Chapter Six: Stab

  Amalia spoke calmly into the night air, her voice carrying a weight of authority that belied her role as a mere storyteller. The moonlight caught in her dark hair, turning the edges silver as she raised her staff.

  "Try and stay back. You may have to fight, as there are many, and I am one."

  With that, she moved like lightning from the open sky, her form blurring as she engaged the lizard monsters. Her white staff became a gleaming arc of destruction as she twisted and turned through their ranks. The creatures fell before her, green ichor spraying in wide arcs that painted the ground in alien patterns.

  Will, from his perch on the tree, continued to shoot arrows at the lizard monsters that charged towards the group. His face was set in grim determination, his fingers moving with practiced efficiency as he nocked arrow after arrow. Each shot found its mark, but there were simply too many creatures emerging from the shadows.

  "Fight? We can't fight those... those... things," Rosalia stammered out, her voice cracking with fear. She took a step back, her green eyes wide with terror, her hands trembling so badly she had to clench them into fists. Her red hair stuck to her forehead with sweat despite the cool night air.

  Nick hefted his hammer, his dark face hardening with resolution. The firelight caught on the metal head of his weapon, casting flickering shadows across his features.

  "These things killed my Ma. I'm getting a little bit of vengeance." His voice was as hard as granite, his eyes attempting to burn holes into the creatures that rushed toward them, spears held high. His knuckles whitened around the handle of his hammer, his grief transmuting into rage.

  Ash attempted to swallow the lump of fear that had built up in his throat. The scene before him was surreal, like something from one of the adventure books he loved to read, except this was real. The scent of blood and smoke filled his nostrils, and the sounds of battle surrounded him, grunts and screams and the sickening squelch of weapons penetrating flesh.

  These things killed my Aunt and Uncle.

  The thought descended like the Light itself, illuminating his mind with sudden clarity. The image of his Uncle Derrick falling, of Aunt Dara already gone, flashed before his eyes.

  Why was he afraid? He should be angry! When the monsters had attacked his home, slaughtered the only family he had ever known, killed his friends, and burned his farm, he had done nothing but run. What kind of person did that make him?

  When wolves had attacked the sheep, he had acted, had tried to protect them even at risk to himself. But when a monster out of stories appeared, he cowered like a frightened child.

  Is that who I am?

  Chilly anger shot through his veins like winter water, clearing his mind, focusing his thoughts. A curious coldness settled over him, and suddenly, he wanted payback too. He wanted to hurt these creatures as they had hurt him, wanted to make them feel a fraction of the pain that burned in his chest.

  "Hey, Nick," he said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Do you still keep that knife on you?"

  Nick glanced over at him, a flicker of respect crossing his features. The dwarf grunted, reaching to his belt and unsheathing the small knife he kept there, handing it over to Ash with a solemn nod of understanding.

  Ash took the blade, testing its weight in his palm. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. The handle was worn but fit comfortably in his grip, and the blade, while not particularly long, looked sharp enough to do damage.

  Rosalia looked between them, her face paling even further.

  "You can't seriously be thinking of fighting them? Just let Miss Amalia handle it, look!"

  She pointed at the storyteller who was a whirlwind of death for the monsters, her staff and body moving in perfect harmony. There were still two of the creatures nearing them every passing second, and Amalia showed no signs of helping them with these stragglers. Her focus was on the main group, keeping them from overwhelming the youngsters.

  "Look alive, you three!" Will bellowed to them from his place on the tree, his voice tight with urgency.

  He tried to shoot an arrow at the lizard creatures approaching Ash and the others, but it fell short and he cursed, the sound carrying on the night air. He nocked another arrow, but his quiver was running low, the feathered ends of his remaining arrows visible over his shoulder.

  That chill in Ash's veins intensified, spreading through his body like frost on a window pane. He found himself speaking, issuing orders as if he'd been born to lead.

  "I think our best chance is to split them up," he said, gesturing with the knife. "Rosalia, pick up that rock there. You don't have to fight, but if one gets past us, you'll need to be ready."

  Rosalia took a shuddering breath, her eyes darting between the advancing monsters and the stone Ash had indicated. Quickly, she snatched up the rock, fumbling it for a moment before holding it close and backing farther away. Her knuckles were white around the makeshift weapon, and her lips moved in what might have been a silent prayer.

  The biggest threat to their lives was the spears the creatures held, Ash realized. The weapons gave them reach, and a single well-placed thrust could end a life in seconds. They would need to be careful, to avoid those deadly tips while looking for an opening to strike.

  The creatures neared the group, hissing and clicking their disgusting tongues. Their eyes, small and beady, held an alien intelligence that sent shivers down Ash's spine. These weren't mindless beasts; they were hunting with purpose.

  Ash readied the knife in his hands, adjusting his grip. It wasn't huge, just a hunting knife, but he held it firm, and prayed to the Light he wouldn't cut himself. His heart hammered in his chest, a rapid rhythm that matched the adrenaline coursing through his body.

  Nick gripped his hammer and bellowed at the creature nearest to him, his voice booming in the night.

  "Come at me, you Light-cursed ugly stain!"

  The monster obliged, lunging forward with a hiss, its spear thrust aimed at Nick's chest. The dwarf was ready, rolling away from the attack with surprising agility for his stocky build. The spear point thudded into the dirt where he had been standing a moment before.

  "What he said!" Ash yelled at the other monster, immediately lamenting his choice of battle cries. He hadn't had time to think of anything more inspiring or frightening.

  He didn't have time to dwell on it as the lizard thing attacked him, its movements jerky but dangerously fast. The spear thrust toward his midsection, aiming to skewer him where he stood.

  He found it easy enough to move out of the way of the jab, surprising himself with his own reflexes. He wasn't a combat expert by any means, and his heart was beating like thunder claps on a stormy night, but the monster seemed rather slow and predictable. Perhaps it was used to frightened victims who froze in terror, not those who fought back.

  He dodged another jab as the creature hissed and made clicking noises at him, a sound that reminded him of insects but amplified to a horrifying degree. Its scales caught the moonlight, giving it an oily, unnatural sheen.

  Gathering his courage, Ash counter-attacked with a high slash of his knife, aiming for the creature's face. The blade met resistance as it cut into the monster's flesh, feeling like trying to cut into a tough bit of meat. Green blood spat out of the wound, splattering across the ground and onto Ash's hand.

  It was hot, wet, and sticky like saliva, with a texture that made his skin crawl. The smell hit him then, a putrid, alien stench that made his eyes water. It was like rotting vegetables mixed with something metallic, a smell that didn't belong on this world.

  The monster howled, a high-pitched sound that pierced Ash's ears. It tried to jab him again with renewed fury, its movements more frantic now. In trying to dodge, Ash misjudged his footing and tripped over his feet, falling to the ground with a muted thud. Pain blossomed in his rear end and lower back as he hit the hard-packed earth. The knife flew out of his hands, landing a little ways from him, glinting in the moonlight.

  Panic surged through him as he realized his vulnerability. He backed up quickly toward the knife, knowing he needed the weapon if he wanted to live. His fingers scrabbled in the dirt as he pushed himself backward, desperation giving him speed.

  The creature hissed triumphantly, sensing its advantage. It raised the spear, which gleamed dangerously in the light of the moon, poised to deliver a killing blow. Ash could see his own reflection in the crude but lethal tip, distorted and small.

  This is it. I'm going to die here, was all he could think as he stared at his impending doom. Images flashed through his mind, of his aunt and uncle, of the farm, of all the things he would never get to see or do.

  Until a rock smashed into the lizard creature's face with a sickening crunch.

  It screeched in pain and surprise, one clawed hand reflexively moving to cover its injured eye. Green ichor leaked between its fingers as it staggered back a step, momentarily stunned.

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  Ash didn't waste the opportunity. He dove for the knife, his fingers closing around the handle. In one fluid motion, he rose and plunged the blade into the monster's hand that covered its eye where the rock had hit.

  Blood gushed forth as if from a scripted shower head, hot and viscous as it flowed over Ash's hand and wrist. The creature's screech turned into a gurgling howl, but Ash didn't stop, didn't even pause to think. He rode the creature to the ground as it collapsed, stabbing relentlessly with a fury he hadn't known he possessed.

  Uncle Derrick looked at him with that strange light in his eyes. What had that been? Regret? Fear? Knowledge of something Ash couldn't comprehend? And Aunt Dara, warm and kind, who he didn't even get to say goodbye to, whose body he hadn't seen.

  Blazing flames, and a shadowy creature with eyes like burning rubies that had destroyed everything he loved.

  Stab.

  The knife went in and out, tearing through the creature's flesh with savage efficiency. Each thrust was accompanied by a wet, slicking sound that should have disgusted him but instead drove him on.

  Stab.

  Green ichor splashed across his face, hot and stinking. It got into his mouth, bitter and foul, but he didn't care, didn't stop to spit it out. All that mattered was killing this thing, making it pay for what it and its kind had done.

  Stab.

  Someone was screaming. Was that him? The sound was primal, full of rage and grief and loss, a cry that came from somewhere deep inside. He couldn't stop, didn't want to stop. Each plunge of the knife was a release, a small measure of vengeance for all he had lost.

  "Ash! It's dead, Ash! Enough!"

  Rosalia was pulling at him, trying to get him to stop as he brought the knife down over and over again. Her voice seemed to come from far away, barely penetrating the haze of fury that had descended over him.

  He was screaming and sobbing at the same time, tears cutting clean tracks through the green blood that spattered his face. The monster beneath him was unrecognizable, no longer a coherent form but just green, brown, and pink mush. He was covered in green blood, hot, sticky, and stinking like rotten fruit.

  He didn't care. The world had narrowed to just this, just the knife and the flesh it tore through, just the release of rage that consumed him.

  Will and Amalia walked up, their approach cautious. The storyteller watched him, her face expressionless as always, but something stirred in the depths of her violet eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Understanding. She made no move to stop him, simply observed with that unsettling stillness.

  Will Al'Seen was a tall boy with a mop of black hair, bronze skin from working in the sun, and normally wore a mischievous smile. Now, that smile was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a grim line that made him look years older. His brown tunic, black trousers, and boots were caked with dirt and spotted with blood, both red and green. The scent of smoke hung about him, clinging to his clothes and hair, and his bow was slung over his shoulder, its string slack.

  His brown eyes were grim as they took in the scene before him, filled with a knowledge no one his age should possess.

  "So it happened to you all, too," he said, his voice hollow. It was a statement more than a question, a recognition of shared tragedy.

  "Is anyone..." Rosalia trailed off, the question dying on her lips. She bowed her head when Will shook his in silent response, tears welling in her eyes.

  The unspoken truth hung in the air between them. No survivors. No one left from their families, their villages. Just them, four children standing amidst the ruins of lives shattered beyond repair.

  "We must leave," Amalia said, her calm voice breaking the silence. "Should the man from earlier follow, we will all die."

  Her practical words cut through the fog of grief and rage that clouded Ash's mind. The man with cinder eyes, the one who had cut down Uncle Derrick as easily as swatting a fly, could be pursuing them even now.

  Ash turned to Amalia, his face streaked with tears and blood, his eyes burning with questions that demanded answers.

  "Who was he? Did he do this? Why is this happening?" The words tumbled out, each one charged with the desperation to understand.

  Amalia weathered his questions, her expression never shifting from its mask of calm detachment. She might have been discussing the weather rather than the end of their world.

  "Let us move," she replied, evading his questions with practiced ease. "I wish to cover more miles tonight before resting."

  Her dismissal stoked the embers of Ash's anger once more, the cold fury rising within him.

  "Tell me!" he bellowed, the chill within him exploding into a full-blown winter storm. His voice cracked with emotion, raw and demanding.

  Amalia stared at him, her gaze steady and unreadable. The others shifted a bit, uncomfortable with the confrontation, but it was Rosalia who spoke, her voice soft but clear in the night.

  "My Dad is probably dead. I don't even know," she said, her words weighted with unshed tears. "Nick's Mom is dead, so are Will's relatives. So much death... please, can you at least tell us why, Miss Amalia?"

  There was a quiet dignity in her pleading, a reasonableness that Ash's rage had lacked. Perhaps that was why Amalia closed her eyes at the girl's words, taking in a breath before opening them, something almost like compassion flickering in their violet depths.

  "Two miles from here is my cottage," she said after a moment of consideration. "It is protected with scripts. Let's make it there, and then I will answer some questions."

  She didn't phrase it like a request, and Ash knew that was the best they were going to get. The storyteller would not be moved, would not be rushed. She would share her knowledge on her own terms or not at all.

  The others must have agreed with his assessment because they set off behind Amalia as she began walking, her staff tapping rhythmically against the ground, marking their progress. The night was quiet now, the sounds of battle left behind. Even the usual nocturnal creatures seemed to be holding their breath, as if the world itself mourned what had transpired.

  No one said anything as they walked. A somber shadow hung around them all, a shared cloak of grief and loss. Ash tried to wipe some of the green blood from his hands and face, but it had begun to dry, sticky and unyielding. He felt filthy, inside and out, stained by violence and death.

  He had never been to the storyteller's cottage before, and Amalia had never offered its location to anyone. When they arrived, they found it to be a humble little home, with a small garden out front, the plants orderly and well-tended despite their wild appearance. A black cat lay by the door, its fur glossy in the moonlight.

  When Amalia approached, the cat flicked open its yellow eyes, studying the newcomers with that feline intensity that seemed to see more than it should. It stretched languidly, yawning to reveal sharp teeth, before wrapping its sinuous body around Amalia's legs, purring loudly. The storyteller's hand briefly touched the cat's head in a rare display of affection.

  Amalia unlocked the door to the tiny cottage, paying no further mind to the cat. She invited them all in with a simple gesture, holding the door open as they filed past her.

  The interior was comfortably decorated, with simple, sturdy furniture that spoke of practicality rather than ostentation. A couch with faded cushions occupied one wall, and abstract paintings hung on the walls, splashes of color against the plain surfaces. A small table was tucked into one corner, its surface bare save for a single book. A fireplace took up a large part of the room by the couch, the hearth swept clean, the wood within long since turned to ash.

  Various plants were scattered around the room, their leaves vibrant and healthy, adding a rainbow of color to the otherwise austere space. They were not the common houseplants Ash had occasionally seen in neighbors' homes but strange, exotic specimens he couldn't name.

  He could see another room tucked away in the back, its doorway covered by a curtain of beads, next to a very small kitchen with a single cupboard. The cottage was neat and tidy, everything in its place, but it felt temporary somehow, as if Amalia could pack up and leave at a moment's notice.

  Everyone sat on the carpet, their bodies sagging with exhaustion. Nick got the fire going without anyone asking him to, his hands moving with the familiarity of long practice. The flames caught quickly, casting dancing shadows across their tired faces and bringing a much-needed warmth to the room.

  "So?" Ash stated bluntly, too drained for politeness. "You promised."

  Amalia sat down on a nearby chair after leaning her staff against the door. Her movements were fluid and graceful, betraying none of the fatigue that plagued the rest of them.

  "So I did," she acknowledged, her voice level. "But all I promised was that I would answer some questions, not all and not specific ones."

  Ash scowled, frustration building in him once more. Even now, safe in her home, she played games, danced around the truth they so desperately needed.

  But the storyteller cut him off with a slash of her hand before he could voice his complaints.

  "Soothe, boy. I will answer some questions," she said, her tone firm but not unkind. "But you must understand that there are reasons I do not answer everything. There are also... conditions you must fulfill before I will answer certain questions."

  Ash shared a glance with the others. More delays, more hoops to jump through. But what choice did they have? Amalia was their only link to understanding what had happened, their only guide in a world that had suddenly become terrifying and unfamiliar.

  "Conditions? What are they?" Rosalia asked, her voice small but steady. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white with tension.

  "We will get to that," Amalia replied, settling back in her chair. "You wish to know why they attacked Ash's farm and the surrounding farms?"

  They all nodded, leaning forward slightly, anticipation momentarily overriding their exhaustion. This, at least, was a start, a small piece of the puzzle.

  Amalia took a deep breath before answering, her eyes scanning each of their faces as if weighing what they could handle.

  "They were looking for someone," she said at last, her words dropping into the silence like stones into still water.

  "Who?" Will demanded immediately, his fatigue forgotten. "Is it you? The way you move, and you know how to fight! You're no regular storyteller." His accusation hung in the air, sharp and challenging.

  Ash nodded, agreeing with the other boy. The evidence was there for anyone to see. The way Amalia had dispatched those creatures, her speed and skill far beyond what any ordinary villager could muster. She had secrets, had been hiding her true nature all this time.

  Amalia's lips curled in a slight, wry smile, the first genuine expression Ash had seen on her face.

  "So I am not," she admitted, confirming their suspicions with those simple words. "As to those questions... well now. We have come to the conditions I mentioned earlier."

  "What are these Light-cursed conditions, then!" Nick swore, his patience finally snapping. His hands balled into fists as he leaned forward, eyes blazing. "I want to know why my Ma was killed, shadow take you!"

  Amalia did not react to his outburst, her composure unruffled by his anger. She regarded him steadily, waiting for the fire to burn out of him.

  "I know you do," she said when he had subsided somewhat. "My conditions are simple."

  She paused, looking at each of them in turn, ensuring she had their full attention. Her next words would change the course of their lives forever, though they couldn't know it yet.

  "You must become bronze-ranked adventurers."

  The statement hung in the air, provocative and challenging. Ash glanced at the others, seeing his own confusion reflected in their faces. The night had been long, filled with horror and loss, and now this cryptic demand that seemed to make no sense in the context of their current situation.

  Yet Amalia was utterly serious, her violet eyes steady and unyielding. Whatever game she was playing, whatever knowledge she held, she would not share it freely. They would have to earn it, step by difficult step.

  The fire crackled in the hearth, sending shadows dancing across the walls. Outside, the wind had picked up, whistling around the eaves of the cottage. The world had changed irrevocably for all of them, and there would be no going back to the lives they had known.

  There was only forward, into an uncertain future filled with questions, with danger, with the slow, painful process of rebuilding from the ashes of what they had lost. And their first step, it seemed, was to trust this enigmatic woman who spoke of adventures and ranks as casually as others might discuss the weather.

  Ash looked around at his friends, at these fellow survivors bound together by tragedy, and knew that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together. They had no choice. They had nothing left but each other and the burning need to understand why their world had been shattered in a single night of blood and fire.