Durest

  “Wow. Your life sucks,” Gareth says. He examines the paper I handed to him once more before, with a shrug, crumpling it up and tossing it to the side. I wince—mostly because I was planning on using the back half of that paper too. But, before I can protest, he’s busy wrenching one of his hatchets free from a dead cultist. A velvet spray covers his arm, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Rather, he just wipes the blood off on his bear furs and moves onto the next cultist, slamming the left hatchet down this time. It squelches wet-like against the neck, making a sickening crunch.

  I give Gareth a slight nod, eyes trained on the cultist’s body. Even though the man is clearly dead, his body gives a spasm that spoils my… well everything. Contrary to popular belief, merchants are not in fact blood-hungry vampires. We do like our money though.

  Still, I understand why they’re checking. Better safe than sorry—or in this case, better safe than allowing one of the barely surviving cultists to perform some blood ritual and summon a primordial to avenge their brotherhood. That doesn’t really roll off the tongue though.

  “You alright?” Nimra asks from behind. I make a performative, non-audible sigh and give her a nod too. She’s small, slight, and wears a green cloak cuffed by an oak-leaf sigil. Good for camouflage. Must’ve been the reason why none of the cultists spotted her—before it was too late.

  She returns my nod with a comforting sort of smile. As if to say, ‘yes, this part sucks. I understand.’

  Well, I don't need pity. I need my caravan.

  I rip off another paper from my small ledger notebook and scribble my thoughts. She waits patiently for my response, hands behind her back, rocking back and forth on her heels while whistling.

  Finally, when I’m finished, I hold the paper up for her.

  THANK YOU. BUT I NEED TO GO BACK NOW.

  “Are you sure? We don’t know if there’s anymore of them out there. You could just stay with us for a bit. We don’t mind.”

  Maybe if this was five years ago, I would’ve accepted their offer.

  But I know how this shit goes. Favor for a favor. Nothing changes, even if I’m on a new continent.

  I shake my hand. Give her a wry, ‘thank you but I’m good,’ sort of smile. She opens her mouth to speak again, but Gareth cuts her off.

  “Ah, let him Nimra. Man’s been through a lot already. He doesn’t have to watch as we clean up. Besides, I think this should be all of them.”

  “But we could take him back to Hui at least—”

  Before she can protest further, I wave goodbye and walk to my horse. Qaswa snorts at our two saviors as I saddle up on her.

  Why are you so angry? Without them, we’d be dead.

  One of her black eyes glares up at me, as if to say, ‘You would’ve eventually had it. Eventually.’

  I scratch the underside of her chin. Can’t argue with that logic. Still, I think I’m just coping. It's been a while since I’ve had to be ‘saved’. Doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Petty ego and whatnot. Who cares though? At least I can finally get back to what really matters.

  …

  When I get back to our old camp, I bury my client. Poor lad. Could’ve survived if I was smarter. But… I don’t know. I’m not willing to do it again. Need to move forward—get away from this place.

  New goals, new sights. If I can reach the Fickle Plains and beyond, perhaps other opportunities will open themselves to me.

  I latch Qaswa to the cart, feed her a rough-patched green apple. She scarfs it down just the same as anything else. Gluttonous beast. But, that’s why I like her. Some of the old noble horses from my home only ate the fresh, sweet red apples imported from the North. Stuck up, pompous bastards. She’s more like me. No shame. Better for the both of us.

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  I take one last look at the unmarked grave for my client. He was young. Well, older than me physically. Still, I’d have to find his family in the South—give them his tidings. It's the least I can do. Even now, a sickening sort of guilt builds within me. But I told myself long ago that some things just… I just can’t save ‘em all. Even if I want to.

  As annoying as it is, I have limits.

  Sighing, I breathe in the crisp air of autumn.

  Or at least… It should be autumn.

  But when I breathe, a gust of bone-chilling cold is all I get. It chokes back into my lungs. I cough dry, wheezing coughs. Feel my chest heave.

  Finally, when I take shorter breaths, the pain ceases. God, what in the hells was that? I wipe some spittle from my mouth and shake my head. The wind turns feral—like an icy beast clawing at all that nears. I grab a woolen garment from my caravan’s back before sitting atop Qaswa.

  Have I miscalculated? Is it winter already?

  If so, getting to the Fickle Plains is going to be a nightmare.

  I set Qaswa to a slow trot. The wagon pulls nicely along the road. It feels good to hear the steady CLINK CLINK CLINK of its wheels against the pebbles.

  The sun beams high in the blue-painted sky, despite the cold. Yet, I feel none of its warmth. Shadows draw along the road: dark, quill-thin-lines from the rocks, occasionally blotted by the hulking shadow of my cart.

  I hunch in the saddle. The air bites.

  Pull the garment closer.

  Chatter my teeth.

  This isn’t normal—

  Qaswa pulls to a stop. I look up to the road. The hood of the garment covers my face, so I have to agonizingly withdraw my bare hand from the woolen pocket to pull it back.

  I don’t see anything ahead of us. No reason for Qaswa to have stopped.

  Then, as I pull my hand back down, I feel the lightest of touches. A wetness.

  I drop my hand back and crane my head out, just outside the canopy of my caravan rooftop. Looking up, I witness snowfall.

  Purple dots raining from a cloudless, sunny sky.

  They come down just as any normal snow would. I watch in astonishment as the flurries of purple score down delicately in the winter-wind.

  Stop gawking.

  Something… isn’t right.

  I tap Qaswa’s neck. No response. Again, I tap. No warmth. Panic. I slide off the saddle and, with shaking, jittering legs, I come around to the front.

  Qaswa stands normally. Solidly, even. Yet, her eyes are glossed white now. Not a death stare but… something different. I wave my hand in front of her. Take out my last apple, rub it under her muzzle. Nothing.

  The sight of her just standing there… unresponsive—I can’t look at her like that.

  The purple snow begins to build on my shoulders. I shrug it off with my hand out of pure instinct. Then, I realize my idiocy when the palm comes back numbing with the pain of a thousand cold stings. I wipe it frantically against the inner lining of the woolen garment.

  And then, I hear a whistling. A children’s tune. One of those messed up songs that you don’t understand as a kid. But you sing it anyway because it's catchy. Only later, do you realize how fucked it was. A brother and a sister went up the hill? Only one came back down. The baby crying in a cradle? His mother left him to die in the woods.

  The idiotic merchant staring at his dead horse?

  Well, he turns around.

  And he finds that he’s in fact, not alone.

  A lone figure marches down the road. Each step is monotonous, clinical. Their white armor is edged, cruel. The metal flares from them like ice stalactites. They stand thrice my size and at least twice the height of that man who saved my life.

  I see nothing behind the blackness of their visor.

  Their breath does not frost in the cold.

  For they herald the cold.

  The whistling comes from their helm—echoed by the steel of their armor.

  The knight carries forth a large zweihander. I recognize the great sword by its side spikes that protrude outward, partly up the blade. I tried buying one of those long ago—but the seller knew I didn’t have credits. Nor the reputation.

  I can’t help but awe at this figure.

  Even as they stride up to me, raise their blade high, and sweep it down—I just stare, too frozen to do anything else.

  Only then, do I realize how delirious the cold made me. For pain brings all into clarity.

  And as my world splits vertically in two, I understand once more how fickle human beings are. We are held together by nothing more than fleshy strings and mere architectures of bone. And bone is nothing to these…these things that I face, time and time again.

  Thought splits. Spine splits. Body splits.

  I lament, for one last time, how unfortunate it is that I can’t produce any sounds.

  I’m sure my screams would’ve been sensational.