5

  Bloodlust

  Adam knew he was screwed.

  His heart raced in fear and sweat gathered on his forehead, but his gaze didn’t move from the two in front of him. They stood like predators, watching, clothed in tattered old cloaks and their rough faces stretched with wide, menacing grins.

  The taller of the two—the one with a sword at his waist—had a face that could only be described as nightmare-inducing, with missing front teeth, a fat nose bent from too many brawls, and a deep scar running down from his left eye to his upper lip.

  “Well, look at that,” the man said, his voice low and rough. “The little shits managed to do their job after all. Took a while, was starting to get worried they’d fail.”

  “Told you we’d bring him,” the taller boy said.

  “You did,” the man replied. “Now scram, you’ll get your cut later.”

  Bring him? A cut?

  Adam already knew he’d been lured here, but hearing it confirmed was like a stone dropping on his chest and a sudden anger welled up inside him. It wasn’t the betrayal that stung, he’d never trusted them enough for that. What burned was the generosity he’d shown them, and the foolish hope he had that it might have earned him a little goodwill.

  “Sorry, Mister,” a young girl said.

  The children darted past him with that perpetual glee, only this time it grated on his ears like nails on a chalkboard. Adam just stood there and balled his hands into fists.

  After they’d left, silence fell once more and a sudden tension cut through the alley.

  “So,” the scarred man, who seemed to be their leader, began speaking, “they tell me you’re not from the city and you were passing out coins freely, that true?”

  Of course, he’d heard about that. A frown swept Adam’s face as he quickly pieced together what had happened. It was the kids, they had probably told him that some stranger who was carrying coins had lost his way in the city. He was a prime target for robbery, all because he’d showed generosity. The road to hell was truly paved with good intentions.

  What even was the value of the four coppers he’d given?

  “Look, I don’t know what those kids told you, but I’ve got nothing else,” Adam said and dug his fingers into his pocket, pulling out his last silver coin. “Just this.”

  “That shirt… it ain’t no peasant’s shirt,” the second man said with a sneer, his grin crooked as his eyes roamed up and down. He was a thin man, rat-faced and large-eyed, eyes almost too big for his face. “You upper district folks sure like to dress fine.”

  Fucking hell, what kind of clothes had Elsa given him?

  “The shirt… it’s not mine,” Adam said in response, but instantly regretted it as soon as the words flew out from his mouth. It sounded like a shit lie, even the dumbest criminals wouldn’t fall for an excuse like that. But he couldn’t take it back, he had to push on. “You can have it, the coin, too. I don’t want any trouble. I just want to get home.”

  The scarred man burst into full-throated laughter as though he’d cracked the funniest joke ever, and rat face beside him joined in, holding his stomach. The only one who didn’t laugh was the hooded man behind him, still watchful and blocking his exit.

  How was he going to get out of this?

  “We’re not fools here, boy,” the leader said after regaining control of himself. His grin had faded, replaced by something colder, meaner. “You don’t go around dressed like that, flashing coin, unless you’ve got more where that came from.”

  Adam’s pulse raced faster. “I told you… I don’t—”

  “Yes, you have nothing,” the scarred man silenced him and took a step forward, the sound of his boot scraping against the dirt echoing in the narrow alley. “And maybe you’re not lying, maybe you really have nothing. But I’m willing to bet the owner of that fine shirt does have coin to spare, and I wonder what they’ll pay to have you returned.”

  From the start, Adam had known there was little to zero chance of reasoning things out with the men. They were seasoned outlaws, and they saw him as an easy mark. There was just no way they would pass him up. All he’d been trying to do was stall for time, thinking of a way to fight them, certain that violence was unavoidable; especially now that they’d mentioned kidnapping. He had no intention of letting himself be captured.

  He was a good fighter, good in the sense that he was able to take a heavy hit and hit back just as hard. Growing up, there’d been no shortage of bullies who thought it’d be fun to pick on the small, quiet kid who wore the same shoes every day and got his clothes from the Salvation Army. But it had stopped once they realized he wasn’t a soft target. Sure, he took his share of the beating, but he’d left enough scratches and bruises on them to make sure they remembered him. In the end, they’d decided he just wasn’t worth the trouble.

  But how could he fight three men carrying weapons?

  His gaze subtly fell to the ground, searching around the dirt and hoping to find some kind of weapon he could use to protect himself, or at least make them hesitate.

  He glimpsed a fist-sized rock by his foot, but what good could it possibly do against a sword, a dagger, and a wicked-looking spiked rod? Moreover, once he picked up the rock, it would probably signal the men to attack him immediately. All at once, and there was no chance for him. Adam couldn’t help but begin to think the worst.

  He might die here… again.

  Again, yes, he’d died twice already. But what would happen if he died again for the third time? Would he resurrect like the other times? Would he be transported to a different world entirely to start anew? Was there a specific amount of times he could do so? Despite all these unknowns, Adam knew he might just have to risk it.

  “Check him, Drott. See if he’s carrying any surprises,” the scarred man ordered and rat-face guy stepped forward, slowly approaching him. “Search him proper.”

  “Sure thing, Boss.” He nodded, his eyes narrowing.

  Adam swallowed past the lump forming in his throat and took a short step back. The hooded man was still watching and blocking his exit, his grip tight on the dagger’s hilt.

  He couldn’t run away, and getting kidnapped wasn’t an option.

  Fighting was his only option…

  “You don’t wanna touch me,” Adam warned in a sharp tone, forcing his voice not to shake despite the fear tightly gripping his chest. “You’ll regret it, I promise you.”

  Rat-face stopped in his stride, but he was close enough for Adam to smell the foul stench of unwashed clothes. “That so? You lookin’ to make threats now?”

  The scarred man cocked his head, studying him. “Careful, Drott. Do it slow.”

  “Got it, Boss,” rat-face said without turning back.

  Adam watched, waited, as rat-face closed the distance between them with one, long step and prepared to pat him down. The man stretched out a hand to search him, but stopped halfway to eye him warily first, as though warning him not to try anything. Satisfied with the warning, he’d laid a bony hand on Adam’s shoulder and began to pat him down.

  Adam held his breath, still waiting, allowing rat-face to think he was pliant, to lower his guard, if even a little. When the man’s hand paused at his waist, Adam’s fingers brushed the handle of the spiked rod slung at his hip, and then he made his move.

  He thrust his head forward with as much force as he could muster, driving it straight into rat-face’s nose. He hadn’t tried to be discreet, but the loud, sickening pop that rang out was probably heard for several miles. The nose was broken, without a doubt.

  Rat-face cried out in pain and staggered back, his hands flying up to his nose already leaking blood, his eyes watering with tears and curses spilling from his lips.

  Adam didn’t hesitate to press his advantage. In the same breath, he rushed forward, reaching a hand toward rat-face’s hip and yanking the weapon free.

  The spiked rod was a lot heavier than it appeared, a brutal, simple weapon with iron bands and a jagged crown of nails at the tip. Adam knew the weapon existed on Earth, but he’d never held one in his hands before, never been in a situation like this where he felt the burning gratitude for having one. There was no mercy, it was fight or be their prey.

  Adam swung the rod heavily, driven by a savage intent to maim or kill, his shoulder almost pulling at the force he put behind the strike. The weapon connected with rat-face’s skull and an echoing crack rang down the alley, the nails also sank into his flesh, and blood gushed out in a hot stream, spilling like water from a broken pipe.

  As he pulled back the weapon, rat-face crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  Adam’s gaze fell to the slumped body, perhaps he was dead, perhaps not. In the heat of the moment, he hadn’t cared at all whether he killed the man or not, but seeing the blood spread all over the ground had made him remember it was a human life. He wasn’t racked by sudden guilt, just awareness of what he had done, though it was self-defense.

  His heart thundered inside his chest and a low buzz rang inside his ears. He’d done what was necessary to protect himself. It wasn’t his fault if the man was dead. The thought repeated inside his head as his fingers curled tighter around the rod’s handle.

  He’d only done what was necessary…

  “You bastard,” the leader whispered as though in disbelief, his eyes rising from his friend to meet Adam’s gaze. “You’ll pay for that.”

  The man’s words came out a growl and Adam snapped back to instinct. Forget about taking him alive, the man looked like he would kill him here if he gave him the chance. He wouldn’t give him that chance. Adam didn’t wait for the leader to give orders or even draw his sword, he lunged first, swinging the rod in a wide arc that aimed for his head.

  But he should’ve expected it wouldn’t be as easy as the first time.

  The man twisted his body and staggered back, narrowly avoiding the strike. The rod sliced through empty air and Adam’s momentum carried him forward. But he didn’t relent, he didn’t even pause to plan, he just spun around to strike again. He knew the explosiveness of his assault was his only real chance at victory; if he gave them a moment to recover, it would all be over. But that haste also proved to be his undoing as he spun around to see the hooded man had closed in on him, the dagger flashing in his hand.

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  Adam hadn’t heard the rush of the man’s footsteps, and he had no time to dodge the thrust of his dagger as it came at him with full speed. He couldn’t do anything…

  Then, a white-hot pain stole his breath as the blade drove into his stomach.

  Adam gasped, a raw, broken sound that barely escaped his throat. The shock hit him before the pain as his mind reeled at the impossible sensation of being stabbed, at the cold steel biting deep into his guts. Then the pain came, burning, tearing, and flooding through his nerves like nothing else he’d ever felt before. His knees trembled from the intense pain and he nearly crumpled to floor, but he held himself at the last moment.

  Warm, coppery blood filled his mouth, and he choked on it before spitting out, the gore dripping down his chin. His vision began to waver, but his iron grip on the rod didn’t loosen. The hooded man tried to twist the dagger free and Adam’s other hand immediately shot up, clamping down around his wrist with a strength he never knew he had.

  “Let… go,” the hooded man snarled.

  Adam barely registered the man’s words as the only thought that existed in his mind was to hold him here. His eyes were wide with shock and fury, then slowly, he raised the rod once more, body screaming in agony and protesting the movement.

  With a deep groan, Adam swung the rod one-handedly, smashing it against the side of the man’s head. The blow landed awkwardly and not with enough force as the man was too close, but it did enough damage. The hooded man staggered and his hood fell back to reveal a gaunt face twisted in pain. Adam swung again, this time even lighter, but it caught him at the temple and the man instantly collapsed to the ground.

  For a second, Adam stood there, trying to catch his breath as the world spun in front of his eyes and the low buzzing sound still rang inside his ears. The dagger was still in him, and every breath he took sent a sharp, intense pain through his guts.

  He stumbled back and pressed a quivering hand to the wound, then he turned just in time to see the scarred leader rushing toward him with his sword drawn.

  Adam raised the rod, but he was too slow, too weak.

  A sharp clang echoed through the alley as the impact from the sword striking nearly tore the rod from his hand, still he held on, just barely. The leader’s scarred face had twisted into a mask of hate and fury, and his teeth bared like a wild animal. He struck once more, and the weight behind his attack was too much for Adam to handle.

  Adam staggered and hit the wall, his breath coming in short gasps. The man wasn’t exceptionally skilled with the sword, otherwise he’d already be dead, he just swung wildly and put power behind each strike. Still, it was all Adam could do to just block them.

  “Should’ve just done as you were told,” the man hissed.

  Adam didn’t answer for a time, he just raised the rod again, blood still dripping from his mouth and his vision fading at the edges. He’d lost too much blood. Was there a hospital in this world? He didn’t know whether he’d survive the wound even if he managed to beat the man, but that was a problem for later. He had to focus on his opponent. Even if he did die here, as long as he sent the fucker to hell first, he would be content.

  “Fuck you,” Adam spat out with blood.

  His response enraged the man further and his sword came down hard, in a downward slash. Adam caught it on the iron rod and the sharp clang echoed loudly, but the force jarred through his arm, taking his strength and his hand grew numb.

  He barely had any time to recover as the scarred man’s fist shot forward, slamming square into his jaw and a sudden white exploded in his vision.

  Adam hit the ground hard and his face crashed into the dirt, his weapon flying from his grip and clattering away. The taste of blood filled his mouth again, thicker now, nearly choking him. His head spun painfully, and before he could even suck in a breath, a heavy boot slammed into his ribs and he struggled to draw in a single breath.

  He gasped and curled his body instinctively, but the man didn’t stop. Another kick sent him rolling onto his back, and the world tilted above him, the edges of his vision darkening, all sounds collapsing into that ringing buzz in his ears.

  “Not so foul-mouthed now, are ya?” the man said with a sneer, standing over him with sword raised, both hands gripping the hilt. “Should’ve just done as you were told.”

  Shit, he was going to die again…

  Would he return like before? In another world? If somehow he did, he would make it his life’s work to hunt the bastard down. No matter where he was hidden, no matter what he was, no matter if he’d turned his life around and become a better man.

  He would find him and kill him.

  As a cold acceptance settled over Adam’s body, his mind protested. He couldn’t just allow it to end here. He couldn’t let himself be killed like some stray animal. Something deep inside him—that same stubborn, violent, angry, and dark thing drove him to always hit back, to always keep fighting, even if it meant more pain—surged back to life.

  Just as the sword came down, Adam summoned every last ounce of strength inside of him and twisted his body. The sword missed and stabbed into the dirt beside his shoulder.

  Then, he grabbed the man’s ankle and yanked with all his might.

  The man’s balance broke and he fell to the ground with a shocked cry. Adam didn’t think, he just acted before the man could begin to recover. He scrambled on top of the man and slammed his hand into the ground repeatedly, until the sword slipped out of his grasp and he was left completely defenseless. After that, Adam straddled the man’s chest, not paying any mind to the stabbing pain in his gut or the blood running freely down his side.

  The man tried to flip him over, but Adam struck first, smashing his fist into his open face. At once, he felt the man’s nose crumple under the blow, and the sharp crack that tore through the air only confirmed further that the nose was broken. The man cried out in pain, but Adam didn’t stop, he only pounded into his face again.

  “Please, I have a—” the man started to plead, but Adam struck him again, the blow cracking against his cheek and snapping his head to the side.

  Again…

  And again…

  Anger, sharpened by pain, had darkened Adam’s mind completely, and the buzz in his ears drowned out the world around him. He saw nothing but the man’s face, and a surge of dark hatred consumed every thought as he tried to crack his skull open. Each swing was heavier than the last, each strike tearing through his own muscle. Even as his hands became slick with blood, he kept hammering down, driven by an unquenchable bloodlust.

  Voices rose, distant at first, but drawing closer. He didn’t know whether it was real, he didn’t care. He just kept pounding down, blood spraying across his knuckles, against his face, against his shirt… no, not his shirt, Elsa’s.

  An intense pain suddenly erupted at the back of his head, and he was thrown off the man’s battered body, then he heard the voices again, they were real, people had come. His vision was blurred with sweat, tears, and blood, but he saw them, several soldiers in bronze armor rushing into the alley. Where had they come from? Why now?

  Shit, had he broken the oath he’d sworn?

  Those were his last thoughts before he fell into unconsciousness.

  ***

  Elsa sat before the Hand of the King in his office.

  She’d been kept waiting for some time—supposedly because he’d been detained in a council meeting—but somehow she doubted that excuse. More likely, the man made her wait just to irritate her. She knew he didn’t like her, and the feeling was quite mutual. Still, he was the King’s Hand, his authority was second only to the King.

  Her loyalty and respect were expected, demanded.

  “So, what brings you here today, Commander?” the man asked.

  Elsa straightened in the seat, her gaze leveled on his face.

  Lothar Djed, he was a middle-aged man with sharp, defined features that had since lost their youth but not their arrogance. His hair was dark, graying at the temples, and lines etched by years of scheming and plotting covered his face. His eyes were a deep sea blue, cold and assessing, seeming to measure each person not by worth, but by usefulness.

  She was always on guard whenever they spoke to each other.

  “It’s about the Duskveil assignment, my lord,” she said. “It was unfit for a company of bronze knights. Why send them instead of me or any other gold ranks?”

  Lothar’s quill stilled mid-stretch and the faint scrape of metal against the parchment ceased, leaving only his soft breathing to be heard.

  He didn’t look at her right away, which, of course, was deliberate. Every second of silence was a small power play, one Elsa refused to rise to.

  At last, he set the quill down and folded his hands. “Unfit you say?” He glanced at her now, his tone mild, curious. “I was under the impression that the Duskveil assignment was a simple reconnaissance, not a battlefield engagement. Or do you believe the soldiers are incapable of accomplishing even that? Is their training that pointless?”

  That last part was an insult to her. As a Knight Commander, she oversaw recruitment and training in her district. Sure, she might not have trained the fallen company, but they’d trained under another gold rank all the same. If the other Commanders were present in the room, it might’ve been an insult to them all, but she was the only one here. So, it was hers.

  Elsa’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant,” she replied evenly.

  He leaned back in his seat. “Then what is it you mean?”

  She drew a slow breath to steady the rising pulse in her throat. “I mean, Duskveil is not a place for anyone, even simple reconnaissance is not simple. Surely, a gold rank, or at least a few silver ranks, should’ve been assigned to the company,” she explained calmly.

  “The Order of Knights is under my command,” Lothar responded, his tone clipped but composed. “Their assignments are mine to determine and sanction.”

  Elsa dug her nails into the armrest under the table, appalled by the arrogance. They were not under his command. They answered only to the Crown. And even then, the King needed only to issue orders, and Commanders decided how the assignments were handled.

  But she bit the words back. It wouldn’t help anything.

  “With respect, my lord,” she said instead and kept her tone neutral. “We may serve under the Crown’s direction, but command still falls within Knight Order.”

  The faintest hint of a smile curved his lips. “An interesting distinction,” he muttered.

  “I only state things as they are,” she replied.

  Her response earned her a look, cold, calculated, but not angry. If anything, the man seemed almost amused. “Perhaps, but I’m an extension of the Crown. The king entrusted me to act in his stead, and that means his decisions are mine to carry out as I see fit. Unless, of course, you’d like to question His Majesty’s confidence in me?”

  Elsa frowned, but she bit down the retort that rose to the tip of her tongue. The King had no say in this, or in any important matter that concerned the Kingdom. It was common knowledge that he had no interest in ruling, and preferred to spend his time painting. She’d met the King before, and he was a good man, kind as well. But he was not fit…

  She stopped there, not finishing the thought. It was treason.

  “No, I do not question the King’s wisdom,” Elsa answered and released a slow, deep breath. “I only question the wisdom of sending good men into a graveyard.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You think I sent those men to die?”

  Elsa didn’t offer a response. It wasn’t a question, it was truth. He had sent those men to die, whether through incompetence or something worse. It should’ve been a simple thing to issue orders to any gold rank to have his will done, but instead he’d redirected a company of bronze knights with no input from anyone. His direct order had led to their deaths.

  “Careful, Commander,” he said. “There are lines, even for you.”

  There were lines for everyone, she thought darkly, and he was the one overstepping.

  “I apologize, my lord,” she said and dipped her head.

  Lothar leaned forward and rested his arms on the table between them. “Truly, what happened to those men was a tragedy. But they gave their lives in service to the Kingdom as is their duty as Knights. Their families have been compensated. That is all.”

  Elsa’s jaw tightened as he spoke with such callousness, but she could do nothing to him without being charged with treason. She unclenched her fists and rose to her feet, her armor plates clinking as she did. There was no point staying here, it only made her angry.

  Besides, it was clear he wasn’t giving her the answers she wanted.

  She turned toward the door, but his voice stopped her.

  “By the way, Commander,” he called after her. “I heard you returned with a strange person. What happened to them? Is there any connection to the deceased company?”

  That got her attention. It was no surprise the man heard about Adam, but why would he think there was any connection between him and the fallen men? She thought about it from every angle, and the only way it made sense was if he suspected Adam was involved in their demise. But even she, who was quick to distrust everything, hadn’t considered that possibility because she’d actually seen the scene of the battle’s aftermath. And why would he even think that when her report had categorically stated it was a goblin ambush?

  He hadn’t even met Adam before to have suspicions of him. So why?

  “There’s no connection,” Elsa replied, turning around to watch the man’s face, but he’d started to write again. “I let him go after deciding he was no threat to anyone.”

  “Then how was he in the forest?” he asked.

  Elsa’s brow drew together in suspicion. “He doesn’t remember,” she replied warily.

  Lothar nodded. “I see. You’re dismissed.”

  Elsa gave a curt nod and promptly stepped out of his office, shutting the door firmly behind her. The tension she’d held inside finally eased from her shoulders, only the simmering anger and newly formed suspicion remained.

  As always, waiting just outside with folded arms, was Elliot. He separated from the wall at the sight of her and immediately fell into step by her side.

  “Well?” he asked quietly.

  She shook her head once. “A waste of breath, but I did come away with something.”

  “What?”

  “Just suspicions for now,” she said. “But I want you to look into every person that was in that company and what they were doing before the Duskveil assignment.”

  Elliot frowned, quickly understanding what she was implying. There was a rot here.

  Then he gave a nod.

  “By the way,” he said and a sharp smile slid onto his face, dissolving the frown he’d had a moment ago. “While you were in there, I got news. The boy is in the dungeon again.”

  Elsa stopped immediately. “What?”

  “He left the inn, and my men followed him,” he explained. “Apparently, he went to the cathedral, but they lost sight of him on his way back. It was a couple of street kids that helped find him, and when they did, he was covered in blood… He’d nearly beaten three men to death. They would have died if a healer hadn’t been there.”

  “Beat them? For no cause?” she asked, hoping she was wrong and there was cause.

  “They were thieves, tried to rob him.”

  Elsa nodded. “I see. Did he use magic?” she asked.

  “No, just hands, apparently. Three against one, can’t say I’m not impressed.”

  Elsa was conflicted on how to feel. On one hand, she was glad that he was safe, on the other hand, he’d almost beaten three men to death… barehanded.

  He had looked quite capable when she’d seen his toned body. Still, she knew how dangerous the lower districts were. It must have taken significant skill to not only get the better of one, but three, likely hardened, criminals; skill she hadn’t thought he possessed.

  And what was he doing at the cathedral?

  How? Why? It seemed those questions constantly sprang around him.