Betrayal of the Light

Thirteen

“I’m leaving in half an hour,” I announce throwing on my trench coat. “Is there anything else I should know about the place?”

“I think you know enough,” says Damien tasting a glass of wine with a smirk, “unless you would like to hear a story about a hunt of ours there.”

“I’m listening,” I reply considering the spare time until the sun will set.

“We were hired by a baron from Sangria on a retrieval hunt, because some guy stole his precious gold and jewels,” the disgust evident on his face. “Between the two of us, he probably didn’t want to mess up his hair or wrinkle his shirt by doing it himself. We refuse to work for the king’s dogs, but the money he offered was plenty I’ll admit. You said we’d consider it and went to get drunk and slept in the inn that same night. Told you, best wine in the country.”

On that note he swirled the glowing blood in his glass, drinking as if to remember better.

“Let’s face it; the road back was in no way to be undertaken that late and in that condition. Three bottles I think we had. At that point we still had no intention of taking the job, but the next morning we woke up and the silver cross from around my neck was missing. Who else could it have been, but that same thief that robbed the baron and some other people who confided in us the night before? This’ a small village. That’s the moment we were determined to go after him, at least for my cross. Maybe for the other villagers as well. Last of all for that scum of a baron. Sources of mine sent word back to me that he was last seen in Kindawn, the one place we swore we’d never set foot in after we ran away. That cross was passed on to me, as a last memento from a father I’ve never met; that was more important to me than anything. With all your brotherly love for me, you wouldn’t let me go alone, so we both traveled back to that cursed place. Sure enough, the rat was out on the streets looking to sell what he had stolen. I tried talking some sense into the guy, pushing for him to return it all, but the numskull took out a knife out and threatened us to back off. In that same moment I took out mine and when he lunged at me, I thrusted my blade in him so deep, so enraged for my father’s keepsake. First time I killed someone…and last time we ever set foot in Kindawn.”

“You did what you had to survive,” I reassure him, seeing the remorse hidden behind his eyes.

“Sure,” he whispers; frowning, unsettled, searching for words. “but I couldn’t wear that bloodstained cross ever since. If I so much as look at it, I remember, no, I feel his dead eyes staring at me from the darkness while he lets out his last breath of air.”

“You’re too harsh on yourself,” intervenes Loreley pouring him another glass of wine “you’re a good man, Damien; both of you are.”

She is sitting on the same old armchair and crunching cookies, her eyes innocently sparkling. It is beyond her understanding what it is like to drain the life out of a body or feel the blood of someone else drip down your own hands and face. Damien had to bend down over a lifeless body and tear that cross from his limp neck.

“The sun is going down,” I say gazing out the window. “I must be on my way now, but Hunter is still injured. I can’t take him with me.”

 “Leave him here,” she says scratching his head. “I’ll take good care of him while you’re away.”

Her promise puts me at rest. I place my hand on the shoulder of Damien, telling him and Hunter to behave in my absence. Then I head outside in the cold, where I must drag my boots through a snow reaching up almost the same height as my boots. Fresh flakes are whirling through the air, brought down by the raging storm that approaches with the night.

I think I am taking a pathless route through the forest. That is from what I remember, as the snow has swept away any path altogether. Of the night I am certain it should be here for hours and be enough so no one could notice me and send word of my return. Damien said we took an oath to never set foot on those cursed grounds again, so the moment I left his house I had to become a ghost. With my face hidden beneath a hood and my body concealed beneath dark clothes, I am safe.

Advancing, about an hour after the sun has set completely, I feel a corrupting, merciless cold hindering the blood from flowing through my veins. This frozen air feels rotten and has a stench of burnt flesh which does not come from me, surprisingly enough. I am soaked by the heavy torrent of snow falling in such a haze that the distant landscape fades to a dirty white and the trees ahead are barely visible. After more boot-dragging against the snowstorm, dark figures appear much lower than the skyline of the forest. Houses. Kindawn. I take shelter behind a tree to check the map for a secluded way to the part of the village where the house I am after should be. I could have sworn it was seared into my mind when I left, but I find myself lost now. The parchment is of no use, not because of the dark as much as of snow which made all ink intelligible in an instant. Left without any guidance, my instinct to hide behind every house and scout for people is all that remains.

Hopefully no one will venture out into this weather, but I could still be sighted from their windows, if anyone be up in this dead of night. By becoming one with the shadows surrounding me, I eventually find my way to the destination of this whole adventure. It is the house closest to the dark lake I distinctly remember, with just a faint spark of light visible from the ground windows.

I walk swiftly towards it, but suddenly stop, out in the middle of the street. Something caught my attention: a glimpse of lingering blood I saw from the corner of my eye when emerging from the alley. When I turn my head to the wall behind, I find it to be gone. I swear there was blood dripping down the wall I am staring at. It could not have been a flash of memory, because my arm is not hurting, so what in…?

Danger seizes me at once, standing recklessly out in the open. Wiping that last question from my mind, I hurry to the house and knock heavy on its massive wooden door, impatient to get out of sight. From its surface, a carved head of a lion scrutinizes me.

“Who is it?” asks a voice from within, startled as if I had interrupted him.

“Just an old friend,” I reply waiting for him to unlock the door.

It opens silently, throwing soft light and warmth in my face, but relish it I do not. My boots sink into the ground at the sight of his face.

Standing in front of me is Renegade Askar: the general; I thought, I met on the cliff. I think my memory is twisting reality again, because I could swear this is the house Damien described to me; yet finding him here raises my eyebrow along even more questions than the ones I set out with.

“You are the one who trained me and Damien?” I ask as confused as he looks disturbed.

“The one and only,” he says pushing the door wide open and stepping aside to let me enter. “Since you already found out, please do come in.”

I take a step inside to find an interior nothing like I expected when I first set eyes on it. Though the house looks rough from the outside, there is a striking contradiction to be found here among the furnishings. An array of vivid paint on canvases and heads of wild animals, from horned deer to fanged boars, adorn the walls. The furniture bears intricate ornaments of grapes, vines and leaves; all neatly polished to gleam in the light of a fire. A sense of not belonging rushes over me when I drip melted snow all over the furry hides fashioned into rugs that cover most of the wooden floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth straight away when we first met?” I ask irritated. “It would’ve saved me a hell of a trip.”

“You didn’t recognize me when we met,” he says pouring himself a glass of wine and sitting down on a leather armchair. “I didn’t wish to overwhelm you.”

Thinking over my trusting of him, I find myself picking up a small vase and throwing it back and forth between my hands, until he points to another armchair next to his, telling me to take a seat. With a faint smile I place the object back on the cabinet.

“No thanks,” I say leaning on the fireplace. “This won’t take long, so I prefer standing.”

“Oh, come on.” He says getting up and handing me a glass of wine. “Make yourself at home. This was after all your home for a few years.”

I take the glass and pour the whole of it down my throat, eager to get the blood pumping back through my body. After all, I did survive a freezing hell to come here, so this is the least I deserve for my courage.

“I suppose you have a few questions,” he says sitting back down.

“Trust me I have a lot more than a few,” I say giving in and sitting down as well to rest my legs, aching from the road “but for you to answer, only two of them: why did you take me in and why did I leave?”

“That’s a long and sad story, kid,” he says leaning back in his armchair for comfort. “One for which we’ll need a lot more wine than this glass.”

“Time is the one thing I have at hand right now, so do speak up.”

He smiles, the creases and luster of the skin stretched on his face more visible than ever, before taking out another dusty bottle of wine out of the glass case while I sink deeper into the cushions of the armchair. I do not like this situation one bit and feel like something bad is about to happen. Something is wrong about this whole village and this feeling runs deep into my bones.