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7. Showdown (CW: graphic violence, death)
🕑 Added 2022-07-08 20:14:30 +0000 UTCAvery wiped the tears from his eyes with his forearm and followed Birger, right hand motioning upwards as he exited, fixing the bell as if it had never fallen.
Sachie sighed. “Damn, that was awkward. Sorry about that.” She stood, grimacing. “Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I believe that’s our cue…”
Aalap nodded, still processing.
“Um…yeah, sorry,” she said again, and left.
And the three departed just as unexpectedly as they had arrived.
~
Avery was power-walking, too proud to run after the knight, but too reluctant to let the distance between them grow. “Birger please!” he yelled, following him as he headed for the town on the horizon. “Fuck.” He jogged after him. “Birger, stop! I’m sorry, please! Clearly, I have feelings for you? Why else would I do that!” he volleyed with a laugh, tears brimming once more. “Birger!” He broke into a sprint and then hit something hard; he staggered back, holding his nose, startled. There was nothing blocking his way, nothing he could see at least. He reached out, palm meeting something hard and flat. He turned around and around, slapping the invisible walls surrounding him. He huffed out a laugh. A holding spell.
“Sorry Av,” Sachie said, walking up behind him. “But I think you should leave him alone.”
Avery turned to her, bringing his arms out then down as if breaking unseen binds. The spell shattered in a plume of brilliant dust. “Decent spell,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Whose side are you on?”
“No ones, you’re both being dumb.”
Avery made an ugly face.
Sachie looked at the sky, the sun had set, and the moon was high. “I guess we should head into town—but!” She grabbed Avery’s cape as he turned. “Let’s give him a lead, let him cool down.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sachie made a sound like she disagreed. “You used magic on him.”
“To see who my competition is.”
She groaned and rubbed her brows. “Avery, that’s so fucked I don’t even know where to begin.”
And then Avery started sobbing, loud—blubbering into his hands—and even though that was kind of funny, Sachie knew he was hurting; he knew that he had crossed a line. There was no justifying his actions, no matter the intent. He realized that and regretted everything. She took his hand, which was wet with tears and snot, and pulled him over to sit on the steps of a closed leatherworking shop. She focused her magic and lit the lamp overhead and smiled at her ability.
“He abhors me now,” Avery said, sniffling. “I’m so dumb, I get caught up in my feelings and desires and…and…” He bit his bottom lip. “I should’ve just fucked him and been done with it. Why did I think that was a good idea?” He pulled at his hair. “Why did I tell him? Arrgh! I’ll tell you why! I wanted to be honest and open and look at what he does!” He wrapped his arms around himself. “He grabs me like some brute and bullies me.”
Sachie’s eyebrows rose very high. She contemplated leaving Avery on the stoop but then saw how upset he was and relented. “Maybe next time you see him you apologize and tell him why you did it. And if he has some words, which he will, you let him say them.”
“Doesn’t matter. He hates me. I hate me.”
Her eyes went wide. “I don’t think he hates you.”
“He said I could never replace Einar.”
“Because you can’t? And why would he want you to?”
“We look similar.”
“Oh, gods forbid he has a type! Besides, that’s admitting you don’t think very highly of him, surely you can see that. Reducing his interest to something so shallow. You’re not just your looks, Av.”
Avery paused, the notion sinking in. He hiccuped and slumped. “But I do think highly of him, very highly, I lov—” He looked at her and sucked in his lips, eyes wide.
She grimaced. “Why didn’t you just tell him that? Why be so cagey?”
He shrugged and batted away a moth. “What if he didn’t feel the same?”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“Yes!” he said, deeply offended. “Are you?”
“Birger’s really into you. Like…it’s so obvious. Kinda gross to be honest.”
Avery straightened his back, palms on his knees, jaw clenched.
Sachie laughed. “Av—”
He lifted his hand, rings glinting, eyes focused ahead of him. Sachie followed his gaze and spotted a group of people riding in, past the haberdashery, headed straight towards them. She stood.
“It’s Emery,” said Avery.
“How do you know?”
“Because his witch placed a tracking hex on me. I thought I dispelled it, but…well, hexes stick.”
“Should I find Birger?”
“No,” he said, standing. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Emery reined his cremello. He smiled wide and wicked. “Found you.”
“Yeah, yeah Emery,” Avery replied, rising with his hands on his hips. He looked at the prince’s crew, four mercenaries and a witch, no new faces since they last met.
Emery motioned to his men and they all dismounted, but the witch remained riding, looking just as tired as she did back at the caravansary.
Two of Emery’s men shoved past Avery and grabbed Sachie, hauling her up. She let it happen, more out of confusion than compliance.
“What are you doing?” Avery asked, equally confused. He stepped forward but stopped once a sword was drawn to his neck.
“Were you aware that this girl has a bounty on her head? A thief apparently. Can’t say she doesn’t look the part,” said Emery with sneer. “We’ll turn her in, and deal with you after.”
“What do you care if she has a bounty?” Avery asked, watching as they bound and gagged her then kicked her to the ground, rousing dust. “Why’re you so rough with her?”
The prince smacked his lips. “Have you heard the rumors regarding you? I’ve had to quell heaps since your departure. Nasty, embarrassing.”
“Emery, I’m really not in the mood for this…”
“My brother, breaking hearts and oaths and posturing about Urnia with a thief and a disgraced prince. Don’t even get me started on the magic. Unacceptable behavior. I can’t stand it. If your whore of a mother—”
“Watch your mouth!” Avery still had the blade to his throat. “How many of your men have to die before you leave me alone?”
The mercenaries exchanged uneasy looks, even Sachie looked up at him with furrowed brows.
“As many as necessary if it means bringing you home.” Emery tilted his chin. “Enough talk, grab him.”
The men motioned for Avery, but he held up his hands. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
They looked him up and down—all ornamented and swathed in fine fabrics—and laughed. It was the most emotion he’d seen from them thus far.
“I’m serious,” he said, backing up. “You think you’re the first crew Emery’s hired? Try four, twelve souls in total. I’m giving you one last opportunity to ride away. This man’s money is not worth your life.”
Sachie watched, head at an uncomfortable angle, feeling both worried and curious. She knew Avery was a gifted mage, but he was pretty hands off with most fights, only engaging when necessary. However, there was something different about him, something…off; his warning felt like a true warning and not a play at bravado. She felt his magic, the familiar pinpricks upon her flesh. His magic always felt overwhelming, but this was manifold.
The witch shifted, and directed her horse back, sensing it also.
One of the soldiers grabbed his forearm but Avery quickly shoved him off with an irritated, “So be it!” and stomped one foot forward. There was a pause and then the ground rumbled; the earth shifted and the horses trumpeted in response. Everyone lurched, spreading out and looking below them for the cause, but the force collected under the man who grabbed Avery. The mercenary reeled, alarmed by the churning ground, but before he could react, a great stone hand sprung up and crushed him, dragging what was left of him underground.
Sachie stiffened, teeth bared around the gag.
Emery was unbothered by the gore. His glare was fixated on Avery, irritated as if he had pissed on his new commissioned rug and not just crushed a man. “…Infuriating. Grab him and bind his fucking hands!”
There was a moment of pause between the mercenaries as they tried to comprehend what had just happened. They studied Avery, dainty in his pretty scarlet clothes, and then collectively assumed they could take him. Their dead comrade was having an off day, didn’t react quickly enough, they would certainly fare better. They brandished their binds—enchanted fetishes, Avery had seen them before—and then charged him.
Avery turned and sprinted away, putting space between him and Sachie; he didn’t want her to get hurt by accident. Summoning the hand had exhausted him; the excessiveness was an attempt to frighten, but mercenaries were a strange and stubborn breed. Avery didn’t like violence, in fact it made him rather queasy, but he also didn’t like men who killed for money. That was reprehensible to him. He always gave them fair warning, and when they didn’t heed him, who was he to hold his punches—so to speak.
One of the men caught up to him, sword swinging at Avery’s back, tearing through his cape as he evaded and summoned his own blade, impeding another attempt with ease. Swords crossed, the man gawked at him, but then pressed forward, forcing them apart and following close to carve at him with brutal swings—growing frustrated with every miss and repel.
“You’re to kill me then?” Avery asked with a parry. “Or has Emery granted permission to maim me?” He scowled, executing another parry. “Little shit.” He ducked and elbowed the man in the gut, knocking the wind from him and gaining the offensive. Well aware that he was enraging the soldier for he surely pegged Avery as an easy target—nullify his magic and be done with him, cash in. But Avery knew a mage shouldn’t solely rely on magic, thus he had honed his blade with the best swordmaster in southern Tatra. He did this in secret, an ace up his sleeve. Perfect for these situations, though he was merely toying with the bastard, and not in dire straits.
The man had tolerated enough. He two-handed for the kill, pulling power from his legs with an ascending slash that met Avery’s sword with ease, his blade careening down and off the opposing steel, and slicing right through the mercenary’s unprotected belly—eviscerating him. The mage turned his cheek in disgust and threw his sword aside, where it vanished before it even touched the ground.
Avery flipped his braid back over his shoulder and eyed the remaining two soldiers. Both had paused to watch, bewildered. “Who’s next? Or have you come to your senses?”
The more daring of the duo charged him, desperate to bind his hands, but Avery conjured water, whipping it about him with a series of fluid movements—slashing, slashing, slashing at the poor soldier—the water solid enough to tear his skin and crumple him into an exhausted heap. Avery finished him off, filling his lungs with water and drowning him on dry land. The other mercenary rushed forward, hoping to apprehend Avery while he was distracted, but the mage pivoted on his heel, retrieved his water from the drowned lungs, and brought the whip forward, solidifying it into a shard of ice and impaling the mercenary mid-run.
Sachie lay in shock. That fight was no fight at all…
Avery wrung his hands, sore from his magic, and then dusted off the front of his clothes. He mended his cape with a flick of his wrist and beheld the casualties. He felt nauseous. If only they had taken him seriously.
Emery angrily motioned for his witch to gather him. She hesitated but rode over, slowly, in a wide arc. Avery watched as she drew closer.
“I would rather not hurt my own kind,” he said.
“We are nothing alike,” she said, upper lip curling with disgust. “Summoning, materializing, conjuring. Despicable. Has your appetite no bounds?”
“Oh, you’re one of those huh? Small-minded, a purist,” Avery said, contempt wrapped around the word. “My appetite is just fine, thank you very much. It is you who limits your potential, witch.” He crossed his arms.
She wasn’t convinced.
Avery looked at the mercenary he had disemboweled, at the pool of blood below him, and sighed. His shoulders drooped, feeling the fatigue; he hadn’t used magic like this in a while—one spell after another. He’d been relying on Birger’s blade and Sachie’s prowess for the majority of their travels, supplying a finishing blow or a cursory surprisal when needed, but nothing more. He knew he would be suffering the consequences of his efforts tomorrow and hoped that the town on the horizon had a proper bathhouse. He scrutinized the witch and the aura of her magic. He didn’t want to kill her, she was no mercenary, and by the looks of her intricately layered clothing she was a Vistulan. Her magic felt potent, and her catalyst was a tall staff, gnarled at the apex and fashioned from primordial wood. Witches with catalysts were a pain…
“Are you aware of blood magic?” he asked the witch.
She grimaced. “Don’t.”
“You’re familiar,” he said with a smile. “Then you know I can reanimate these men.”
She recoiled, and Avery could see the inner conflict strewn all over her face. Should she attack? Should she flee? Felling someone like Avery always earned high praise from fellow mages; accounts of such conquests were common in taverns. He imagined most of them were lies, for no one of Avery’s caliber would perish at the hands of a lackluster mage. This woman had a tome of knowledge stored in her mind, while Avery had threefold—though that was modest, it was closer to a shelf within a library, and ever-expanding. He manipulated the blood, bringing it upward with the wave of his hand and forming it into an oblong sphere.
The witch paled, eyes locked on the grotesque display. “Fuck this,” she said and rode off into the dark, heading for the safety of the town.
Avery released the ball and it fell with a wet PLOP. At least one of them had some sense.
Emery was irate. He dismounted his cremello and strode over, the colorful sash around his hips trailing in the air, neck tense, back illumined by the high moon.
“Look at this mess,” said the prince, arms gesturing about him in a manic way.
“And it’s all your fault,” Avery said, standing his ground as Emery approached him. The prince was either unfamiliar or indifferent to the concept of personal space, especially Avery’s.
“No one forces your hand to kill,” Emery sneered. “But you enjoy it, don’t you? The butchery. Typical, you Miastkos will always be soaked in blood.” He clapped, slow, applauding the notion. “Marvelous. Way to maintain that lurid namesake!”
Avery had heard it all. He turned his cheek and simpered, hands on his hips. “Leave, before you really piss me off.”
“No, I’m sick of this.”
“Then be done with it!” Avery said, leaning in enough to make Emery falter back. “Try your hand against me then, you coward. I saw those binds you’ve given your thugs. Must’ve set you back a few thousand spits, I’m flattered by the cost, really. And had those secured me, what would you have done with me? Delivered me to Tatra? No, I think you’d have me holed away, tormented me. I think that’s what you want, I think that’s what you’ve always wanted. Following me around like some famished mongrel. And I’m a disgrace?”
“Yes,” Emery said, standing taller. “That was the plan. Ruin that ridiculous face of yours, break you down limb by limb until you’re nothing more than a miserable stump. Oh, that was my dream dear brother, but this will suffice.” With one hand he grabbed Avery’s shoulder, yanking him close while his other hand stabbed him. “You always fancied yourself untouchable…” he whispered, lips pressed to his ear, “but alas…”
For a split-second Avery was amused by Emery’s attempt, but the sentiment was gone just as soon as it came, replaced with a wretched sound and a searing pain—intense and sharp. His mythril didn’t stop the incoming blow, it split—parting like a knife through warm butter—and the blade of whatever Emery was holding lodged deep into Avery’s solar plexus.
Emery gave the weapon a cruel twist, making Avery gasp and stumble back, pulling himself from the blade, just in time to see it vanish, leaving behind the ordinary hilt in Emery’s grasp. Only a weapon enchanted with a certain spell could pierce mythril, the caveat was that it was ephemeral once used. The prince had spent a small fortune securing the black-market dagger, and the sheer euphoria he flaunted relayed it was worth every bullion.
Avery pressed his wound, but he knew it was futile.
“Oh, you look absolutely distraught, my dear Avery,” Emery said, tossing the hilt aside. “Ah, but I am elated! Now I am free of you.”
The mage laughed and staggered forward, allowing the prince to catch him in his arms. “…you,” he muttered, and brought his bloodied hand to Emery’s face, soiling his cheek.
Sachie couldn’t hear anything or see all too well, but she saw Avery collapse, body wilting in a way that seemed fatal. Fear gripped her, and she began rolling about trying to reach the knife in her boot, but they had tried her in such a way that made bending near impossible. She gave up and watched Avery, expecting him to rise. He should, any moment now! He was wearing mythril after all. Perhaps the wind had been knocked out of him, that had happened more than once… But Avery hadn’t moved. She struggled again, heart pounding, blinking back tears. Where was Birger?
Birger was running.
But a moment before he was slumped on a barrel by the town’s entrance, pissed and crying, trying to soothe his hurt. It wasn’t long after when he saw a woman riding in fast—like her life depended on it. She didn’t even notice Birger as she barged past the gates. He sat up, alarmed.
And then an uneasy feeling settled into him, realizing that she had come from the location of the haberdashery… Fearing the worst, he palmed his tears and started running in the direction from which the woman fled.
He reached Avery just as he fell, revealing Emery, one side of his face smeared with blood. Birger pieced what he could together. The bodies…an obvious struggle…
Sachie saw Birger approach and started shouting, or trying to, making as much noise and commotion as she could, given her bound state. But the knight didn’t notice her, too focused on Emery as his run broke into a charging sprint, ready to unsheathe his weapon.
From the way Avery had fallen—limp and heavy—Birger knew it was bad, and all he could see was red. He drew his sword, quick and primed with enough force to lop Emery’s head clean off—
But then the prince tottered. He pressed both palms right below his chest; a look of pain and confusion twisted his features. Birger slowed, and Emery muttered in Tatran, looking at Avery’s body with hate-filled eyes. And then he dropped, just as Avery had, knees buckling, limbs loose. He died looking up at the stars, blood soaking his torso.
Birger pierced the ground with his sword and dropped to his knees. He hesitated and then gently turned Avery over. He’d seen the mage unconscious more than once to know that this wasn’t sleep. There was so much blood. Birger searched for the source—his unsteady fingers rummaging through fabric—and then he felt the split. He thought mythril was indestructible…
The knight would never be able to describe the emotions he felt in that moment. It was many all at once, all tinged with despair and frustration. Had he been there this wouldn’t have happened. Had Avery not been a nosy fool, he wouldn’t have stormed off. Had he been more upfront with his feelings for the mage, he’d have never felt the need to pry at all. Birger laughed feebly, a pitiful sound, but it was all he could do. He cupped Avery’s face with trembling hands. Everything was so fleeting, it terrified him.
Sachie was exasperated. She thrashed harder and made as much sound as she could, filling her lungs with a shit ton of air just to release it in a muffled sound. Birger finally looked over at her. Fucking thank you! He got up slowly, procured his sword and walked over, a defeated droop to his broad shoulders. He looked down at her for a moment. His eyes were watery and puffy and the space between his nose and mouth was red. He smiled at her, as if seeing her hogtied was a comfort. He kneeled and freed her mouth.
“Fuck! Hurry up and untie me—I can help!”
He looked skeptical but sheathed his sword and drew a dagger, cutting her free. She scrambled for her rucksack, pulled out a book, and shoved him aside—running towards Avery. Birger didn’t watch.
Sachie collapsed beside Avery. Though startled by the blood, she slammed her book down and swiped through the pages, eyes squinting in the dark. Celestial magic could revive him, she could revive him, she just had to act quickly. She found the spell and rolled up her sleeves, readying her hands as she’d seen Avery do countless times—arms stretched out, hands relaxed. Her armlet resonated with her magic. All she had to do was construct some glyphs, easy, she’d been practicing…only that she never had to ignore the feeling of her heart lodged in her damn throat while doing so.
She began, scooting around Avery’s body, constructing glowing glyphs, which were eye-wateringly bright against the darkness. The constructions felt unsteady, she was impatient, she knew too much time had passed. She stood up and kept at it, but some were breaking their hold, cracking and splintering with a hollow metallic sound, sprinkling puffs of glittering dust over Avery’s still form. She dropped to her knees, face in her hands, and growled in frustration. The remaining glyphs ruptured, and she and Avery were left in darkness.
“You can’t rush glyphs…”
Sachie peeked between her fingers. Avery’s eyes were closed. Even in death he still critiqued.
But then his hand moved, reaching for her, she jumped and then gasped with relief.
“One at a time,” he said, and she hugged him.
“Avery, what the fuck,” she said, burying her face into his braid.
“I don’t know,” he said and weakly rubbed her back. He did know though. He used blood magic at the very last second, a life-for-a-life spell. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid of the consequences, but he refused to have Emery be the cause of his demise, and a second chance would not be wasted. “Thank you though, Sachie…for trying to revive me.”
“I take back everything,” she said, pulling away to look at him. He’d never seen her cry.
“What?”
“Use as much magic as you want,” she blubbered. “It was incredible. Just…gods, be more careful.”
“Oh, right.” He smiled. “I feel like shit.”
Avery felt someone towering over them and Sachie looked up. “No fighting,” she said and hunched over Avery in a protective way. “I’ll box spell you!”
“You’ll what?” Birger said and then shook his head. He walked around and knelt beside Avery. “You’re alive.”
“Uh, barely,” he said, grinning. “I made a mess of things.”
“You usually do,” Birger said.
Sachie pursed her lips, noticing the way the two men were looking at each other. She gathered her book, stood, and pretended that something of great importance had seized her attention. She wanted to watch but decided to distract herself by looting the mercenaries, thanking whatever gods or ancestors were looking over her as she pilfered and pocketed—glad that she was given more time with the two men.
“I’m sorry,” Avery said. “What I did was—”
“Reprehensible,” Birger said.
“Damn, alright…that wasn’t the word I was going to use…”
Birger didn’t laugh though, in fact he looked downright despondent. He placed his hand on Avery’s chest. “I nearly lost you.”
Would it be ridiculous to say I love you right now? Avery thought. “I thought I had lost you too,” he said instead.
“I was just offended…and uncomfortable.” Birger couldn’t understand why Avery had admitted to dream treading. At first Birger thought it was an attempt to tease him, shame him, but now he wasn’t so sure. He could ask…but Avery looked as if he were on the verge of unconsciousness. “I’m going to take you into town, rent you a room.”
Avery blinked. “But the bodies—”
“We’ll take care of them. There was a woman though…”
“The witch. She was with Emery.”
“Should I find her? If she returns to Tatra—”
“Let her, but I don’t think she will. Either way, leave her alone. My parents will find out eventually… I did nothing wrong, I simply defended myself.”
“I was going to cremate his body along with the others.”
The mage snorted. “That’s kind of you.”
“I haven’t a shovel.”
Avery laughed.
“Don’t you think that will be suspicious? His disappearance?”
Avery shrugged, pleased that Birger’s hand was still on his heart. “All these questions…”
“We need to be prepared.”
“When are we ever prepared?”
“I’ll feel better with a plan.”
Avery blinked. He felt sleepy. “We carry on for Sachie and once our promise to her has been fulfilled, I’ll return to Tatra and explain everything. Satisfied?”
Birger’s brows furrowed. He apparently did not like that plan, but Avery had drifted to sleep.
