Venator

  The giants had been mentioned in the book they had read before—colossal-sized humanoid creatures territorial to their marked plots of land. Some reports claimed their fingers were the size of oxen, their feet the size of mountains, and their heads crowned by clouds. The bridges were guarded to keep random citizens from angering the massive neighbors across the Abyss and to keep beasts from those lands from entering. Since the cities had taken control of the bridges, no new unwanted creatures had been added to the continent, or at least so few had managed the journey that their numbers had been culled down enough to be managed.

  Once that book was done, many others came: etiquette guides, medical journals, math texts, and various other skill books. Lorin read them all. He learned quite a bit, and despite covering enough information to make the nights blur into one he could remember what the books taught, but which book contained which bit of information was lost in their haste. As he learned about the world and all the new things about cultures and different ways of life, he began to get excited to explore past what he had read. The world was much bigger than the little homestead Lorin had only ever known.

  The two would check every other night before heading to the library to see if the patrols had changed, and each time Lorin would focus on the gargoyle with fascination. From the bestiary, Lorin learned how surprising it truly was that a gargoyle had left its domain to be a part of this guard. They had never been observed to migrate, ever. Their skin was thick granite, and steel would spark off and dull blades before any real damage could be seen. If the rocky beast turned on the offensive, little could protect a man from turning into a red stain across its chiseled fist. It was documented that silver could cut through the skin to the silty blood beneath, but silver in great quantities was often expensive and hard to find. Never mind the fact that a silver blade would bend and lose its edge a few swings in. Whatever the reason the gargoyle had for keeping watch over the stables, Lorin wasn’t looking to engage with it in anyway. It would be a losing fight, a near impossible test he would certainly fail.

  In time, the stone watcher left, and the guard’s heightened watch dropped back into routine. Once the guards had thinned down to normal, the two abandoned the library and went out to the sand pit. The first night Lorin felt the rust in his joints, but Ashmere's assault loosened him up and they sparred again like before as dawn broke. He had learned most of the close-combat weapons to Ash's standards a few weeks after they resumed training.

  Finally, they started to train with Lorin's go-to weapon, and it felt good. The bow fell lazily into his hand, molding into his grip, and arrows flew from the quiver as fast as the bow could snap them into flight. His reflexes and muscles had been conditioned over the months, and now his archery skills had noticeably improved. Ashmere didn't let that get to his head. For the first test, she shot two arrows straight up for Lorin to hit in mid-air with his own arrows.

  "You can't be serious," Lorin said. "I'll hit myself before I'll hit an arrow."

  Ashmere looked unimpressed and tilted her head to the side. "I thought you were good with a bow? Go on, fire a shot out." Ashmere nocked her arrow.

  Lorin shrugged and shot out into the night sky. The arrow hadn't started to descend before Ashmere's arrow split the shaft like kindling and both arrows tumbled to the sand below. Ashmere turned to speak with a grin, but Lorin already had an arrow drawn and let it loose. A heartbeat after, another arrow flew behind the first. Both crashed to the ground with Ashmere's arrow buried in the back of Lorin's.

  "How are you so perfect at everything?" Lorin asked, leaning against his bow.

  She raised a finger. "I have had plenty of practice. At everything." Then she gestured for him to ready up.

  "What happens when we are done?"

  "You stretch, I read, then we sleep. Same as always. Now fire."

  Lorin missed the first, but the second grazed a tail feather.

  "No. Not after this lesson, but when the sentence is done. When we are done," Lorin said, readying his arrows.

  "That's up to you. We don't have long until you're brought to Varron. I don't know what will happen with you then—that's your business to succeed or fail at." Her words were dispassionate and cold.

  Lorin stood in silence and lowered his gaze.

  "Sorry, that came out harsh,” Ashmere said in a soft voice. “What I mean is that I don't know what you'll do. My hope is that you can get out of here and live on."

  "Oh, what about you?"

  "Well that depends," she said as she fired into the sky again. Lorin missed both. "I'll wait a day maybe two after you meet with Varron. If you come back, we will figure out what to do next, probably escape and regroup somewhere. If you don't come back… well, the bell hasn't rung for a few weeks now. If I hear it, I'll leave and continue on with my duty."

  "You… would you want to meet up after—after everything and continue to teach me?" Lorin felt his voice crack.

  An arrow shot into the sand between Lorin's feet and he jumped back a step. Ashmere just smiled and grabbed her arrow while the tail was still reverberating from the impact. "Lighten up, boy, I won't abandon you. So long as you don't get yourself killed, I'll be ready and waiting to hunt with you beside me." Then, she walked up and placed one hand on his shoulder and her other lightly on his cheek. "You are my friend and student, and you have made this past year one of my best. I am glad you, despite your trials and best efforts, are still alive. You have made my life better, so, thank you." And she wrapped her arms around him. The top of Ashmere's head was damp with tears before they separated.

  Ashmere shot two arrows up without warning, and before Lorin could wipe his eyes he drew and fired one, then a second. One of Ashmere's plunged into the sand headfirst, its feathered tail vibrating from impact. Her second one, though, collapsed to the ground after spinning in a wild tumble, an arrow wedged along the length of its shaft.

  "Again," Ashmere said with a single nod.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sitting alone in a cell could make minutes feel like hours and days feel like months. Lorin's year spent in a mad rush of blades and fists had swept the days away, and the nights seemed faster than even a dreamless sleep could make them. In that whirlwind of time, he had learned much and had grown immeasurably. He had been well built when he’d entered prison—anyone who lived on a farm was, to some degree, strong. A steady supply of wild game, a healthy garden, and plenty of eggs had added a little extra weight on him then. But over the past year his skin had become thin as paper, each cord of muscle rippling underneath it with the barest movement. His morning routine had strengthened his whole body, and he still surprised himself how much control he now had of his body. His reflexes had been honed by the barrage of slaps and punches with which Ashmere would reward him when he proved too slow. Reading had become enjoyable and smooth, and he even could passably speak elvish and dwarvish.

  By his count, a final tally in his hidden cubby marked the end of his sentence. It turned out, however, that either he miscounted or had been forgotten about, because it took an extra week before he was brought in for his second hearing. It was stressful to wait, unsure when his time would come, but Ashmere taught him what she could right up to his last day. The added days also let him plan.

  Things had changed. The Baron was dead, and Varron had taken up the position for some time. Lorin thought there would've been a celebration or something for his coronation, but he hadn't heard the sounds of any festivities echo into his cell or fill the courtyard. In fact, the courtyard had been all but abandoned after the engagement feast and there had been no mention of when Varron’s wedding would be set. Even though Lorin couldn't plan exactly what he could do or expect, it hadn't stopped him from trying. A dozen or more ideas simmered in his mind for quite some time. If he was to be before only Varron in the great hall like his first meeting, it would be simple. The guard holding his bindings could be disarmed, and Lorin could free himself from his chains to rush Varron. Sure, he would run, but Lorin co
uld catch him. Or if Varron got close, well, Lorin's chains around his throat would be a satisfying end to the villain. The cold, rusted iron digging into his skin, letting him know the end was coming and giving him adequate time to think about it.

  When Ashmere had first started training Lorin, all he could think of was slowly and painfully allowing Varron to fade from life. It was justice—no amount of pain Lorin could inflict would be equal to his own, so a slow death would have to suffice. It was devilish, and the little speck of morality telling him not to be so cruel was smothered by the gut-wrenching pain that filled his every waking moment. That was then, but over time his heart had changed. Death would come for Varron; Lorin couldn't help that, the arrow was already loosed. But whether it would hit low and create a festering gut-wound or hit his temple and snuff away his life had yet to be decided. The Venator Vade Mecume had buried itself into his mind, specifically the second vow. A Venator needed to swiftly end a hunt and not toy or make the mark suffer. Each vow had its own chapter and he had re-read through the book a dozen times.

  “A true hunter hunts for a purpose. The beast may have destroyed homes or families, ruined towns and cities. In the end, justice is met when they fall. Every quarry has had a life of its own up until a Venator marks it. It may have young ones, lead a pack, or have some other purpose in its mind. They never feel themselves a villain, no matter how wicked or animalistic their actions. In the target's mind, they did what was right. If a Venator tortures, maims, or humiliates their target, they become worse than the mark, twisting the justice for their own cruel intent. As such behavior is monstrous, that Venator deserves to be marked and hunted. For breaking a vow, and for allowing another monster to be born.”

  Varron had caused pain, loss, and grief. He was a monster of a man not fit for life. Afterward, though, what would Lorin become? His studies had made that question brew alongside his assassination plan. Varron thought himself superior, that normal people were to be used and slaughtered like swine when they weren’t useful. In Varron’s mind, he was right. To Varron, the people that weren’t nobles were meant to serve others, and not live for themselves. Trying to understand that line of thinking twisted Lorin's guts to the point of being ill. Nevertheless, Varron's point of view was his own, and Lorin tried to understand it. Ashmere had taught him to fight with different weapons with the goal of understanding how best the weapon could be used. The same principle applied to the hunting of a monstrosity. Varron was prideful, arrogant, and self-centered. He hid it well, true, and it seemed only Lorin could see that his true colors blackened the ground around him. Perhaps mocking him could lure him to do something rash, using his pride as an opening to exploit. It was possible. Regardless, Lorin had no idea what to expect or how he would react. Jessica was always in the dark corner of his cell when he fell asleep, and when his eyes closed he would see his children playing. They were his goal. He wasn't afraid to die, though his craving for death had lessened. At times, he would still feel pangs of distress, and the little voice in his mind would tell him how much better it would be to just die. But he was able to fight the urge by looking to his goal of vengeance. Nothing else mattered.

  He knew his appearance before the new Baron would happen during the day. For the days leading up to the end of his sentence, his normal leisure time through the daylight hours were restless from excitement—or dread, he hadn't figured out which. Once the day he expected for the retrial had come and gone, however, he would wake at the slightest noise, expecting a guard to show-up and take him. He couldn’t sleep more than an hour at a time and had been lying in his cot when the guard arrived.

  "Lorin Rhodes, you are to report for an appearance before our Lord and Baron," the guard said at the door of the cell, standing at attention. He looked professional, but Lorin hadn't seen him before. His helmet covered most of his face and muffled his voice, letting only a hint of gruff charm pass to Lorin's ears.

  Lorin stood up from his cot, straightened out his ruffled sackcloth, and wiped the sleep from his eyes. "Do I have time to freshen up?" Lorin asked, pulling aside an eyelash that had fallen into view. He was surprised at how easy the words came to him.

  "I have my orders."

  "Did they include a washing, or a presentable set of clothes to greet His Highness with? Or perhaps your Lord and Baron likes the smell of shit-stained sackcloth and an unwashed body." Lorin smiled as he spoke the words. He could see the inside of the helmet almost glow a dull red from the flustered face beneath it.

  "I… I… was only told to bring you to the hall. I don't think-"

  "No, you don't, though maybe I could help. Bring me a change of clothes with a basin and rag. I'll clean myself and we can be on our way. Then, you can be proud that you honored your Lord. Letting him suffer through my stench would likely end with you sharing my aroma in this cell."

  The guard stood for a while staring blankly. For some reason unknown to Lorin, he had decided to barter with this guard. A wash and a new set of clothes would be nice—luxurious even. But something inside him made all the fear of the guard’s authority vanish.

  The guard turned and left. Not a word spoken. Lorin assumed he pushed a little too far and thought he would have to settle in for another few days in the cell. He didn’t let the hope of the guard actually listening to his request get the better of him.

  "Nicely done, Lorin," Ashmere said, clapping. "Although you could've tried to get the same for me." She laughed and went back to look out the window. Lorin smirked, feeling a little weight lift from off his chest, but it could still be the day of the show, and that hung heavy.

  A few minutes later the guard had a bucket of cold water and cloth hanging on his arm, along with a light brown tunic and dark baggy trousers.

  "Hurry, you are to stand before M'lord within the hour," the guard said, passing the items through the bars.

  "I'm sure Varron will thank you personally for what you spared him," Lorin said, pulling his shirt off over his head.

  The guard stood watch while Lorin stripped bare, throwing his old clothes over his bucket, and wiped away the grime he had accrued. He had, over the year, washed up in the stable’s trough when it was necessary, but he hadn't done that in quite a while. The stables had felt off to him after the party, and his mind hadn't been focused on his hygiene. He was quick to wash, change, and gather his old clothes before he stood in front of the cell door.

  "Lead on, sir," Lorin said with gesture to open the door. A metallic jangle shifted his focus and made his heart race. He had assumed he would be manacled, but it still unnerved him. It was show time, and he needed to be ready. Lorin sighed, but held his hands in front of him. The guard reached through the bars and secured the restraints before thumbing through his key ring to open the door. Lorin smiled, glad that only his hands were bound.

  The guard led him out of the cell and toward the door at the end of the hall. Lorin had said his thanks and goodbyes to Ashmere nights ago and every night after. But before he was pulled away too far, he looked at her. "Thank you, teacher," he said and nodded.

  "Who you calling teacher?" the guard asked, giving a tug on the chains.

  Lorin followed along, but kept his eyes locked with Ashmere until they lost line of sight. The guard fiddled with his keys again to open the large door at the end of the cell block. He opened it with a loud, creaking echo and stepped through ahead of Lorin. Before the door closed, but after they had stepped through, Lorin looked back. Ashmere had walked out of her cell and was standing in the hall. She waved, and then the door closed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The guard said little on the way to the great hall. In fact, the only sound to escape the helm was a whistle at a young maid-servant carrying linen as they walked past. The girl was no older than Sarah had been, and she kept her eyes on the ground, watching each step she took. There was a hint of recognition—Lorin could feel it, and a shudder tingled through his spine. They dropped off the old clothes and water pail in a room on the way. Lorin set
everything down carefully and made sure the guard didn't see when he slipped the arrowheads from the clothes to under his sleeves. The walk otherwise was uneventful and uncomfortable thanks to the cold rough steel around his wrists. Lorin was brought outside to the courtyard, using the same path he had been taking every night. This time, however, once they left the main building, the two turned to walk to the front of the mansion. Lorin had only been to the front side of the grounds when he’d first arrived. It hadn't changed much from his memory other than the foliage being a bit thicker.

  They entered the main doors and were met by a waiting room of sorts. People from the city and surrounding county were all standing or sitting in the entryway to the great hall, likely waiting to see the new Baron and petition him for whatever favor they needed. It made more sense now that the guard hadn’t fought his request for time to clean up, since they would probably be waiting for a while. The people in the room ranged from fatherless children, to a full family of five, and even a hunched-over old woman with a young man holding her teetering body upright. She looked like bones kept standing by a careful balancing act with skin loosely draped over them. Stairs from the entryway led up to two large doors that opened to the great hall. At the base of the stairs where the queue started was a fairly large square area to sit and wait. People in expensive-looking purple and red clothing were the majority that sat on the cushioned chairs, and they all looked wealthy. The people in the line, on the other hand, did not.