped from his fangs. When he spoke, his voice was distant and cold.

“Well, well, what have we here?” the vampire asked, a grin twisting his grotesque features. Looking back down the stairs he continued. “A pompous little nobleman,” slowly, menacingly, the creature returned his attention to the boys, “and his two grimy little servants. Your blood is not fit to pass my lips, so you’ll have to be content with merely dying, but the young Lord LeDuc there,” he gestured absently toward the darkened stairway, “will prove to be a fine meal.”

A flood of anger rose up in Darian, and he growled as he lunged forward with his small blade. “Never!” The dagger cut through nothing but air as the vampire effortlessly dodged aside, laughing.

“My, my, what a feisty little thing you are,” the blood-engorged man chuckled. “Maybe I spoke too soon; maybe I’ll have you as an appetizer!” With a speed that defied logic, the vampire came up behind Darian, grabbing the child’s wrist and crushing it, forcing him to cry out and drop the dagger on the stone floor of the hallway. Taking a handful of Darian’s hair, the creature lifted him effortlessly, his feet kicking as he yelled in agony. Pulling the boy closer, the vampire bared his fangs, wrenching Darian’s head aside and preparing to bite into his neck.

“No!” Florian screamed, dropping to the floor and covering his eyes with his arms. “Darian, please don’t leave me!”

The vampire laughed again, and as he touched his fangs carefully to the struggling child’s neck, his maniacal laughter suddenly ceased, replaced by a low, pain-laced gurgle. Darian fell from his grasp as the monster’s hands released him, moving instead to the jagged length of wood that protruded now from his chest. Staggering forward, the vampire fell to the hard stone floor, his eyes bloodshot and bulging, his body twitching and seizing uncontrollably.

Darian scampered to Florian’s side, taking hold of his brother and shaking him gently, calling his name to try and calm him down. The pain in his broken wrist was instantly forgotten when he heard a soft footfall from beyond the vampire, near the stairs. There, a gash across his forehead and his left arm held protectively across his ribs, stood Julien, his eyes locked on the vampire, and on the long, broken table leg that he’d impaled the creature upon. Slowly, limping a little, the young noble made his way to the other boys, kneeling down beside them.

“Are you alright?” he asked, forgetting all about his own numerous injuries. “Darian, did he bite you?” Seeing that Darian was ignoring him as he tried to calm his brother, Julien grabbed his shoulder and spun him around to face him, his eyes wide with concern. “Darian! Did that demon bite you?!”

“No!” he answered with a shout, cradling his broken wrist in his other hand. “No, I’m fine,” he repeated, quieter this time.

“Then thank the gods,” Julien responded with an obvious sigh of relief. Helping Darian and the still-crying Florian to their feet, the heir to the LeDuc family led them cautiously around the vampire. “That won’t kill him, but it should buy us enough time. Come, before it’s too late!”

Without a single look back, the three boys entered the darkened arch of the stairway, each trying their hardest to block out the horrendous cries of terror and agony that continued to echo throughout the crumbling, burning keep.

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Sastre awoke.

The smell of ash, the cries of those being slaughtered, and the echoes of battle stayed with him for a moment, as they always did, and he simply lay still, waiting for it to pass. Reaching for the arrowhead amulet around his neck, the Hunter clutched it tightly, closing his eyes and praying silently to St. Alaya for strength, as he did every morning. As the lingering sensations from his nightmare finally drifted away, Sastre realized that he was all alone in the makeshift bed that he and Solphi had shared the night before. He nearly called out for her, but realized that it would be the wrong thing to do. They were both Hunters, and though they’d shared a night together, Sastre knew that there had been no promises made, and that it was not unusual for a Hunter to simply leave the next morning without saying a word. Still, though, he felt an unexpected pang of loss that he wasn’t entirely prepared for…

Yes, he thought to himself, sitting up and stretching, I’m definitely getting soft… Shaking off this foolishness, Sastre stood to his feet, pulling on his trousers as he did so. After a moment of searching, he eventually found his tunic and put it on, moving over to the hearth to restart the fire that had died away at some point in the night. He yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as he poked at the few embers that still glowed stubbornly in the fireplace.

“Finally awake I see.”

Sastre jumped, spinning in place and holding the fire poker before him as an impromptu weapon. Inwardly, he cursed himself for being so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard anyone enter the run-down inn. Such mistakes had killed Hunters in the past, he knew, and he prayed that such wouldn’t be his fate.

Then the voice registered with him, cutting through the fog of battle-readiness.

“Solphi,” he said softly, relaxing and lowering the poker slowly.

“Jumpy?” she taunted, though both Hunters knew that, in their line of work, there was no such thing as jumpy, only battle-honed caution. She moved toward Sastre and, before he had a chance to react, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. “Hungry?” she asked, ignoring his shocked expression as she went and started to dig through her pack. She turned to face him again, and he noticed that the bandage on her cheek had been freshly changed. “How’s your chest?” she asked, tossing him a bit of jerked beef. “Do you need help with your dressings?”

Sastre waved the offer away. “It will be fine,” he assured her. “I’ve suffered far worse, and with far less medical attention.” Tearing a piece off of the jerky with his teeth, the Hunter chewed the leathery beef for what seemed like an eternity before finally swallowing. “I’d though you long gone from here, when I awoke.”

Sitting on the edge of the table, Solphi shrugged. “I was just taking a stroll around the village,” she said, unable to hide the hint of melancholy that had crept into her voice. “This is the first time I’ve been back here since returning from Hai-Lan over a year ago… Not much has changed, of course.” Pushing this sudden bout of sadness aside, she went on. “Well, I’ll be leaving soon for Belra. It seems they’re going to be crowing a King in a couple of days, and it isn’t something that I want to miss.”

Sastre nodded, saying nothing. A silence fell, uncomfortable and strangely tense.

“So,” the stormy-eyed young woman spoke softly into the silence, “what now?”

“What do you mean?”

To Sastre’s surprise, Solphi looked away, blushing slightly. She remained silent for several moments, the furrowing of her smooth forehead giving away her worried thoughts. Finally she looked back up at him, her eyes steely, the blush still apparent on her face. When she spoke, Sastre heard a hint of doubt in her voice for the first time since he’d met her.

“Surely… Surely you felt something last night.”

Again, cautiously, Sastre simply nodded.

Relief flooded Solphi’s pale face, and she visibly relaxed. “I thought so, but…” Shaking her head, she smiled and stepped forward to embrace Sastre, her head resting lightly, carefully against his injured chest.

“I know,” Sastre replied. “But… But this isn’t normal for people like us, you understand. Our occupation is not… suited for such things.”

“I don’t care.”

Sastre smiled, sighing with contentment as he kissed Solphi lightly on her forehead. “Neither, then, do I.”

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They left the ruins of Weeping Briar behind them.

Trudging along the moist, muddy road, the two Hunters made their way south, toward the population center of Boler Island: the city of Belra. After several hours of travel, they found that they weren’t the only people making the journey, and the road eventually became quite busy, with riders and carts—as well as those travelling by shanks’ mare—all on their way to Belra, and the coronation of the soon-to-be-king Jareth.

Sastre knew little of the man, though it was said that he was a kind and fair ruler. He had proven himself years before in the Goblin Wars, when the nations of Gobigo and Orcunda had decimated the countryside with their incessant fighting, and it was said that he cared more about easing the plight of the common folk than he did of catering to the whims of the wealthy and highborn. Such rulers were rare, and Sastre had long since decided that he would assess the man’s character himself.

“Why is it,” he asked Solphi, when the sprawling metropolis of Belra stretched out before them after a day and a half of travel, “that you desire to be at this Lord Jareth’s coronation?”

“I couldn’t care less about Jareth,” Solphi answered with a snort. “But wherever there’s a big gathering like this, there are bound to be nobles. And where there are nobles…”

Sastre nodded understanding. “There are jobs,” he finished. “I see.”

“What about you, oh high and mighty Lord Sastre Quicksilver?” Solphi teased. “Do you, too, seek a wealthy patron?”

For the briefest moment, Sastre’s features clouded. “Do not call me Lord, Solphi, not even in jest.” An uncomfortable silence suddenly fell between them like a curtain, and Sastre instantly regretted the vehemence with which he’d spoken. “I’m simply curious about this Jareth, that’s all,” he said finally, in answer to her question, as if his earlier outburst had never happened. “Politics amuse me, you could say… They’re in my blood.”

“Oh really? I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who’d be interested in politics,” Solphi countered, reaching out to take Sastre’s hand as they approached the city. “Is that really the only reason you’re going?”

“Well, there’s you, of course,” he responded with a smile, “and I still need to get a new whip…”

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To be continued...

PART IV

BELRA



The streets of Belra were clogged with people.

Thousands of pilgrims of almost every race imaginable had left their homes and journeyed to the city for Lord Jareth’s coronation as the first King of Belra. Goblins and orcs, dragonborn and gnomes, and—surprisingly—even a beholder or two, strode down the congested lanes side by side with humans and other more common races. In and out of the press ran dozens of children, laughing, playing, and simply enjoying the festive atmosphere that had descended upon the city.

As Solphi and Sastre made their way through the crowds, a young girl of maybe seven or eight years bumped into the male Hunter, crying out in shock as she nearly fell to the ground. Immediately Sastre reached down and grabbed the child’s wrist, her hand tucked neatly inside his belt pouch. The blood drained from the girl’s dirty face as she stared up at the blue-eyed man in horror. He knelt before her, extricating her hand from his money pouch, leaning forward until scarcely an inch separated them.

“I’m afraid,” he started, a hint of malice coloring his quiet words, “that you will find nothing of value there, my dear.” With a flick of his wrist, a silver piece appeared in the Hunter’s other hand, and he held it out to the little street urchin. His voice took on a softer tone as he continued. “Be wary of your marks, child, for there are dangerous folk about.” He released her hand as she reached out lightning fast to snatch the proffered coin from his hand.

“D… Dangerous?” she stuttered, her eyes wide at the shock of Sastre’s actions. “Like who?” she asked, her eyes darting about as she searched the crowd.

“Like us,” he responded with a wink, gesturing toward Solphi as he answered. With a yelp of surprise, the little girl bolted and disappeared within the press of people. Sastre smiled as he stood, pulling on the leather tong that would close his belt pouch.

Finally the two Hunters began moving again, unsure of their destination, simply going with the flow of the bodies around them. It was claustrophobic, really, and the scents of so many people—many who didn’t have the luxury of a regular bath—and beasts of burden were overpowering. The Hunters’ ears throbbed from the unending roar of voices: people calling out to friends and travelling companions, street vendors hawking their wares, teamsters bellowing for their animals to press on through the crowd, and those same animals bellowing back in annoyance.

After walking for several minutes without speaking to one another—for such a thing was relatively difficult over the noise of the crowds—Solphi finally spoke.

“Where’d you get that silver from, anyway?” she asked, her stormy eyes filled with curiosity as she glanced up at him. “I thought you were broke…”

Sastre laughed. “Oh yes, I am quite broke. But I thought that, with the direction that our relationship seems to be going, perhaps now would be a good time to dispense with ‘your’ money or ‘my’ money, and make it simply our money.” He smirked at her, his icy eyes sparkling with amusement.

It took a moment for Sastre’s words to register. With a sharp intake of breath, Solphi stopped dead in her tracks, her hand flying to her own belt pouch. Pulling out a handful of coins, the young woman counted quickly, her brow furrowing before she counted the money a second time. Finally, after a third time, she deposited the coins back into the pouch and cast a baleful glace at the dark-haired Hunter beside her.

“Tell me: when did you happen to pull that off?”

Sastre simply shrugged. “I was quite the pickpocket in my youth,” he replied nonchalantly. “Over the years, I’ve found it a skill that has served me well on occasion.” He continued walking, leaving Solphi behind, her arms crossed over her chest indignantly.

“Sastre,” she called out, her voice low, her eyes flashing. Her tone caused the Hunter to stop once more, though he still kept his back to her. Ignoring the milling people around her, she continued. “I’m missing a bit more than just a single silver piece…”

“Oh?” Sastre asked, still not looking back.

Solphi walked forward, slipping her arm through Sastre’s as the two continued on. As they walked, the slender woman picked up the thread of their conversation. “In fact,” she said airily, “there happens to be just enough missing to, say, purchase a rather well-made leather bullwhip…” Her voice trailed off and she looked up at Sastre out of the corner of her eye.

The Hunter shrugged, his lips quirking into a quick smile. “Well,” he responded with a sigh, “What would the ‘famous’ Sastre Quicksilver be without his fabled whip?” He looked down at the girl at his side, seeing his own mirth reflected in her expression. “What do you say? Shall we find a semi-reputable weapons dealer to replace my legendary weapon? And then, perhaps, we should find somewhere luxurious to spend the night.”

Solphi rolled her eyes. “And I suppose that we’ll be paying for such accommodations with my money?”

“No, no, of course not,” Sastre said, shaking his head and patting Solphi on the shoulder. “They will be paid for with our money.”

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The boys huddled around the fire.

It was a small fire, pitifully so, and the darkened forest just outside the scant illumination seemed claustrophobic and threatening. The night was cold and damp, but thankfully the rains that had been drenching them for the past few weeks had stopped, leaving the forest and countryside a mire of muck and mud that clung to their clothing and threatened to swallow them whole with every misstep. All of the wood they had managed to scrounge up from the surrounding forest before darkness had set in was soaked, making for a cold, smoky fire, but a fire nonetheless.

The three children shook with cold, pulling the tattered remains of their cloaks about their quaking shoulders. Their breath came in ragged gasps, puffing out from their quivering lips in bursts of condensation despite the fire that burned scant inches away from them.

The night was dark and cold, and full of danger.

Julien’s head perked up, his silver-blue eyes scanning the all-encompassing forest, his hand tightening around the heavy, jagged-edged stick that was his only weapon. His thick, dark brown hair was soaked from the recent rains and the moisture that still hung in the air, and he had lost a substantial amount of weight from both the constant running and the lack of food. He stood, turning his back to the small fire and gazing intently into the forest, his eyes narrowed as he searched for something.

“What is it?” Darien asked, moving to stand beside his master, brandishing a club-like stick of his own. He didn’t look quite as haggard as Julien, for it seemed that Darien and his younger brother were used to having just enough food to sustain them, while their noble master, it seemed, was suffering from the lack of plentiful sustenance.

Julien was silent for a moment before he whispered over his shoulder to Darien. “Something is watching us, from the dark…” He continued to study the shadowy woods around their flickering, guttering fire, some deep, seemingly preternatural instinct warning him that they were not safe. “Rouse Florian,” he said softly, gesturing toward the youngest boy, who sat in a state of half-sleep before the fire. “It is time for us to move on.”

Darien nodded, his weary eyes wide with fear as he went and gently shook his little brother into wakefulness. Julien moved swiftly and tossed handfuls of damp earth over the fire to smother it, cursing under his breath as a small column of smoke drifted skyward. The young nobleman heard Darien calmly and quietly telling Florian what was afoot, and his heart ached when he heard the young boy begin to sob uncontrollably into his brother’s shoulder as Darien held him. Julien wasn’t upset, in fact he was terribly proud of the child, for all throughout the days and weeks of endless horror and pursuit, young Florian had managed to swallow his fear and show remarkable bravery. He moved over to crouch beside the brothers, noticing that Darien had tears of his own running down his dirty cheeks.

“Shhh,” the young Lord LeDuc quietly comforted. “Come now, my brave companions.” He put his arms around the brothers, resting his cheek upon the tops of their heads. “We must carry on, lest the demons that destroyed our home go unpunished. We are so close, so close! The border is not far; we should reach Alacrast in just a few more days, I promise you.” He hoped that the doubts he held weren’t obvious in his words, for at this point, survival and escape seemed hopeless.

Once Florian and Darien were calmed enough, the boys set out.

Through the damp darkness, the children ran, making their way as silently as possible through the thick forest. Total silence, of course, was impossible, and Julien cringed every time a twig snapped, or a branch broke as one or another of them crashed through the forested terrain. More than once, little Florian had to be picked up and carried by Julien or Darien, as the undergrowth was oftentimes far too thick for the smallest boy to traverse. Several times, Julien was sure that he heard the sounds of pursuit just behind them, and the eerie, surreal echo of demonic laughter seemed to emanate from the shadows on all sides.

Finally, they struck.

Half a dozen black-cloaked figures appeared seemingly out of nowhere, surrounded the startled children before any of them had a chance to react. When the initial shock wore off, Julien felt his blood begin to boil, and he readied his improvised weapon as the vampires darted in an out, not really attacking the children, but content to simply frighten and disorient them. Their laughter, cold and heartless, made something snap in the dark-haired young noble.

“Darien!” he cried, “fight them!” With a roar of anger and pent-up sorrow, Julien charged the creatures, wielding his stick as if it were the short sword that he desperately wished he had. Despite all of the weapons training that he’d undergone, Julien found himself completely unable to land a blow against any of the vampires, who dodged to and fro, taunting him and laughing at his inability to strike them.

Years of obedience kicked in immediately when Julien called out to Darien, and the younger boy wasted no time lashing out at the vampires with his own stick, making sure to always stay between them and his little brother. Like his young lord, though, Darien found all of his well-aimed attacks meeting nothing but thin air. His vision was blurred with tears as he fought on, crying and cursing the monsters that toyed with him, vowing vengeance against them even as his every blow was easily evaded.

It was sheer chaos in the forest for what seemed like an eternity. The vampires would close in, taunt and terrify the children, and then withdraw without even trying to harm or kill them. Julien, Darien, and Florian would take advantage of these moments of tense peace by plunging headlong into the forest, praying that they would somehow miraculously reach the border that separated Griffon’s Hollow from Alacrast, the neighboring city-state that had always shared a congenial relationship with the LeDuc family.

It seemed that only Julien, though, realized that even if they managed to make the border, it would all be pointless unless Alacrast’s entire army were there waiting for them. He knew, deep inside, that the pursuing vampires wouldn’t give a damn about borders; they would hunt them down forever.

The vampires came again, filling the night with their demonic shrieks and ghostly laughter, moving in and out among the children, feigning attack and dodging the boys’ ever-weakening attacks. The children were fatigued, and unable now to do much more than wildly swing their “weapons” in wide arcs around them. This time, the vampires actually began to hit them, driving the children into the ground with their brutal, bare-handed strikes, and kicking them while they were down. And not for a moment did the laughter cease, for it was obvious that the creatures were enjoying this little game of theirs.

Then, as suddenly as it had all happened, it was simply over.

The vampires were gone, completely gone. Julien rose on shaking legs, blood flowing freely from his nose and split lip. He spun in a circle, listening, watching, yet unable to sense any hint that the demons were nearby. They were truly gone. He collapsed, lying amidst the churned up muck of the forest floor, oblivious to everything but the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees, and the hopeless crying of little Florian. It took a moment for the young boy’s words, uttered between bouts of heart-wrenching sobbing, to register in Julien’s foggy mind.

“Darien… Darien is gone…”

Julien sat up, all weariness and pain forgotten as he scanned the surrounding forest in the dim light. He stood running this way and that, kicking aside piles and clumps of deadfall, calling out for Darien and hearing only an echo in response. He clenched his fists and screamed into the new morning, his eyes too dry even to shed a tear as swore to hunt down and destroy each and every one of the demons responsible for everything that had happened. He knelt down next to Florian, holding the child and promising that they’d find Darien and save him.

But, deep inside, he knew that the boy was already dead.

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Sastre stared up at the ceiling.

Solphi stirred next to him, but remained asleep, blissfully unaware of her lover’s dark memories. He stroked her silky dark hair, taking some small comfort in her nearness, the ghost of a smile flitting across his lips. He always awoke to the memories, as if his mind were making sure that he’d keep the promises and vows made long ago, making sure that he’d never forget. He shook his head slightly to clear it, letting his hand drift to his chest, his fingers running over the arrowhead amulet that never left his neck.

Alaya, he silently prayed, grant me strength as I walk this difficult path, and grant me wisdom as I face those difficult choices that are bound to come. As you, once, found peace after vengeance, I pray that someday, I too will find that peace… His brow furrowed, for it seemed as though the amulet had grown slightly warmer in his hand. Strange…

“Awake already?” Solphi asked in a sleepy voice as her hand fell over his.

“I sleep lightly,” Sastre responded, smiling down at the girl. “And you snore.”

“Beast,” she retorted, wrinkling her nose at him as she sat up and stretched, smiling as she saw Sastre’s appreciative glance over her nude body. “Well,” she said, throwing the blankets aside and striding across the room to their packs. “I’m for breakfast. You?”

The Lord’s Rest Inn was arguably the most opulent, and expensive, hostelry in all of Belra, offering not only plush, luxurious rooms—carpeted rooms—but also a gourmet menu that was absolute heaven. If the breakfast offered in the common room below was half as good as the dinner that the two Hunters had shared the night before, then Sastre knew that he’d be a fool to pass it up.

He nodded, climbing out of bed and sighing in contentment at the feeling of soft, warm carpet beneath his bare feet, rather than the cold stone or wood that he was used to. He dressed quickly, hanging his cross-boomerang and newly-purchased bullwhip on his belt as the subtle smell of cooking hot cakes and bacon filtered up from the kitchen below.

Yes, he could certainly get used to this…

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