Legacy of Shadows

Greetings, minions.

(I don't know what it is with me and the word 'minions' lately. I seem to like using it a lot.)

I'm pretty excited that this is finally getting posted. This story took almost a year to complete, all the way from its conception to its end. You might think that doesn't sound long, but it sure felt long. 

Anyway, allow me to present one of my favorite pieces of literature I have had the pleasure to write so far. 

But before I go on, I need to ask you all to salute my friend and fellow writer, Charissa Crotts. She was the mastermind of Dethan, one of the main characters in this story. She wrote all his scenes and helped me with shaping the world, story, and characters. I could not have done this without her. This work belongs just as much to her as it does me, and she deserves your applause. Thanks, Charissa!

--COPYRIGHT & DISCLAIMER--

This work is the property of Michael J. Lorincz and Charissa L. Crotts. Do not copy, sell, or reproduce in any manner without consent of the aforementioned authors. This work contains violence and thematic elements that may be unsuitable for anyone under the age of, say, ten years old. Any relations to persons living or dead is completely coincidental. If you have questions or concerns please send them to this address. Thank you, and enjoy.

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   Hathan ran up the stone steps of his house, bursting through the door. “Mom, mom, guess what they taught at fence today?”

His mother Iella, who was kneading some wet flour, looked at him and raised an eyebrow questioningly, smiling.

“Blade forms!” Hathan shifted his feet into a stance, thrusting out his right arm as if wielding a sword, making cutting and stabbing movements. “You think I'll be good enough to join the King's Guard someday?”

His mother's smile disappeared. “Yes. Maybe someday you will, honey.” She patted the dough into its round shape and shoveled it into the oven. Wiping her white hands on her apron, her smile returned as she watched Hathan fence his way across the kitchen. “Whoa there, my little knight, or you'll actually hit something.” She patted him on the head. “Do it outside, okay?”

“Do you think Dad'll let me join the Guard, like Dethan?” Hathan asked.

Iella heaved a sigh. “I don't know, Than. Your brother is a very special person. He was extremely exceptional to get in, especially at his age.”

Hathan's lip turned down in a pout. “Mooom, why's it always “Dethan, Dethan”? I'm good too, aren't I?”

She laughed. “Your father has nothing but praise for you, Hathan. Now that Dethan's pretty grown up, all he talks about is you.”

Hathan's frown disappeared. “Really?”

“Of course! Now go outside and play, dear. Your dad'll be back soon, and I'll call you in for dinner.”

Two hours later, Hathan's mother called him back in. As they sat around the dinner table, there was a stoic silence. Finally Iella broke the quiet.

“So, what did Farahen say, Jath?”

Hathan's father chewed a moment before replying. “He'll be there, along with the others.”

“Oh...good.”

Hathan looked questioningly at his dad. “What about Farahen, dad?”

Jath stared at him blankly for a second. “It's nothing, son. Just a convention.” He finished his dinner and left the table.

“Hathan, go get ready for bed, okay?” His mother kissed him on the top of the head.

An hour later, the sun was long gone over the horizon. Hathan lay down in his straw bed, his mind wandering. His family, the Harradras, lived in Covhallen, one of the four major cities in Erathia. His father was the head of a large merchant's guild in Covhallen, which gave them a fairly good standing in the city. Hathan had set his sights on joining the King's Guard, in the capitol Faoll. His brother Dethan had been an extremely successful student of the castle guard and had graduated with perfect scores at the mere age of eight. He had been accepted to the King's Guard at sixteen and now, at eighteen, he held a privileged position there, tasked to protect the king and country against any threats.

I'll surpass my brother, I promise! Hathan thought. I'll join the King's Guard too!

Finally he drifted off to sleep.

His eyes opened. Wh-what was that? His befuddled mind groped around for the origin of the sound that had woke him. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. As his senses cleared, he heard what sounded like a low rumble. What's that? He got up. The low rumble continued, seeming to resonate throughout the house. Hathan walked over to the window, pushing the shutters open.

And his heart froze.

A flickering red light met his eyes, a pulsating heat washed over him.

The city of Covhallen was in flames.

“Mom! Dad!” Hathan yelled, running through the house. Panic rose to squeeze his chest like a vise. He'd never seen a fire this big. It was like an angry beast, eagerly devouring the houses before it. Screams and yells were sounding all throughout the city. Hathan burst into his parent's room, panting.

The window in his parent's room was open, the light of the huge fire flickering on the stone walls. The light illuminated their bed, the sight of which caused Hathan's breath to catch.

Jath was laid over Iella, a blade pinning both down. Blood covered the linen sheets, seeping into the straw mattress. Over the two stood a dark, hooded figure dressed in a leather cuirass.

“You...who are you?” Hathan stuttered.

The figure swept the sword from the bodies, slamming the blade into the wood by Hathan's head.

“Watch where you tread, little brother,” said a low voice.

Hathan tore his gaze away from the razor-sharp blade imbedded into the wall next to him. “D-Dethan?”

“Hello, 'Than.”

Hathan stared at his older brother in terror. “Did...you do this?”

“I did.”

“Wh-why?”

A twisted smile crossed Dethan's face. “Because I am strong.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Hathan asked, tears now streaking his face. “You...you murdered mom and dad! What for?”

“To surpass. To exceed. Because the one who finds the strength within to sever the pitiful bonds of family and friends has true power.”

“And...did you...” Hathan glanced out at the burning city.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told you why,” Dethan replied coldly. “The only question remains whether your fate is sealed or not.”

Hathan looked back at the bodies of their parents, laying limply on the bed. He bit his tongue, the tears running faster. Finally he broke down and sobbed.

“Shut up.” Dethan slapped him. “Attachment is weakness.”

Hathan slumped down, burying his face in his hands. The heat from the fire battered him relentlessly, sweat pouring down his back.

Dethan reached over and jerked the blade from the wood above Hathan, inserting the tip under his chin. He forced Hathan to look up. “Do you hate me, weak little brother?”

Hathan didn't reply, choking against the pressure of the sword.

“If you wish to kill me, then resent me. Hate me. Hunt me to the ends of the earth. Run...keep running. And when, one day, you possess the same resolve as mine, come and face me.” The sword left Hathan's chin, scraping his neck. Blood trickled down from the scratch, mingling with the sweat from the heat of the fire.

Hathan looked at the limp bodies of his parents. The wound on his neck stung as his salty tears rolled down and met it.

Dethan...why?

___________________________________________________________________________________

Hathan stumbled into the small village, half fainting of exhaustion. It had been at least twenty miles since the last one, and he'd only been able to pilfer a few small loaves of bread and a goatskin of water. It was fortunate for him he'd managed to scrounge some berries and roots on the way.

He leaned against the wooden structure of one of the houses, feeling dizzy. I need to...make it to the square. He numbly started walking again, stubbornly placing one foot in front of the other. Maybe I'll be able to beg for a little.

When he finally reached the small clearing that was the town square, his vision was blurring. He could vaguely see people moving about the place, their cloudy shapes going about their daily business. His weak legs gave out in protest, making him fall to his knees. Muffled voices reached his ears as he fully collapsed, the black embrace of unconsciousness folding him in its arms.

He awoke to the sensation of warmth pressing against his lips. A trickle of something ran down his chin and his neck. Opening his eyes, he registered the source of the mysterious liquid as a spoonful of soup that was held at his mouth, gently pressing on it. He opened it and gladly received the offered food, chewing slowly on what tasted like potato and then swallowing. When he had finished the mouthful, he focused on the person who had given it.

It was an old woman, dressed in a plain brown dress and apron. She was calmly stirring a pot of what looked like the soup she had just spoon-fed him. Her face held a kind, quiet expression. She held up a bowl of the soup and again spooned out a helping to Hathan, who gratefully accepted it.

When the bowl was finally empty, Hathan looked around. He was lying on a straw bed, in what looked like one of the village houses. A low, wooden roof was above them. The house seemed sparsely furnished, with a small table and several stools sitting close to a snug fireplace. The whole place had a comforting, homely appeal to it that reminded Hathan of his home that had been in Covhallen...

“Where is this town?” he asked, trying to sit up.

The old woman looked at him, reaching out with her ladle and pressing him back down. “Don't you move yet, young'n. You're as weak as a newborn, you are. You're in Tora, 'bout ten miles south of the Greybeards.”

“Who are you?”

“Just call me Ma, young'n. Everybody does.” She handed him a cup of water and he drank it eagerly.

“Did you...”

Ma shook her head. “No, I didn't. Old friend of mine found you. Brought you here. Looks like he was right to do so.”

Hathan struggled upright, despite her admonition. “Then...I'll be going. I appreciate your kindness.”

“Look, young'n.” Ma brandished her ladle threateningly. “You're either very determined or very stupid. No one's travelin' in your condition. What sorta thing's got you in such a hurry?”

Not something. Someone. Hathan said nothing.

“Whatever it is, it doesn't matter right now.” Ma pointed her dripping ladle at him, eyes narrowing. “I won't let anyone in your straights outside in good conscience. And my friend has some questions to ask you, anyhow. Leave now and you'll likely die, as well as slight his–and my–generosity.” She pressed him down again. “Get some more rest.”

Hathan meekly complied, and soon was fast asleep.

This time, he awoke to the sounds of muffled conversation. He opened his eyes and sat up.

“Ah, our young guest awakens.”

Hathan looked over. By the small table in the room sat Ma and a man, who looked to be around forty. He had short, gray-black hair and stubble dotted his face. His eyes were also gray and deep, and they scrutinized Hathan like a fisherman sizing up the quality of his catch. He wore a short, brown tunic and large boots. A large bow leaned against the table beside him, and a quiver of arrows hung off the chair he was sitting in.

“Hathan, is it?”

Hathan's look turned suspicious. “How do you know that?”

“Ma here says you mutter in your sleep.” The man leaned back in his chair. “I'm Barrigan. 'Twas me who found you half-dead and carried you here.”

“Well...thanks.”

Barrigan frowned. “Well, you're not welcome. You forced me into a corner of generous obligation, appearing all half-dead like that. What in the name of the Greybeards were you doing, walking around in such a condition?”

“I'm...looking for something.”

“This something had better be pretty sodding important to risk your life over.”

Hathan hesitated. “I'd rather not say.”

“Well, we'll find out soon enough.” Barrigan stared pointedly at him. “Young, fair, and foolish. I really can't ignore this, Ma.”

Ma shrugged. “You do what you want with him, Barrigan. I trust he'll be going the way of Silva?”

“He's got more potential than that, I can tell.”

Hathan, feeling rather put out, broke in. “Are you talking about me?”

Barrigan, who had turned back to Ma, swiveled his head like an owl and fixed him with a stare that would probably make one blink as well. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact we are.”

“I think you should tell me just what you're planning on doing with me.” Hathan said flatly.

“Well you see, sonny, it's like this.” Barrigan reached behind him for his bow, laying it across his lap and caressing the string absently. “I, being the honest moral soul that I am, can't simply save a – what, twelve year old – boy from the brink of death and then release the ignorant cretin back into the wild, now can I? So you'll be coming with me.”

“Who says I want to?”

Barrigan fixed him with another long stare. “My my, you definitely have some etiquette lessons that need catching up on, don't you? All right, here's a few reasons why.” He drew an arrow swiftly from his quiver and pointed it at Hathan. “One. You have no home base, no resources, and little survival savvy. I can give you all of those. Two, you have little if any combat skills. I can train you. And three.”

In a flash, he drew and fired, drew and fired, drew and fired. Three arrows thudded in a triangular pattern around Hathan's head, so close he could feel the feathers of one tickling his chin. The most unsettling part, though, was that he had barely registered Barrigan's load and release.

“You're helpless as a newborn lamb.” Barrigan said softly, a fourth arrow already nocked and pointed at Hathan. “That ticks me off.” He slowly released the tension of the bowstring, lowering the weapon. “Any objections now?”

There weren't.

For what seemed like the thousandth time that morning, Hathan slipped and fell off his horse. Barrigan saw him fall out of the corner of his eye and heard the thump as Hathan kissed the dirt, again. He continued on a few paces, then stopped his horse and looked back. “I told you to grip with your knees. Your knees, boy, not your piece-of-straw legs. You do know what knees are, right?”

Hathan shot him a baleful look, stubbornly shoving his foot back in a stirrup and clambering back into the saddle. He now wore leather hunting boots and a riding cloak, which were the only clothes Ma had been able to offer him. Underneath it he still wore his ragged tunic.

As they started down the road again he swayed, trying desperately to keep his balance. His hands clutched the saddle bow fiercely, and he bent low over the horse's neck, attempting to lower his center of balance.

My knees, old man? I can barely hold on by squeezing with everything I have. Hathan thought – but no sooner had the thought formed and passed than he felt himself begin to slip again. An undulating howl broke from his throat as he clutched vainly at the horse's mane in an attempt to stop his descent.

Thud.

Barrigan rolled his eyes and kept going. “What did I just tell you.” he muttered under his breath.

Hathan groaned as he struggled up from his less-than-dignified position on the ground, yet again mounting the saddle. Fine. We'll try it your way. He increased the pressure of his knees and let his arms hang free, keeping him balanced.

To his surprise, this worked far better than his previous attempts, though he still fell quite often. Slowly, he learned to relax and let himself move fluidly with the horse's pace, instead of bouncing all tensed up.

The downside was that the next day his entire body felt like one massive bruise, and he could barely move. However, somehow he managed to get back in the saddle, and they kept riding north towards the Greybeard Mountains.

After about three solid days of riding, they were well among the foothills of the Greybeards. As they crested a rocky hill, Barrigan reined in his horse. Hathan, who by this time had grasped the basics of riding, did the same.

“It's not much, but it's home,” Barrigan said fondly.

On the side of the hill opposite them, a small cottage was nestled in the rocky face. Beside it was a small cleared space that held what looked like crops. A low wall ran across the side of the place facing them, and a rough stairway led up to the cabin itself.

As they approached the small house, they were hailed by a rather high-pitched voice. “State your intent, or feel free to eat arrows!”

“You've got to work on that a bit, lass,” Barrigan called back. “Leave the arrow-eating for if they're not friendly, or they might just get jittery.”

The door opened and a young girl with a bow came out. She was tall and had to stoop a little to get under the small door frame, but her movements were graceful and smooth. Even to Hathan's untrained eye, she had an air of confidence and what could only be described as deadliness if crossed. Her dark red hair was an interesting contrast on her light skin, and her face was well-defined, sharp.

“You've been away a sight longer than you said you would be,” she said, eyeing Barrigan. As her gaze moved to Hathan, her hand holding the bow suddenly snapped up and drew back, an arrow on the string. “Who in the name of Shersha is that?”

Barrigan looked back at Hathan, who seemed more than a little uncomfortable with an arrowhead pointing his direction. “Oh, don't worry about him, Silva. He's an idiot.”

Hathan tried to keep his features impassive. After three seconds he gave up and stared balefully at Barrigan. “Gee, thanks.”

“You can wash my boots later, boy.” Barrigan dismounted smoothly and started leading his horse up the stairs. Halfway down he was impeded by a rather sizable object hurtling down into his arms.

“Whoa, Silva, it's all right,” he said, smoothing her hair. “I wasn't gone for that long, was I?”

Silva pulled back and slapped him across the face. “You imbecile, I thought you were dead!”

“Aw, I feel special.”

“Any later and I might have reserved that arrow for you, old man.”

Hathan looked away from the exchange. It reminded him all too well of one of his own reunions.

* * *

“Brother! You're home!” A four-year-old Hathan grinned widely and tackled Dethan's left leg. “Come and play!”

Dethan smiled as he patted Hathan on the head. He also gave him a slight cuff on the ear, their usual greeting. “I'm afraid I can't right now, Hathan. I'm only home for today – you see, I'm currently on a mission.”

Hathan frowned. “But Dethan, you're aaaalways on a mission. Can't you stay home for a while and teach me some stuff?”

Dethan raised an eyebrow. “Teach you something? Hmm. How about the Dibolo defense?”

“Sure! Anything!” Hathan's grin returned, and he hopped in circles around Dethan. “Can we do it? Now, please please please?”

Dethan laughed. “All right, fine, out in the courtyard.”

They walked out into the courtyard. Dethan went over to one of the trees and cut off three sticks, two rather short and one that was much longer. He gave the longer one to Hathan.

“You see, it works like this.” Dethan held up one of the short sticks he held. “Most people in the city don't carry around swords for protection from bandits and thieves. Too clumsy and annoying. So they carry daggers.”

“Yeah? Are we gonna fight?” Hathan asked eagerly, swishing the his stick back and forth.

Dethan rolled his eyes. “Pay attention. As I was saying, most city folk carry daggers for their portability, protection, and ease of handling. Assassins do the same thing, for a few different reasons.” He did several quick jabs with his stick as a demonstration. “Swords, on the other hand, give a longer reach and pack more power behind their swing. So, in a contest of a sword versus dagger, which do you think wins?”

“Um...sword?”

“In most cases, yes.” Dethan smiled. “A sword against a dagger is very much weighted in the swordsman’s favor. But what about a sword versus two daggers?” He held up both of his sticks. “In that case, the fight is about equal. Because if you cross the blades, the double leverage gives you more stopping power, and you can parry a sword strike almost as easily as with another sword. And, if you know how to throw the dagger, you have an ever greater range than that of the sword.”

Hathan frowned. “Okay...”

“Here.” Dethan handed him the two sticks and took the longer one. “Now watch where I'm going to attack you, and cross the sticks to block mine.”

“Okay!”

Dethan drew back and unleashed an overhand blow. Hathan brought up his sticks and just managed to catch the stroke, but his brother's strength drove the block down until it tapped lightly on his head.

“You see, that's one of the weaknesses of the Dibolo defense.” Dethan said sympathetically as Hathan rubbed the spot. “If the other man is only slightly stronger than you, he can batter through your defenses with his extra leverage granted to him by his sword, if you try blocking him directly. So, the point of the Dibolo defense is to only slightly deflect the attack. If you can do that, you have an immediate advantage, because your attacker is off balance and open for you to dice him up with your daggers.” He grinned and patted Hathan on the head where the stick had tapped him. “How's that?”

“Cool!” Hathan gave him a big smile. “Though it kinda hurts.”

“You'll get better, I promise.”

“Can we learn something else?”

“Sorry, 'Than, I can't. Some other time.”

As they walked back inside, Hathan still rubbing his head, their mother came out. “My goodness Dethan, what were you two doing?” she said, catching sight of the small lump on Hathan's head.

“Just a little practice, Mother.” Dethan smiled and gave her a hug. “I should probably get going soon. I'll go pack my things.”

As he went inside, Iella turned on Hathan and put her hands on her hips. “Tsk tsk.” She clicked her tongue as she looked at Hathan's small bruise. She reached out and parted Hathan's hair, her gentle fingers examining the bump. “Just what were you thinking?”

* * *

Hathan yelped as the taut bowstring slipped out of his fingers and slapped against his arm. A red welt formed on the spot, and the arrow he'd been aiming skewed off to the side and buried itself in the ground, far wide of the target.

“Just what were you thinking, boy?” Barrigan roared at him, stomping over and grabbing the bow out of his hands. “You need proper equipment before you actually try shooting the sodding thing!”

Hathan mumbled an apology through the sucking of his wound.

Barrigan jabbed a finger at him. “Never,” he said slowly, enunciating his words, “touch a dangerous thing, unless you know how to use it. Ever. Understand?”

Hathan nodded mutely. Barrigan walked back over to the table he'd been bent over and stooped over it again, his fingers busily working with something.

It'd been about a week since their arrival. Hathan was surprised to find out that, despite the place's rather small appearance, the inside had been hollowed out into a large cave that was dug into the hill. Inside there was a miniature pen for chickens, two cows, and a small stable for the horses. Added to that was a rather spacious training ground, on which Hathan was currently being drilled by Barrigan. He'd already gone through their unarmed combat session, and they were now moving into archery.

From what he'd now knew of Silva, she was like Barrigan's adopted daughter. He'd found her an orphan, took care of her and trained her. She was around twelve, like he currently was. And she was definitely better than him in...well, everything, it seemed like.

“Put this on.” Barrigan's voice sliced through his ruminations. He looked to see Barrigan holding out a strip of leather, with straps on the back.

“Um...where?”

Barrigan pointed to his right forearm, which had a similar strip. “It helps prevent what you just did.”

The pain of the bowstring slap returned, and Hathan winced. He slid on the leather guard, securing the straps. “Now what?”

Barrigan handed him another weird-looking piece of leather. He held up his left hand in explanation, which held the same piece of leather between his ring, middle, and index finger. “Keep drawing that string and you'll tear your fingers off. Don't want that, do we?”

Hathan donned the protector. “So...what now?”

“Now...we prepare.” Barrigan grinned at the irritation that clouded Hathan's face. “What? Think you've got it down? All right, go ahead. Shoot.”

Hathan stepped up to the firing line, drew back, and shot. The arrow sped toward the target...and glanced off of the wooden strut holding it in place, striking the wall.

“Not bad, for a first try,” Barrigan mused. “But you're using too much of your arm. Pull back with your shoulder muscles. Stand with your right foot forward, draw back to your chin...” He made the corrections. “Now, try again.”

This time, Hathan's arrow struck the outermost white ring, on the left side of the target.

“Good.” Barrigan nodded. “But you're pushing too much to the right, now. And you're still not having to factor in wind speed much, not to mention direction. You know what this takes, right?”

Hathan sighed. “Practice.”

“The truth has been spoken!” Barrigan clapped him on the back. “You do that, and next we'll do some swordplay.”

All things considered, learning how to sword-fight was a lot easier than archery. Archery took a certain degree of instinct – you had to learn, slowly and painstakingly, how to eliminate all the different variables, such as draw weight and power, angle, distance, wind, and stance. There was no standard form, no solid way to measure things. It was hard, excruciating work.

On the other hand, learning sword fighting was comparatively simpler. There were forms, stances, certain positions, and footplay – but all those just needed to be practiced until they were reflexive. Shooting a bow had to be learned. And Hathan decided very early on he enjoyed their practice bouts with wooden sword mockups much better than his archery lessons. At least it felt like he was accomplishing something.

One such bout was underway now. Hathan faced across from Barrigan, holding nothing but a stick in his hand that was roughly balanced. Barrigan, while similarly equipped, held his in an almost unconcerned pose. He stared at Hathan with his all-too familiar gaze.

“So? I'm waiting.”

Hathan suddenly realized he'd been daydreaming. He brought up his stick and advanced cautiously. Barrigan waited for him, hand on his hip and his stick twitching unconcernedly.

“Sometime today, boy.”

Hathan lunged, aiming for Barrigan's middle. Barrigan easily sidestepped the stab and cracked his stick down on Hathan's right arm, which was overextended. Hathan yelped and dropped his stick, then felt a slap across his rear as Barrigan took a pace forward.

“What have I told you? Maintain your center of balance, or you won't be fighting at all!” Barrigan waited for Hathan to pick up his stick and settle into a stance. “If your body isn't set to strike from any direction, or defend likewise, you're not fighting. Use your feet.” He advanced. When he got within range Hathan suddenly detected a slash coming in from the upper left. He swept his stick across to defend, managing to stop the attack just in time.

Another strike sped towards his side. Hathan deflected the blow and slid it up over his head and down to the right, his parry describing a circle and flinging the blade back to where it was. The finish struck the point of his blade right in Barrigan's chest.

“That's what I want to see.” Barrigan said. Then he got serious.

Hathan could barely keep up with Barrigan's movements. The stick seemed to be incoming from all directions, and he was frantically trying – and failing – to turn aside the majority of the flurry. Suddenly it stopped.

Barrigan looked at him and shook his head. “You're trying to predict,” he said. “That won't help you right now.”

Hathan rubbed his bruised and aching body. “Why not?”

“You aren't practiced enough.” Barrigan moved his mock blade in little circles. “When you can perform all of the blade forms by instinct, without thinking about them, then you have time to predict. Right now, you need to let your reflexes handle what your mind cannot. It can only handle small patterns at the moment.” He walked back to the weapons table and put his stick down. “Break, for now.”

* * *

Three years passed in this manner. Hathan's life was nothing but training, tending the mini farm they had, and occasionally go out with Barrigan on a supply run or a hunt. His muscles hardened from the constant work, and his skill with the sword, bow, and hand-to-hand fighting grew immensely. Their hunts taught him stealth, and he learned to read signs of the land that normal people could not.

Silva trained as much as he did. Hathan coolly regarded her as an equal, even better than him at many things; she reciprocated the feeling.

One one supply mission, he and Barrigan traveled to the city Terraria, a day's travel to the west of Barrigan's home. When they reached the city the sun was low on the horizon, and they put up at an inn for the night.

“You'll do this half,” Barrigan tossed him a roll of paper. Taking the list, Hathan nodded. They'd done this type of thing before, and he'd gotten quite good at bargaining. By splitting up, they'd be able to complete their shopping much faster and more efficiently.

They both crawled into bed, falling asleep fast from their long ride.

He dreamed. In his dream he was at home again.

“Dethan! You're back!” He tackled his brother at the legs. “Come on! Teach me some techniques!”

His older brother smiled at him. “Sorry, 'Than, next time. I'm busy today.”

Hathan's lip turned down in a pout. “But that's what you said last time. All you taught me was the double-knife defense! Come oooon.”

Dethan cuffed him over the ear, still smiling gently. “I'm sorry, 'Than. Another time.”

He walked away, fading into the darkness of Hathan's dream.

This time he heard voices. Heated voices, raised in argument. He walked through the house, stopping before the entrance to the living room, which was lit. Dethan and his father Jath were in a heated debate, his mother watching silently from the sidelines.

“I've told you, it's an impossible endeavor. There's too many.” Dethan said firmly.

“Son, you are our only pipeline to the capitol! They trust you. It would be easy.”

“You're underestimating them, father. And the last thing they need right now is what you propose.”

His father slammed a fist onto the table. “Dethan, you will comply, because I am you father. Harradra's bloodline is passed down through you, and I will have it preserved.”

Anger clouded Dethan's face. “Bloodlines, bloodlines! All you care about is your worthless heritage! They are fools who cling to the past, and more so if they cannot move on!”

“Enough-!”

“Stop, both of you.” His mother's gentle voice sliced through the debate. She turned towards where Hathan stood just behind the doorway. “Hathan, dear, shouldn't you be in bed?”

Hathan timidly stepped into the living room. “S-sorry mother, I couldn't sleep.”

His mother stared accusingly at Dethan and Jath. Dethan looked at Hathan. Sorrow flitted briefly across his face, then it was composed. He turned back to their father and bowed his head.

“I'm sorry, father. I spoke out of turn. Please, forgive me.”

“Hathan, dear, why don't you go back to bed...”

Smoke.

He could smell smoke.

He was running through his house again, the roar of Covhallen's burning outside, like a crackling symphony. “Mom! Dad!” The scream tore from his throat, dry from the heat. He burst into his parent's room, panting.

Dead.

They were dead.

Dethan's eyes bored into his own, his low voice whispering into Hathan's mind.

“Do you hate me, little brother?”

Hathan could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks. He stirred in his bed. Yes, murderer. I hate you. And you will pay. I will MAKE YOU PAY.

The anger faded to sorrow, and confusion. Why, Dethan? Why do this? WHY?

The cold tip of Dethan's blade pressed into his neck, pricking like a needle. “Hate me. Resent me. Run...keep running...and when, one day, you possess the same resolve as I, come and face me.”

He vanished, the darkness closing in to take his place. The heat of Covhallen's fire washed over his face, drying the tears on his face as they came. He was alone.

And the city burned...

“Wake up.”

Hathan stirred, his eyes opening.

“Wake up!” Barrigan slapped him. That definitely got his attention. He jerked upright.

The fire in his dream...it was real.

An all-too familiar flickering light lit their room. He leaped out of bed and ran to the window, looking out.

The tall keep of Terraria was aflame, fire jutting from the windows of the fortress. It didn't look like anything else was burning, fortunately. But the screams of the people alerted him to a new danger.

“Bandits. In the city,” Barrigan explained. He was hurriedly dressing, getting his equipment together and belting on his weapons. “A large band, most likely. Not just anyone can infiltrate a city this neatly and have enough people to keep the garrison busy. Too far north to be Doyen. Must be bandits.”

Hathan followed Barrigan's example, strapping on his sword and bow. “What do we do?”

“Fight,” Barrigan said, giving him that owly stare. “Unless you'd rather cut and run, or hide like a sniveling coward?”

Hathan didn't reply, stringing his bow and drawing a few arrows from his quiver.

“We'll secure our horses first. Then get to the rooftops, and see if we can eliminate some of the bandits without being identified as them by the guard and getting ourselves killed with friendly fire.”

They ran down the stairs, nodding to the innkeeper who was sleepily brandishing a mace. Fortunately, he was awake enough to recognize them as his customers.

As they exited the building, screams and cries of distress rose throughout the city.

“Looting and plundering their way along, killing anyone who stands in their way.” Barrigan muttered. “Oh, they won't kill everyone, nor steal everything. They need to ensure it survives to be looted another day,” he spat. “Outlaw scum.”

Suddenly, several of the aforementioned party appeared to their left, running down the street towards them. With the deadly accuracy of seasoned bowmen, Barrigan and Hathan had them down in less than five seconds.

“Hurry. They may have made it to our-”

He stopped, his mouth open. A man was walking away from the stables, leading none other than their two mounts.

“H-hey!” They ran after him.

Hearing their shout, the man turned. Familiar eyes glittered under a gray hood.

Hathan froze.

Dethan?

DETHAN?

For a second he stood paralyzed. Then the man dropped the reins, drawing a long dagger from his belt and running at them. Jerked from his reverie, Hathan threw aside his bow, drawing his sword, bringing it around to parry...

Too late. The dagger slipped inside his defenses, aimed for his heart. At the last second, the blade swept to the side, stabbing air. Hathan's opponent stumbled as Barrigan locked his arm, driving a fist into his side.

A leg hooked around Barrigan's, sweeping his feet from under him and spilling him to the ground, his head striking a stone and knocking him senseless. A hand grabbed Hathan's sword arm with a grip of iron, pulling him forward, twisting and shoving him to the street on his back. A foot drove into Hathan's solar plexus, and his arms were pinned to his sides.

“Hello, little brother,” a cold voice greeted him.

Hathan, breathless, stared up at the figure kneeling over him. Black eyes bored into his own, hard, pitiless.

“Still as weak as a newborn lamb,” Dethan spat. He stood up. “Rise. Face me.”

Hathan gritted his teeth, slowly getting to his feet. He exploded into attack, thrusting forward with a spear-hand.

Dethan slapped the attack away and kicked, his foot whipping towards Hathan's side. Hathan brought his right hand around, stopping the attack cold. He then replied with a kick of his own.

The traitor made no move to block, standing still as the kick screamed towards his head. Just as the kick was going to make contact with his skull, he moved...and was gone.

Overbalanced by the momentum of the missed blow, Hathan staggered, regaining his balance and looking around.

A tramping sound met his ears, and a company of the city guard came running own the street. Spotting Hathan, the captain shouted.

“Halt there, in the name of the King!”

Hathan held up his hands as the guards approached, menacing him with their weapons. “Did you see a man running away as you came? Gray hood, leather chest-piece?”

The captain frowned. “If we did, that's none of your business. Are you with the bandits?”

“If we were, Aetherius, do you think we would say so?” Barrigan grunted. Hathan turned to see him sitting upright with a hand to his head, wincing.

“Barrigan? What are you doing in town, you old codger?” The captain's demeanor changed instantly. He held out a hand, helping Barrigan to his feet. “Lieutenant, leave me seven men and take the rest. Scour the streets. Make sure those bandit scum don't leave alive. I'll take the northern section as soon as I can. Meet back at the keep once you've cleared the city.”

As the guard marched off, he turned back to Barrigan. “So?”

Barrigan's answer was cut off by a cry from one of the guards, who pointed. “Sir...the company!”

They looked down the street at the departing company of guards...which was being annihilated.

By one man.

By...

“It's the deserter! The man from the King's Guard!” the guard who had given the warning gasped. “He's wanted dead or alive..an A rank criminal! One million credits!”

I want him DEAD...for anything. Hathan growled, running over and retrieving his sword and bow. He aimed an arrow at Dethan, who was spilling troopers left and right. Sighting down the shaft, he targeted the lone attacker.

Except...he couldn't. Dethan's form kept blurring. It seemed like he was everywhere. A guard thrust at him with a spear: Dethan swept forward in one smooth movement, easily getting in front of the man, slamming a palm to the side of his helmet. The strike toppled the guard to the ground, stunned and unconscious. Then he was elsewhere, slipping to the inside of a soldier's sword arc and breaking his arm, elbowing him to the face.

Hathan loosed his arrow. The projectile sped towards Dethan's head. It was perfect, a flawless shot...

But no, he missed.

Hathan was about to mutter a curse when he was cut off by a blow to his midsection. The strike knocked him back, his mouth gaping for air. A kick propelled him backwards against the stone wall of a building, cracking his head against it.

Breathe...I can't...breathe... He choked, then gasped as his lungs started working again, drawing in a gulp of oxygen.

As his vision cleared, he saw Dethan dismantle the last of the captain's squad. As the man fell with a soft moan to the ground, the hooded face turned towards his own.

A blur and flash. Dethan pinned his arms to the wall and crushed Hathan's feet with his own, his face inches away from Hathan's face. The eyes so similar to his burned into his own.

“Traitor.” Hathan spat.

“That word has no meaning to me,” Dethan said coldly. “But you...” He stared at Hathan. “I thought by now you might be a worthy opponent.” He grabbed Hathan by the neck and shoved him away from the wall, propelling him backwards. “You're not even worth killing.” He shot forward, slamming Hathan to the ground.

“You don't have enough hate...” he whispered, “and you know what? You never will.” He stood, digging a heel into Hathan's chest contemptuously. “Make your way, little brother. Keep running. When you have fooled yourself enough, come and face me. Bring your hatred. Unleash it.” He leaned down.

“Hate me, for hate will mate you strong...”

* * *

“You're well within longbow range. I can loose three arrows in five seconds, and hit a coin from a hundred yards. State your intent.”

Barrigan clicked his tongue. “Still needs some work, lass,” he called back, “try making it shorter. I don't have time to listen to your resumé.”

Silva blew out a breath and opened the door. “What happened to you, old man?” she asked, seeing the white bandage wrapped around Barrigan's forehead.

“Bandits happened,” he replied. Hathan dismounted next to him, leading his mount back towards the stables.

“Bandits? That far west?” Silva sheathed the arrow she'd been holding in its quiver. “That's new.”

Barrigan swung a leg off his horse, withdrawing his weapons and handing the reins to Hathan. Giving Silva a quick hug, he nodded after Hathan's retreating form. “Watch him, will you? Make sure he doesn't run off.”

“Why?”

“We ran into the deserter from the King's Guard. He's the one that gave me this bump.”

Silva shrugged. “You think he'd run off just to try and get some fame from killing a bandit?”

“No, he'd run off because that's his brother.”

“That-” Silva caught her breath and glanced back at the entrance to the cave stables, “the...you mean...the one who murdered his entire family? The one who razed all of Covhallen to the ground? That's Hathan's brother?”

“Yes.”

“I'd like to know how you know that.” Hathan's voice broke in. Silva and Barrigan jerked around, surprised. Hathan was standing behind them, arms crossed.

“Er...” Barrigan shuffled his feet, searching for something to say. “We'll talk about it inside.”

As soon as he had finished dinner, Hathan sat back and stared at Barrigan. “All right. Talk.”

Barrigan fixed him with a stare that would have pierced steel. “Ahm shftill eaffing.” he said around his mouthful of mutton, “Paffienf.”

Hathan twitched his lips in annoyance, but merely crossed his arms and waited. When Barrigan finally finished, he heaved a sigh of satisfaction, pushing his plate away from him. “Silva, dear, would you be so kind?”

There was a whir and a wooden knife thudded into the wall next to his ear.

“Man's gotta do everything around here.” Barrigan muttered, grabbing his plate and stalking over to the wash basin.

* * *

“You are said to be one of our best. No one interacts with you except me— one messenger every two weeks. The new recruits hold you in high esteem, almost like some sort of god.” As he spoke, the man leaned back in his chair, watching the strong, dark-haired man pace. “Though I’m inclined to see you more like a spineless traitor.”
Dethan stopped walking and raised one eyebrow. His tone was laced with sarcasm when he replied. “Well, thank you for the update. You know how precious my reputation is to me.”
The messenger gave him a cutting look. “So precious, you kill innocents to preserve it.”
“To preserve one.”
The messenger clenched his right hand into a fist on the table. “Do you truly feel no guilt about all those women and children you must have slaughtered? And all for loyalty to these bandit scum?”
Dethan stared at him for a moment with an indescribable expression. Then he turned away and resumed his pacing. “You came with orders?”
“I did.” The messenger sighed, then retrieved an enveloped emblazoned with a seal. He slid it across the table to Dethan, who pounced on it and hid it within his tunic.
“Now if you will excuse me,” said Dethan, lifting the tent flap. “I need to get back to those murdering scoundrels you mentioned. They will miss my presence.”
A calm expression of disgust settled on the messenger’s face as he rose, bowed coldly, and walked out of the tent. He turned and said in a low voice: “Farewell, coward. Until a fortnight.”

* * *

When Barrigan sat back down at the table, Hathan was twitching with impatience. “All right. Now tell me why. Why you know about D...about my brother.”

Barrigan scooted back and planted his boots on the table. “Short answer: I used to be in the King's Guard. I did many missions with your brother.”

“Then why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Simply because there was no need.” Barrigan shrugged, “What's the significance?”

“You can tell me about him. You can tell me his strengths, his weaknesses. You can tell me what he was like on missions.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm going to kill him.”

Barrigan swung his boots off the table and leaned forward, assuming an interrogative position. “Ah, but that is your problem, isn't it? Can you kill him?”

Hathan frowned. I don't know...he's too fast. Way too fast.

“I'm not saying are you physically able. I'm asking whether you want to.”

Surprised by the question, Hathan stuttered for a second. “Of – of course I do! He...he MURDERED MY PARENTS, you fool!! He deserves to die! And I'll bring him justice!”

“Are justice and revenge the same, Hathan?”

“Why should I care if both bring about the same result?”

“But they don't.” Barrigan held up a finger. “Justice is about doing what's right. Revenge is pure wanting to fulfill your own desires. Justice produces a world where evil cannot find purchase over good: revenge brings forth people with no desire but to repay evil with evil, and thus evil is supreme.”

“I don't care. All I want is Dethan. Dead.”

Barrigan sighed and gave Hathan a thoughtful stare. Finally he shook his head and stood up. “Fine.”

* * *

“They call him a ghost. No one sees him, no one feels his touch. They wake to his work.” The man leaned closer to the camp fire, the twilight shadows playing across his thin features. His pale eyes lighted on each of the tense faces watching him. One of the men scratched his stubble.
“Bloodied beds. Slit throats. Dead children.” He shrugged. “Nothing special about that. Any of us can make a raid. Those peasants have the courage of field mice.” The first man straightened, thoughtfully lifting his pipe and inhaling the smoke. Darkness engulfed his face, but the embers in his pipe cast an eery gleam on his hand.
“Anyone can raid. True. But he does not raid like the rest of us.” After a moment of silence, the man added, “Not all of us have been trained by the Royal Guard.”
Chuckling broke out in the circle. The logs crackled as the flames snapped one in two. The burst of light revealed a man, strong and bearded, standing with his arms folded just outside the circle. The others saw their leader and stood, fixing their eyes on him. He nodded, barely glancing at them, and said,
“Yes, you are correct. Dethan is using the skills he learned for protection of the people to terrorize them. That frightens them.”
“But, sir,” said the dark-haired man on the other side of the fire. “They do not fear him. They loathe him for his betrayal. They want him dead.” His voice was measured, but subconsciously his right hand clenched into a fist. The man he addressed regarded him coldly.
“I do not remember asking your opinion of my best assassin, Captain.”
The captain turned away, and the other men smirked. Noises arose from the opposite end of the small camp. A company of men became visible, armed as for battle but dressed like a scouting party. Hooded and cloaked, the one called Dethan walked at their head. The leader strode forward to meet him. Dethan saw him coming with a glance of his dark eyes. He bowed.
“Welcome home,” said the leader. He grasped Dethan’s arm. “How did your mission fare?”
Dethan raised his free arm, and the men behind him stepped closer, dropping what they carried at the feet of their leader. Sacks of food, bedding, knives, and other supplies fell from all directions. Then they stopped. The leader looked sharply at Dethan.
“Where is the rest?” he growled.
“There is no more.”
“What?” the leader drew a dagger half-way from its sheathe, then let it rasp back down. “Explain yourself.”
Dethan raised one hand and swept down his hood. His dark hair was damp with sweat, and his hard face looked steadily at the leader. There was no explanation to be given. After a moment, the leader shoved Dethan aside and surveyed the men behind him.
“Get to your tents,” he said icily. “Your reward will be according to the profits.” The men stumbled into camp, scattering to get some rest. Dethan remained standing to one side. Muttering something about disappointments, the leader passed him and returned to the fire. The dark-haired captain crept away from the fire and took his place beside Dethan.
“They speak of you like a phantom,” he said. “But you can’t even bring back all the men we gave you. One raid, that’s all it was. Is Terraria so well-armed these days?”
Dethan gave him a weary, warning glance, then stalked past. The captain returned to the fire, and his face was visibly red in the light. The leader, who stood again beside the tree, asked,
“Standing too close to the fire, Captain?” The captain’s face tightened, as though for half a second he was fighting to keep control. It did not last long.
“I have had enough of being treated like a kid!” he murmured angrily. “That inefficient Dethan deserves your spite, not me.”
“And for the second time, you insult a man I esteem highly.” The leader’s voice carried an edge, but the captain continued to vent.
“We granted him thirty men for that mission- a minor raid! He brings back ten. And not enough loot to last us a week.”
“Since when did you care for the men?” asked a man from the other side of the fire with a grin. “We’re bandits, not members of the Royal Guard. Not like we’ve got honor or anything; am I right?” Ignoring his attempt to lighten the situation, the captain stepped out of the circle to face the leader. The other men went back to their conversation.
“Dethan’s are not the results we need right now,” the captain said, jabbing a finger at the leader. “You should know that better than anyone.”
“And you should know your place,” returned the leader, stepping forward. “It almost sounds as though you question my authority.”
The captain’s hand found his knife, but he did not draw it. Instead he growled,
“Any sane man would question the wisdom of letting that many men die on the whim of a bloody traitor.”
The leader spoke slowly and firmly. “Dethan is not a traitor. He is a loyal assassin who had a bad raid. It happens.”
“Because someone let it happen.” Tension laced the captain’s face as he drew his knife and brandished it at the leader. “You think I fear you like they do…” -he gestured to the men at the fire, still sitting oblivious to the low conversation between him and the leader- “but I fear nothing. Not even a little blood.”
Before he could say another word, Dethan sprang between the men like a shadow. He deftly grasped the captain’s hand and disarmed him in less than a second. Then he pinned him against the tree and gave him a sharp punch in the face. The next thing the captain knew, strong ropes bound him to the tree. The leader stood beside Dethan, both men surveying the captive with cool disinterest.
“Thank you, my friend,” said the leader, turning to Dethan. “It is good to know at least one man’s loyalty is true.”
Dethan nodded, then turned and entered a nearby tent, leaving the captain to severely regret that past few minutes of his life.
The former captain awoke suddenly several hours later. His back was stiff from standing against the tree, and the ropes chaffed his wrists. The night had not been one of sleep but rather of a thousand naps. Instead of wondering what had awakened him, he began to doze off again. Half an hour ago- or was it more? he had no way of knowing- a rat in the grass had sank its teeth into his leg. Before that, a chilling breeze from the North had sent prickling sensations up and down the man’s arms. Aching and cramping followed. There seemed no point in trying to guess what had broken his delicate sleep this time.
Then a man’s scream was hurled across the camp. The prisoner straightened, trying to shake the mist from his eyes. A dull red glow had appeared in back of the tents. It was not the sun.
“Fire!” the prisoner opened his mouth to yell. But the word halted on his lips. He saw a cloaked figure emerge from the tent, a flaming torch in its hand. The man cast the stick backwards and turned away. A soldier appeared from the door, clawing aside the tent’s door in panic. The cloaked man saw him, and in one swift motion he grasped the escapee’s throat and cast him back into the burning tent. All around the camp, soldiers were appearing from the tents, shouting to one another, finding weapons, charging together at the cloaked man, who waited silently for them to come.
Dethan. The prisoner struggled fiercely against his ropes but could do nothing except pray that the fire would burn out before it reached him. He looked up and watched in horror as Dethan moved like a shadow from man to man, killing each without a second stroke of his sword. When a pair of the bandits came at him together, Dethan dodged with the grace of a panther, carefully dispatching one while sliding behind the other. No one could stand against him; no one could even slow him down. The captain tied to the tree felt his heart beat wildly as he remembered criticizing this man in his presence. Why is he doing this?
Dethan’s fighting was so beautiful, so artistic, the man tied to the tree was captivated by it. He forgot to look at the fire for a moment. Then he felt something light and gentle sprinkling his face and neck. Ash. He saw with alarm that the fire was advancing silently, reaching for him through the grass with auburn fingers.
“Hey!” he called, coughing. “Over here! Someone help me!”
But no one was left.
No one but Dethan.
The cloaked man plunged his sword into the chest of the bandit leader, who lay faintly struggling on the bloodied ground. Dethan glanced sharply to his left and to his right. No one remained to challenge him. He threw his head back; the hood of his cloak slipped from his dark hair and sooty face. He surveyed his work with a smile devoid of pleasure. Then he strode to the tree where the prisoner watched helplessly.
“You filthy traitor.” He spit on the ground as Dethan drew nearer, smirking.
“Now, now, my friend,” said Dethan, “don’t be afraid. I’m not going to kill you.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Oh, you’re not afraid, then?” Dethan shot a meaningful look behind him at the corpses of the bandit gang. The prisoner said,
“I’m not your friend.”
“Nonetheless, I am going to ask a favor of you.” Dethan leaned in close, and the man involuntarily flinched. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “Hathan of Terraria will be here shortly. You will give him a message from me.” His dark eyes lifted from the prisoner’s face as he pronounced one word: “Covhallen.”
Backing away, Dethan faced the fire, kicking the embers away from the tied man. Without their fuel, the flames stopped advancing and began to die. The captain licked his lips; they were dry. His throat was dry too. He watched as Dethan raised the hood of his cloak again and melted into the forrest on the other side of camp. Closing his weary eyes, the man let his head fall back against the bark of the tree. He wondered why Dethan wanted to be tracked to Covhallen, if that truly was his next destination. He vaguely wondered whether he had indeed doubted Dethan’s fighting skills.
He hoped this Hathan arrived soon.

* * *

It was several hours later.

Hathan leaned over the neck of his horse, digging his heels into the sweating animal, not noticing or not caring about its foaming flanks, its ragged breaths. He was going, going to give justice.

Justice.

His eyes pierced the darkness ahead, staring, but not seeing.

Dethan.

I'm coming for you, you murderer.

I hope you're ready.

Upon reaching the edge of the Pase Negro, the forest that hedged the eastern border of Erathia, he reined in his horse.

“The bandits who attacked us are part of a group, one that operates out of the northeastern section of the Grey Mountains. If you want a quick ticket to their camp, I suggest riding in without caution. They aren't stupid. They know a messenger when they see one.”

Barrigan's words echoed in his mind. He felt a little skeptical about his chances of riding in unharmed, though. Keeping his ears open and his eyes roaming, he entered the forest.

After an hour's riding, however, he still hadn't encountered a single person. He took the horn off of his saddle bow and blew one long, ringing note. That should bring them.

It didn't. He blew again. And again. No one answered. Are they laughing at me? He frowned at the dark forest hedging him in. No, they have to be here.

Suddenly, he was there. He jerked the reins in surprise, then stopped and looked around.

In front of him spread a large clearing. The first thing that struck him was the acrid stench of smoke, mixed in with another scent he couldn't identify. Next to his horse was the crumbled, glowing ashes of what looked like it had been a tent. The ground was black and Hathan could feel heat still radiating off it. Someone's really done a number on their camp.

Hurriedly, he dismounted his horse. Assembling a makeshift torch from the nearby forest, he lit it at a pile of embers and advanced into the camp. About a hundred yards in, his foot struck something. Crouching, he held his torch to the source.

Now he knew that other smell. It was death. A charred corpse lay on the ground in front of him, the remnants of its possessions and clothes marking it as one of the bandits. Hathan winced and stood back up, stepping carefully over the body. As he did so, however, his ears picked up on a noise.

Groaning.

He followed the noise to find a man strapped to a tree that had, interestingly enough, escaped the flames. The man was obviously a bandit by his dress, but his face was bruised and his lips were cracked and dry.

“Water...give me water...” the bandit croaked hoarsely.

Hathan unsheathed his sword and cut through the ropes holding the man to the tree. He had been tied there for a long while, apparently, and he immediately collapsed to the ground.

“Who did this?”

“You're...Hathan?”

Hathan's eyes widened. He turned the man over with his foot. “Who told you that?!”

“Dethan...he said to give you a message. 'Covhallen'. Now...please, wat-”

The sole of Hathan's leather boot slammed into the side of his head, interrupting him. The bandit went limp, unconscious.

Hathan stared down at the man with contempt. I have no pity for a man who, by his own actions or will, destroys the lives of others for his own gain. His teeth ground together. That's why my brother will not live to see the morning.

Setting the tip of his sword against the man's neck, he took a breath, letting pain and rage fill his limbs.

I will take pleasure in severing this last bond...

Hate me, little brother, pursue me to the ends of the earth. Run...keep running, and cling to your miserable life. Nurture your hate, for that hate makes you strong. And when you are strong enough, come...and face me.

He planted his palm on the hilt of his sword...and pushed.

Several hours later, he passed under the main gateway of Covhallen, a charred, blackened archway connected to similarly colored walls. Turning his horse towards his former home, he slowed the horse down to a trot, his eyes darting back and forth, searching for any sign of movement.

But beyond the occasional rat, fox, or other such vermin that now inhabited the ruined city, there was nothing. It had been stripped clean long ago by bandits, and now nature was beginning to reclaim its ground. Weeds grew up between the cracks in the streets, and ivy twined its way amidst the crumbling remains.

Finally, he reached the place where his house had been. Reining in his horse, he dismounted and walked over to the fire-blackened walls, shifting aside the splintered wood and assorted materials that littered its interior.

Screams.

Heat.

Death.

He breathed in the sooty and dusty air. The scent of burning still lingered, faint, around the former home. Crouching, he took a handful of the decomposed ash that caked the ground, letting it sift through his fingers.

I'm here, mother, father.

I've come to make things right.

He stood up and left.

Mounting his horse, he rode down the streets to the city square, which was bracketed by the most important buildings of the city. The largest and most impressive was the Merchant's Guild, the hub of all the shopkeepers and traveling merchants in the city. It provided quarters for all members, as well as meetings for the guild. It also served as the city center, housing all the crucial meetings of the city Lord and his assistants. The main chamber was – or had been – a large stone table was in the center, surrounded by chairs of the same material, and it was dominated by a large throne opposite the entrance, from which the Lord viewed the proceedings.

It was into this room that Hathan proceeded. The fire of Covhallen had not affected the Guild much, since the majority of it was stone. Nonetheless, it had not escaped unscathed: the roof had a large gash in it, where the structure had collapsed. A long, corresponding line of debris and dust lay on the floor underneath. The moon, now risen, shone through the gap, sending its soft rays down into the room. The long table was illuminated by its light, and it shone on Hathan as he entered the chamber.

He took in these details at a glance. As his eyes swept across the room, they landed on the throne. The high-backed chair was not completely lit by the moonlight, and its seat was swathed in shadow. But Hathan didn't need night vision to see the figure seated in it.

“Welcome, little brother.” Dethan's voice was soft and low, but it echoed across the empty room like a ghostly whisper.

Hathan stared at the apparition seated on the throne, savoring all the emotions running through his heart. Fear. Grief. Hope. Relief. Anger.

He settled on the last one and grasped it hungrily, his eyes blazing. “You've chosen your grave-site well, Dethan.”

“As have you.”

“We'll see.”

Hathan whipped his bow up, drawing and firing in the space of a heartbeat. Three arrows thudded into his brother in as many seconds. He drew his sword and leaped on the table, darting across and up the stairs to the throne, thrusting as he reached the top.

The blade pierced through and stopped cold as it hit the stone back of the chair.

“Enough games,” Hathan said. He lifted the puppet off the throne on his swordblade and gave it a contemptuous flick, sending it tumbling down the stairs and snapping the arrows he had embedded in it.

A quiet shing sounded, followed by a soft whirr. Hathan ducked just in time for a small throwing dagger to clang against the throne, missing his head by centimeters.

As his vision came up, he caught a second blur of steel – but this one was followed by a hand, then an arm. He continued his movement, sweeping his head back and bringing his arms up in a scissor trap, grabbing the arm between them and pulling down. Dethan staggered forward as Hathan jerked him off balance, but jabbed his elbow into Hathan's face, throwing off his grip and stunning him. Hathan shook off the blow in time to see the flash of a gray disappear into the shadows.

“You're good at sneaking and hiding, brother,” He snarled to the empty air.

Silence. Hathan's eyes darted about the room. He strained his ears, listening for any slight movement, waiting for the next attack.

When it came, it wasn't from a direction he had expected. Dethan appeared over the top of the throne, leaping down in a drop-kick, smashing Hathan's sword hand and sending the weapon spinning. Hathan recoiled, his foot slipping onto the stairs. Dethan followed up with a left hook, the blow slamming into Hathan's gut and pushing him off balance. He tumbled down the rest of the stairs, rolling to a stop at the bottom.

Scrambling upright, he looked up to see Dethan advancing down the stairs towards him, walking with a casual step. Hathan grunted and grabbed for his sword, leaping on the table behind him. Dethan paused, looking at him from his position on the stairs. Hathan stared back. Both of them now had the advantage of height. Stalemate.

“You were taught well,” Dethan finally said. “Good. It would be an easy test to kill a weakling.”

Hathan laughed, a harsh sound in the empty hall. “I will kill you, and then you shall know just how strong I have become.”

“Empty words mean nothing. Actions are what define, little brother.”

“Interesting words, coming from a traitor and murderer,” Hathan spat.

“As I told you before, those words mean nothing to me.” Dethan turned and began ascending the stairs. “What is the world, but something we each of us see through our own eyes? We all have our own visions, our own delusions, our own wishes of how things should be.” He opened his arms as he reached the top. “The only way to see the world in truth is to strip away all attachment, all emotion, and then you shall perceive things as they really are.”

“And what is that? A cruel, heartless, pitiless world?! No, Dethan, this world has love, hate, fear, courage. You are what is pitiless, heartless, and cruel, not the world. And you don't belong here!” Hathan shouted, pointing his sword at Dethan. He felt his anger burning like a furnace inside of him. “And for murdering our parents, you will die!!”

“Then make it happen.”

Hathan let a scream of hate rip from his throat as he charged up the steps toward his brother. Dethan spun to meet his attack, producing his own sword from his cloak, a dagger materializing in his other hand. His blades danced in a blur of steel, deflecting Hathan's enraged blows and slipping in attacks of his own. Hathan glared at him through a haze of red, his arms pumping with adrenaline, moving with lightning speed to counter Dethan.

Finally, he spotted an opening in Dethan's defense. His sword slipped through the gap and sliced across Dethan's forearm. Dethan's sword dropped from his grip and clattered to the ground.

I have him! The thought flashed through Hathan's head exuberantly as he drew back his sword to deliver the finishing blow. He can't possibly defend against me with just that knife!

But another dagger flashed into Dethan's right hand. The two blades moved in sync, coming together and stopping Hathan's sword like it had hit a stone wall. Again they foiled his strike, and again, and again.

Dibolo.

The double-knife defense.

Hathan staggered as Dethan planted a kick in his midsection. He brought up his sword to block, but no attack came.

As his vision refocused, he saw Dethan standing several meters away, his feet spread in a strange stance. And all of a sudden, he remembered.

“...if you know how...

...you have more range than the person with the sword...”

Dethan's hand came up in a smooth, practiced movement, as if in slow motion. A flash as the dagger left his hand. Hathan was already sprinting forward, closing the distance. The knife took him in the shoulder. He kept running, kept getting closer. His sword came around, across, sweeping across.

The blade plowed through Dethan's chest, propelling him backwards until he hit one of the pillars that supported the roof. His second dagger scraped across Hathan's jaw and went wide.

It was over.

Hathan gasped for air, his chest heaving with exertion. Blood from his shoulder wound trickled down his sleeve, wetting it. His eyes stared wide into Dethan's, black meeting black.

It's over. I've done it...I've done it...

Trembling, Dethan's left hand, still holding its dagger, swept upwards towards Hathan's face. Dethan's features contorted in pain, and the blow missed, his hand striking Hathan's ear. His lips moved, forming words. Hathan leaned forward, putting his ear next to Dethan's mouth. Then Dethan shuddered and slumped.

He was dead.

Hathan withdrew his sword from Dethan's chest, looking down at the limp body. Suddenly all the adrenaline vanished, and his shoulder exploded in pain. He grabbed the wound with his left hand, trying to stop the flow of blood.

“Congratulations.”

Hathan jerked, startled, and looked around. Barrigan was standing off to the side, dressed in his traveling gear.

“How did you get here? How did you know I was here?”

Barrigan looked at Dethan's body, then back to Hathan. He held up a pouch. “Sit down. I brought some stuff to patch you up with.”

“You're avoiding the question.”

“First I'll stop you from fainting via loss of blood, and then we can talk. Sit.”

Hathan huffed, but stumbled to the stone table and sat in one of the chairs. The moon had almost set. Barrigan brought out a lantern and set it on the table, illuminating the debris with a yellow-orange glow. He bent down over Hathan and applied herbs and salve to his shoulder wound, lashing the poultice in place with a leather cord.

When he had finished, Barrigan walked over to Dethan's body and began burying it in debris. Hathan gripped the table with his good hand and heaved himself up, glaring at the old man.

“He was a murderer and traitor,” he spat. “Let him lie. I want the beasts to devour him like the beast he was.”

Barrigan abruptly spun around and marched over to Hathan, shoving him back into his seat. “You can make complaints after I'm finished with you, not before.” His gray eyes stared fiercely at Hathan.

“Fine, but you owe me a lot of explanations.”

Barrigan walked back over to Dethan's body and continued shifting debris. “Yes,” he said softly, “perhaps I do.”

When he had finished, he sat down on the table, moving dust and collapsed material out of the way. The moon had now completely set, and the night was completely black save for the lantern's light flickering in the large room, casting its soft light over Hathan and Barrigan.

“Dethan and I, we go back a long way.” Barrigan began. “Back when he first joined the King's Guard, I was a new recruit as well. Naturally, I was a little jealous that he had been allowed entry at so young an age; he was a mere sixteen, whereas I, at nineteen, had barely passed the tests we all had to take.

“Of course, I soon found out his skills were not lacking in the slightest. I once confronted him with the intent of showing him my superiority, to assert my dominance. The encounter left me with a bloody nose and a grudging respect for his ability. After that, he went on to save my life on numerous missions, and we became close companions.

“The King's Guard...not much is known about them. It is seen as a noble and mysterious organization, fiercely loyal to the king and his family. Soon after I joined, I found there was nothing noble about them. Mysterious, yes. We went on numerous missions that...” Barrigan shuddered. “Suffice it to say, you got a firsthand experience of suffering and desperation.”

“I'm not entirely sure why you're wasting your time telling me this,” Hathan interrupted. “All I care about is that Dethan slaughtered my parents and cold blood and left me for near dead. And now justice is done.”

“Shut up. I've heard enough of your hatred and feeling for 'justice',” Barrigan growled. “My point is, you don't know the half of things about your older brother.”

“I know enough,” Hathan replied angrily.

“I told you to shut up once. If I have to do it again, I'll strap your mouth shut for you. In your condition, you'd barely be able to resist – but then, the only reason you're alive is because Dethan didn't want you dead.”

“You're–”

Barrigan's hand seized Hathan's jaw in a lightning fast grab, his fingers digging into Hathan's cheeks like iron prongs. “I said be silent. I understand your confusion, but I will make good on my threat if you can't LISTEN.” He released Hathan and gave him a hard glare. Slowly, however, his stare melted into a sorrowful gaze. “Like I said, you don't know much about your brother. He barely spent any time with your family after being recruited to the King's Guard. He was still so young when he saw the horror of death for the first time, younger than anyone should be. He was tasked with many gruesome missions, and he carried them out without hesitation. He was the most loyal person I'd ever met.

“Several generations back, there was, as today, only one royal family. However, one day, the king's wife birthed twins – both sons. The brothers were forced to fight for rule, and the oldest eventually won, forcing his younger brother to abdicate. The younger brother's name was Harradra.”

Hathan blinked, then his eyes widened as the implication hit him. “My...family...was royalty?”

“Harradra resented his brother, Grethus, for winning the contest for the throne. He forged a secret alliance with the Doyen, the nomad warriors to the south. He promised his loyalty if their army would put him on the throne. His rebellion failed, and he was killed. What was left of his family – for he had married in the meantime – was exiled to Covhallen, the city farthest away from the capital. Grethus wanted to kill them, but Harradra had been very popular with the people, so he merely moved them to arm's length, always watchful of their activities.

“This story, one hundred years ago, is what brings us to now. The Harradra family has never forgotten their defeat, and has been carefully plotting revenge all the way up until your parents, Jath and Iella. Their considerable influence in the merchants' guild was a valuable position, and they recruited many influential people in Covhallen to their cause. When Dethan was offered a commission to the King's Guard, they jumped at the opportunity of having a spy in the midst of their enemy, at the capital itself.

“But it was a two-edged sword they wielded. Dethan was a loyal person, as I said, and now his loyalty was challenged. The Grethus family approached him with a proposal – in exchange for providing intel on the Harradra's activities, he would be kept safe from any retaliation by either side.

“It was an empty promise, but Dethan knew that. He came to me and told me what had happened. He knew that to help the Grethus family would be to betray his own family, and perhaps even condemn them to death. But to help the Harradras, and so invite civil war – and perhaps invasion by the Doyen – was a much worse prospect. He and I both knew the horrors of war. There was too much...too much placed on his shoulders to carry.

“When the Grethus found out the plotting of the Harradras, they immediately ordered the destruction of Covhallen and the assassination of anyone they believed involved with them. Dethan was tasked with personally destroying his own family...your mother, father, and you.”

Hathan stared at Barrigan, his mouth hanging open. “But...that's...impossible...”

“You can decide that for yourself. Don't you see how much he suffered? He murdered his own mother, his own father, to keep the nation from erupting in war. He sacrificed his own personal feelings for the good of Erathia...but he just couldn't kill you.”

“It's not true...I can't believe it...”

“He loved you more than the entirety of his nation. He was willing to cut all ties to his family, to sacrifice everything, but he could not...he just could not...kill you. Because you were innocent. You knew nothing of the Harradras' plans. After carrying out his orders, he went to the Grethus and threatened them that he would reveal everything, unless they promised not to touch you. They complied. To keep blame for the destruction of Covhallen away from the capital, the Grethus openly branded Dethan a traitor. However, he was secretly sent to the bandits of the Pase Negro, to report on their activities.”

Hathan gazed blankly at the flickering lantern. His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching. “This is...too convenient to be true.”

“And that is precisely why it is, Hathan. Dethan was a master strategist. He was excellent at taking his circumstances and turning them to his favor – it's what got him into the King's Guard so quickly. And his final work, his masterpiece, is you.”

“What?”

“Don't you see? He made himself a criminal to keep you alive. He taunted you and tempted you, deriding you as weak, hoping that through your hatred of him you would become strong. And you did – you pursued him with a fierce rage, just as he hoped you would. He killed your parents, yes. But their ghosts never strayed from his mind. His grief drove him to preserve the last light of love he had in this world – his brother. He prayed that one day, you would come – and kill him for his act of murder. His guilt would be forgiven through retribution. The Harradra family would be avenged and preserved at the same time; for with the slaughter of the most wanted criminal – and perhaps the most dangerous man – in all of Erathia, the Grethus family would not dare touch you. He told me this plan, and charged me with silence. I am not supposed to be telling you this: he did not want you to become incensed against the Grethus, and become the second Prince Harradra. Even in death, he was loyal. To his country...and his brother.”

Hathan's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “So why are you telling me this, then?”

“Because he did not deserve to die as he wished.” Barrigan glanced over at the pile of rocks, dust, and ashes that covered Dethan's body. “He was a man of shadows, but a man of humility, love, and loyalty. And such men should never be forgotten, no matter how much they desire it. This is his life and his legacy.” Barrigan looked back at Hathan. “Will you honor it?”

* * *

The sky was turning gray when Hathan finally stirred from his seat. Barrigan had left long ago, returning to his home. The air was cold and damp, and the wind whistled softly through the gaps in the ruined hall.

Hathan stood up and walked slowly over to Dethan's grave. He bent down and brushed his fingers against the cold, hard stone. The words Dethan had whispered to him as he had died flashed into his mind, bringing tears to his eyes. Because now, now...they make sense.

“I'm sorry, Hathan. This will be the last time.”

--EPILOGUE: NIGHT OF BETRAYAL--

The latch of the door clicked open, and he heard it, even in his deep sleep. Jath opened his eyes. A life like his took its toll on his nerves and his mental peace; but it certainly did have benefits. Someone was entering his bedroom. Jath did not rise but reached beneath the blankets and gently squeezed his wife’s arm. She too awoke silently, exchanging a glance with him. They waited.
The stranger drew near to the bedside. He surveyed the sleepers for a moment. Then, in a disgusted voice, he said,
“You two really are no good at acting.”
Jath sat up, an outraged look on his face. “You dare insult our skills!”
“You snore when you're asleep.”
“Ah,” Jath said. He smiled. “Well, if I supposed the nighttime intruder was my own son, perhaps I would have paid more attention to details.”
“You always were shortsighted about details, Jath.”
The men felt his wife sit up beside him. “What is the matter, Dethan? Is there word from the enemy?”
The young man smoothly drew a sword from his belt. “Yes. They sent me word.” Before his parents could move again, he swiftly arced the blade until it rested against his father’s throat.
“No.” Anger ripped across Jath. He growled, “I trusted you. My own son!”
“It was really us you were betraying? This whole time?!” Iella gasped, her eyes wide with shock. Jath grasped her hand beneath the blankets again. He knew he should be thinking of some way to escape, to alert his allies to this twist in their plans. But his mind would not move past the thought that he was about to be killed by his firstborn son. Iella was speaking again, this time through eyes brimming with tears. “We were working for you, Dethan! For your kingdom, your future!”
“Peace for this kingdom is the priority, mother,” said Dethan, still supporting the sword. “Not my future.” He grasped the sword’s handle, and Jath could sense him preparing to strike.
“What about Hathan?” he asked. Dethan hesitated.
“You love him,” said Iella, fixing her tearful blue eyes on her son’s dark ones. “I know you want to give him the best.”
“Maybe ruling others is not what’s best. Maybe it’s best for him to be free of his treacherous parents.” Dethan’s voice cracked on the last word.
Jath could not see his son’s face clearly because of the cloak he wore. But he once again sensed what was coming. “Promise me you will protect the boy,” he said softly.
Several seconds passed in silence. Finally Dethan’s voice came, choked, as though he was fighting to keep back tears himself: “I swear it.”
Despite his anger and sense of betrayal, Jath smiled. “Dethan...though our philosophies differ, I will always be proud of you. You truly are a kind child.” He gave Iella’s hand one more squeeze and closed his eyes. “Obey your orders, son.”
The sword fell.