Fortune spent years as a slave, often hearing conversations about escape and what it might be like outside the walls, to live without a collar; what it might be like to be free. Some said it was like flying. There are no walls, no barriers, and no one controls you. Others added that it was the same except you could go to a tavern and ask for a whore if you wanted. Someone else argued that you'd still be a beggar, just one with freedom. Another simply said that freedom was like grabbing a warm teat. Fortune thought a lot and remembered much, but he never expected that being free would mean being locked in a cage full of excrement, covered over during the day. He could not even dream of getting out until they reached somewhere where someone knew how to remove his collar. Fortune hoped that this somewhere wasn't too far and that this someone hadn't yet had their throat slit.
He breathed in the fresh scent of freedom, which still eerily resembled the smell of his own excrement.
When they made camp after dark, far from the roads, deep in the woods, they lifted the tarp on one side of his cage. Then, the light of the fire would seep through the bars, and he could see his filthy hands, the dirt under his nails, his beard full of tangles. They still didn’t let him out, but at least they gave him something to eat. Some kind of meat cooked in a pot over the fire. He didn't know what kind of meat, or how old, just accepted it and, grabbing it with his dirty, stinking hands, began to tear it apart, licking the greasy remnants off his fingers. The thieves only talked then, smacking their lips, sucking on their fingers about loot, a quick stab that silenced those waking up. The big guy with the sword, who had nearly decapitated him, talked about how stupid they all were, and it was a wonder they were still alive. Fortune felt the same. It was a miracle his head hadn't been cut off and eaten.
On the third night, someone banged on the bars of his cage. At first, he paid no attention. Sometimes the thieves did it before they set off. Or before they reached the road. When he heard it, he knew that if he opened his mouth, they'd be forced to slit his throat. His response was always silence. He just leaned back in the stench and listened to the wagon jolting or sometimes a merchant bargaining and the clinking of coins.
But now it was night, the wagon was stationary, and he had heard the banging for the third time. Fortune banged back.
"They won't let you go," said the voice from the other side. That was Ignis's first sentence to him.
Fortune listened for a while, rolling his eyes in the darkness.
"Who are you?" asked Fortune.
"A slave, like you. In the other cage. Locked up, like you. They won't let me out, just like you."
"I will get out. Because I have to."
"Why?"
"Because I have something I need to do," Fortune said.
A long silence.
"Help me get out, and I'll help you."
"Why?"
"Because I need to find someone," Ignis answered.
"Who?"
"All I know is that I need to find them."
Fortune felt the same. He needed to find someone, and another, and many others. He didn't know who they were, just that he needed to find them.
"I can't help. It's too risky."
***
That evening, Fortune had to be silent for at least an hour already. The braying of donkeys, laughter, flute music, the crackling of the fire, and the murmuring chorus of the rabble filled the inside of his cage. Ignis's few words felt as though they were hammered under his nails: "They won't let you go." Fortune was certain that he was far from reaching slaughter weight. . Eventually, he concluded that one way or another, they would let him go. He thought back to the rizus, those little boxes they were stored in. He remembered when he held one to his ear. He heard the ticking inside, as the watcher had said. Every little box was tracked, and Fortune liked that. He could have taken the rizus out of the boxes, but he didn't. He wanted them to find the thieves and impale their heads on a spear. They must have been on the road for five days now. He had to get out before they caught up with them.
He was preparing to pray. Usually, he would look into the eye of Darkness in the sky. Now he simply lifted his head and pictured it. He clasped his hands and began his prayer.
They yanked the tarp off, and the light slicing through the bars blinded him. He barely managed to shield his eyes with his hands when someone grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the cage. He was forced to look at the ground, then the stones as he was dragged into the interior of a house like some kind of stuffed toy. Fortune's eyes watered from the light. By the time he regained his senses, he was already being forced to kneel, and an iron ring tightened around his neck.
"How much?" he heard the voice of the thief who had nearly beheaded him.
Fortune's head was jammed into a hole carved into an iron plate. A man with a sooty face, disheveled hair, and a red beard crouched beside him and twisted his collar. He shoved Fortune's head aside, as if he were nothing more than a ragdoll.
The red-bearded man grinned, then placed his hand on his knee and stood up. Tears streamed down Fortune's cheeks. The walls were lined with swords and hammers, horse gear, and nails. Half-finished swords and shields gleamed on the tables.
"Kill him. It's the best course of action," said the red-bearded man.
"How much?"
"Sixty silver. But better to kill him and have no more trouble."
Fortune's body tensed upon hearing the price. He immediately knew that his fate was to have his head crushed right there with a hammer. He simply couldn't be worth that much.
"Agreed," said the thief. Then Fortune heard the coins clinking together.
He still knelt there, the iron plate tight around his neck. The blacksmith grabbed a hammer, its head as big as his own. In his left hand, he gripped a piece of iron shaped into a wedge.
The sword-wielding thief held Fortune's head, and the blacksmith placed the iron on the collar's rim. The tool's cold edge touched his neck. Before starting, a grimy rag was stuffed into his mouth. He checked, then brought another and stuffed that into his mouth as well.
The blacksmith began to hammer.
The dreadful sound of the hammering nearly forced his eyes out of their sockets, his ears almost burst. He clenched so hard that he scraped his skin with his nails, his anus numbed and something trickled out of it.
A moment of silence followed the snapping of the collar. Fortune's ears rang, throbbing with pain as if it was his head, not the collar, that had been beaten all this time.
Then it started again, and the world before Fortune blurred and he began to scream again.
***
His ears were still ringing when they led him into a tub of hot water to wash off the grime and restore his human appearance. They had laid out trousers and a leather vest for him. The vest was thick enough to offer some protection against minor stabs and arrows, but a sword could easily puncture it all the same. He felt its weight, but compared to the leather protective clothing he used to wear, it was feather-light.
In front of the blacksmith's shop, Broom was waiting with two thieves. The light of the torches was still unusual to him, but he could now look into it without pain slicing through his eyes.
Broom snickered. Fortune stepped up to him and patted his face.
As soon as he mounted Broom, the party started before him, leaving the small village, winding onto the road, and heading towards their camp.
The Moon, the eye of Darkness, watched him from between two clouds. The stars, those useless specks of dust, shone everywhere. The trees and the swirling, falling leaves glittered in the silvery light. He inhaled deeply. The season of blood was at the doorstep, and even the air smelled like blood. The falling leaves whipped at his face, but it was still far better than sitting in the dark on a bucket. His legs were still numb, pain occasionally slashed through his ears, but still he looked up at the sky again, took another breath, and his Adam's apple didn't press against his collar. He smiled. Looking back at those riding ahead, all joy vanished from his face.
Their camp was in a clearing surrounded by trees. He looked at them, their chipped teeth as they tore into the meat; their eyes, which sometimes darkened into shadows in the flickering campfire light, sometimes glinted at Fortune like the gaze of starving vultures. One of them, with a round, chubby face, a belly, and an axe at his side, grinned as he swung a cooked leg in front of the cage. He kept it up until a hand snake-like struck from within and pulled in the meat. Then laughing, he drew another piece and held it out as bait.
"Eat up, eat up, you beauty. That's right."
When the axeman left, Fortune stepped up to the cage and peered through the bars. In the depths of the shadows, he saw a hand holding a half-gnawed bone. Hair covered the face. He turned his piercing gaze toward Fortune. Fortune leaned in, then simply grinned and turned away.
His thought was interrupted by a familiar voice. When he turned toward the campfire, the archer was staring at him, bow drawn. The thief with the big sword swallowed a piece of meat:
"I just paid sixty silver for you. Until we sell the rizus, you're staying with us. And if it turns out there's something wrong with it, I'll cut off your head right there. Now sit down."
With slow, cautious steps, he approached the fire. Meanwhile, he glanced at the wagon. Ignis's hand gripped the bars, and his dark eyes fixed on Fortune. It was as if he had seen a smirk on his face before retreating back into the shadows. As if he had said, "I was right." Fortune obediently sat down by the fire.
***
The dawn sun draped the iron forest, the camp, and the charred pieces of wood in its red rays. The thieves were packing up, pulling on their boots and saddling their horses. One of the archers and the swordsman glanced over at Fortune. They laughed. Fortune lifted his wrist; the chains rattled. By evening, they had tied him up like a dog to prevent him from running away. Finally, one of them produced the key and took it off him. During the night, Ignis's words kept him awake: "They won't let you go." He remembered the faint clicking from the wooden box. He tried to count how many days they had already been on the road. Ultimately, he concluded that it had been too long. He didn’t know whether it would happen on the tenth, twelfth day, or tonight. The only thing he was sure of was that he needed to disappear immediately. Even if, , they were to let him go after selling the rizus, he couldn't wait. Because by then, none of them would be alive. Neither would he. And that would mean he had failed. Again.
He looked towards the wagon, where his gaze met Ignis's.
By afternoon, they reached the wooden palisade of an unnamed settlement. Inside, rows of thatched huts greeted them like overgrown poisonous mushrooms in a meadow. Woodcarvers and craftsmen worked on new masterpieces in front of their dingy little shops. In front of one smithy, a horse was being shoed, the ringing of the hammer dictating the slow rhythm of life there. The horses were placed in a stable beside the wall, and following a few locals, they walked to the center of the village, where little stalls of traders had replaced the huts. The vendors shouted hoarsely and grinned when they got a hold of a couple of iron coins; shoppers argued, stamped, and shook their heads trying to haggle down the prices. They stopped at every table, inspected the displayed weapons, held a few in their hands. They swung them a few times, but ultimately bought nothing. They smelled the spices, but took none of those either. After circling everything twice, the swordsman growled:
"He's late."
They continued to wait, walking around, dodging the crowd. Among the shopkeepers was a one-armed man offering a decaying human arm for sale.
"Still fresh," he shouted. Not long after, a thin man in a black coat with twirled mustaches, who, after some mustache-twirling and scrutinizing, bought it.
"There he is," the swordsman spoke up again.
A merchant was fiddling with silks while staring at them. The swordsman broke away from the group and started towards the man. They were far enough that whispers wouldn't be overheard, but Fortune saw everything that happened. The thief unbuckled a pouch from his belt, from which he took out a small box.
Fortune's toes curled and trembled inside his boots. He stepped aside for a better view of what was happening. He looked like a horse rearing to reach a leaf just above its head. He saw the color of the box. It could have been anything, except the rizus.
Fortune took a breath and then exhaled.
The crowd still staggered around, kneading the mud with their feet and rubbing their hands like flies before biting into a fragrant pile of dung. Some bumped into him or pushed him directly aside.
He took deep breaths again. He stepped backward, distancing himself from the three thieves who remained. An axe and two bows. Any of them could end his life.
None of them looked at him.
A worm of thought burrowed into his ear, gnawing: "Take another step."
Fortune did so, and the crowd continued its dance of buzzing flies, while the thieves still didn’t look at him.
It pulsed in his head, what if he took another step, and then another, and one more? He might disappear in the crowd. He could hide. And be free. He could fulfill what he was there for.
"Just one more step!" he encouraged himself.
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And his foot rose from the ground again, then swung forward. The distance between Fortune and the thieves grew even larger.
They still stood there. He looked at the merchant. The swordsman had turned back. He was looking at Fortune.
Fortune lifted one foot, but the other did not follow.
He looked at the thief, who was still watching him. Then he looked at one of the archer's quivers, which was full. He remembered a slave's throat that had been pierced by an arrow. His sacred mission ran through his mind. He looked again at the thief, and stepped back toward the axeman. The archer then looked back at Fortune and laughed.
"We've got other business here. Let's go," said the swordsman.
***
The thieves then gathered at the local inn. Human arms and hands hung from the walls, the tables were packed, all enveloped in the sweet aroma of spiced meat. Whole limbs, thighs, and legs, glistening with juices, shone red, steaming under the light of the skull candles placed at the center of the tables. Above the dishes, the damned grunted and murmured like starved dogs finding a piece of meat by the roadside. A man with a short beard and dressed in a red silk coat stood at the door behind the counter. He called out to the chef named Sándor, telling him to serve them something to eat while they conducted their business. The swordsman and one of the archers then stood up without a word and all three went into the room behind the counter.
The mustachioed chef placed a bowl in front of the axeman. He was about to reach for the food, but Sándor placed his hand between axeman's mouth and the steaming bowl. The veins on the axeman's neck bulged, but he dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. The bowl contained boiled, juice-glistening human tongues. The axeman reached in, and as he lifted it to his mouth, the tongues licked his fingers. He stuck out his tongue, entangling it with the cooked one, the mixture of his saliva and the juices dripping onto the floor. Fortune's mouth also filled with saliva as he sniffed the air. The tongues played in the thief's mouth. Already, something stirred in Fortune's stomach, but the next dish Sándor placed before the archer caused him even more pain: A freshly roasted arm sizzled before him.
Fortune stopped the chef before he could walk over with a miraculous serving. Sándor simply turned his back, pulled at his coat, and returned to his small realm in the kitchen, then watched the feasting.
"That Sándor sure knows how to cook," the axeman said with his mouth full, turning to the archer while stuffing another tongue into his mouth.
"The boss said only if they don't buy it."
"He wouldn’t cook it right away. Just take a look," the archer shook his head, while the axeman hurried to the counter, explaining something eagerly to Sándor, after which both of them exited the inn.
Surrounded by the sounds of gnawing, grunting, and endless slurping, Fortune pressed his hands to his ears as if he wanted to crush his own skull. He remembered what had happened outside. He had his chance but let it go. He convinced himself that he couldn’t take the risk, couldn’t fail again. This time, he had to succeed. he repeated to himself.
The table shook under his hand as the axeman flopped back in front of his bowl, gleefully spooning up the few remaining tongues. Sándor also found his way back to his place in the kitchen, and while savoring the juice of the boiling meat, he surveyed the tables. He must have been pleased with the sight, for he hummed contentedly as his eyes moved from one table to another. When he reached their table, the spoon paused in his hand. He put it down and appeared directly behind Fortune:
"Sir, what would you say if I gave you a tour of our offerings?" Fortune's stomach clenched again. The axeman still reveled in the tongues, the other was just breaking apart a roasted finger.
Fortune slammed his fist on the table, but Sándor, unfazed, leaned in close to his ear:
"Freedom is also on the menu."
Fortune's hand thumped on the table. Without a word, he stood up and followed Sándor, who led him with his hand along the food prepared on the counter.
He arranged the cooked and roasted human parts and innards as a florist would arrange roses. He smoothed over his lush mustache one more time before he began:
"These here are from Weasel, who used to terrorize this region. He was hanged yesterday; I've just finished preparing him. His blood is particularly sweet, I recommend you try some. Twenty coins for a serving,"
Fortune remained silent.
"But look at this. This is the infamous Mad Dog himself." Sándor brought over a roasted thigh. "He fought with bare hands, with his nails. As soon as I found out he was dead, I went for him with the cart. The more hot-blooded they are, the stronger the meat tastes. This here will practically burn your mouth."
Fortune said nothing in response. He waited for the magic word. Sweat dripped down Sándor’s forehead, then he continued:
"Look, I’ve been a chef all my life. I stood by the stove until nearly my last breath." He cleared space on the table, then started towards the pantry. Fortune hoped he would also be invited there, where he could finally hear the price of freedom. "But something was missing. I simply couldn't figure out what it was. And here, when I first bit into someone's flesh, I finally found it. The soul gives the meat its flavor. Look at this,"
He pulled back a cloth to reveal a forearm. The skin had been removed, the nails pulled off, the cooked meat was scored. The aroma reached Fortune's nose. He struggled with his saliva, forced to swallow before he could open his mouth.
"Maybe they called him Freedom?"
"They called him Stinking Foot. He was stabbed in the heart a few days ago, for who knows why. When I found him, I didn't expect much. His leg was rotting, I had to cut it off, though I really hate to waste. But I gave him a chance. I marinated him in pain wine, sprinkled him with black salt..."
Fortune took a deep breath, trying to breathe through his mouth so as not to smell the meat.
He turned away, but Sándor grabbed his hand.
"I have something else for you."
Fortune pulled his hand away, and as if something had stuck to it, he started rubbing and scratching it.
"It won't cost you anything. I call it——freedom." Fortune turned back to Sándor and stepped closer. Sándor continued in a whisper, "After I slit your throat, all your blood drained out, I skinned you, seasoned you, and cooked you, all your problems will disappear. Your soul will be free, you can start a new life. And in exchange, today you can eat as much as you want."
Fortune stood motionless for a moment. He swallowed another gulp of saliva as if drinking water, then silently returned to their table with a churning stomach. The promise of "freedom" was enticing, but he had to become free in a different way.
A plate clattered in front of Fortune, in it lay a skinned, beautifully roasted arm stretching towards him.
"A little taste to consider the offer," Sándor grinned upright over him.
***
They left the village before sunset. That evening around the campfire, they chewed their food lazily, eyeing each other as if waiting to see who would draw a sword first. Only the axeman spoke. Through the bars, he sought Ignis's gaze. This time, he brought even more food for him. One by one, he tossed the pieces of meat to him, murmuring sweet words:
"Eat up, you beauty, eat up," he hummed and smiled as he heard the bones crunch between Ignis’s teeth. "That's right, eat. Grow big and round, nice and plump. So Sándor will be satisfied. You'll be delicious, delicious."
"Leave the freak. He will be sold."
"If he gets sold."
"He will be. If not..."
"If not," the axeman interrupted, "then I can hand him over to Sándor." He circled his tongue around his mouth and swallowed. "And I can feast on him. A real freak. But if you do sell him, they’ll pay more for a well-fed beast than a scrawny one," he laughed and, sticking out his tongue, threw another piece of meat to Ignis.
Fortune jerked his head. In the dimness covered by the tarp of the cage, he saw hands and feet. A clean face without a beard. It didn’t look like a freak. In fact, it seemed more human than those around him or even himself. He pondered over the fact that they would sell it. Or eat it. Then he remembered that neither would happen. It would die here, as soon as they arrived. For many years, Ignis's life had been the only one of any value to Fortune. And here it would die, with this pile of filth. In its own filth and blood. For nothing. Without having found who it was searching for. Fortune was also aware that his fate would be the same. They would all die here. A stupid, meaningless death. Making all that time spent in that leper colony among a bunch of stinking lepers, who prayed to bones and mud, even more meaningless.
***
His chain snaked along the ground to a tree trunk, where it was looped and secured with two padlocks. The thieves were already snoring. Ignis was still gazing at him from his cage. He knew what that look meant.
Fortune turned away from them and looked up between two trees at the stars and the moon.
"I see your guidance, Light. I will not lose sight of it this time. I see the darkness, your fertile earth, Darkness. Tonight I will plant in it. Tonight I will water it so that light may sprout from it."
They all slept on simple blankets with their weapons. The swordsman clutched his sword around his chest. If his saliva wasn't dripping down his chin, one might have thought he was faking.
They had not taken Fortune's sword from him. Every night since he had been out of that damned cage, it had been with him. Every night he had his chance. And every morning when they woke up, they laughed in his face.
His mouth murmured silent prayers as he took his first step. His chain rattled. He looked over them again. The axeman was closest, then the swordsman, and on the other side of the fire were the two archers. He stepped towards the axeman. His chain rattled again. He grasped his sword, slowly pulling it from its sheath. Then the axeman’s mouth twitched, he muttered something in his sleep. Ignis’s cage rattled.
The axeman turned over. Fortune's hand trembled with the sword. He gripped the hilt a bit longer, then slowly slid it back into place.
He remembered what had happened in the breeding tent. The shouting, the flailing. Now the chain was there too. It was long enough, but too loud.
He looked at Ignis, who stared back with wide eyes and an open mouth, holding a sharp-ended broken bone. Fortune nodded at him, looking into his eyes. If he killed the axeman first, he could unlock the door to the cage, and perhaps together they would have a chance. This time, Fortune had already drawn his sword. He raised it high, searching for the right spot so the axeman wouldn’t even scream.
His hands trembled. He thought through his next steps, where to step to make the least noise, then imagined unlocking the lock. Then the iron door, absolutely silently, and with his clanging chain, he would sneak up to the next one.
He dropped his sword again. He panted as if there wasn’t enough air. The smell of blood rushed into his nose. His sword's handle slipped. He wiped his hand on his trousers. His hand bumped into something. The vial. Another thing they hadn’t taken from him. The cauldron was there by the fire. Fortune looked up at the moon and gave thanks, then turned again to Ignis.
He set the cauldron over the fire. One of the thieves stirred, but then fell back asleep, if he had even woken up. Fortune opened the vial. And in the moment when he was about to pour it out, he already knew he was too late.
"Wake up. They've raided us," Fortune yelled at the top of his lungs, hitting the cauldron with his sword.
The thieves jumped up from their sleep and, gripping their swords, spun around. From beyond the trees came the first shouts and the pounding of hooves, sounding like thunder rolling in before a storm.
With a single mighty swing, the swordsman cut Fortune's bonds, and then they all mounted their horses just before the Holy Healer’s troops could gallop through their camp.
"In the name of the Holy Healer, I condemn you."
Fortune did not want that to be the last thing he heard in this life.
***
"Your love gives us strength, Holy Healer! May your devotion protect us on our mission!" shouted one of the riders cloaked in white silk from behind Fortune.
Whoever glanced back erupted in loud curses. Not just because of the few dozen riders who had taken up pursuit, but even more so because of their slim, wiry mounts with razor-sharp teeth. Their jaws snapped and drooled as if they already had their prey in their mouths.
They drove their horses as hard as they could, but their slight lead was rapidly diminishing.
One of the archers was the first to discard his unnecessary junk with a shout of, "To hell with all this nonsense!" The others followed suit. Among the scattered items were some hard and sharp enough to cause one of the riders to clutch his throat and tumble from the saddle. Only the axeman refrained from discarding anything, having a whole cartload of live cargo.
"Release that cart!" Fortune shouted back.
"No! I want to eat it."
"Those behind us will eat us before you eat that freak if they catch us."
"We'll see," he gripped his axe tighter.
"Can't you see how many there are?"
"Even so! I've never eaten a freak before."
Hush. An arrow whizzed past Fortune. The axeman cried out as it pierced his shoulder.
"The Holy Healer is our heart, his will is our will!"
The axeman glanced back, hesitated for a moment, then grimaced and grabbed his axe.
"Dear freak, I would have loved for us to get... closer. Like meat to a stomach. But this is the end. Farewell!" He raised his axe above his head and struck down.
His blows shattered the support beam into splinters.
"Find them!" Fortune shouted.
The runaway cart overturned, nearly blocking the path. Some of the pursuing riders crashed into it with a loud clatter, but most managed to avoid it and continued their chase, falling slightly behind. The neighing of horses never ceased for a moment.
Relieved of his burden, the axeman rode ahead, so Fortune ended up at the back of the line. They were approaching a fork in the road.
Clutching the reins, Fortune glanced back. One of the mounts snapped its sharp teeth with a growl. He looked forward again. Each thief had their weapon, the two archers' quivers were full of arrows. He had seen what they could do with them. He looked back again. The horses bared their teeth. He jerked the reins, Broom neighed. The thieves turned right, Fortune had to decide.
He went left.
Only a few turns later did he look back, but the sound of the horses already told him he had made the wrong choice: two were still thundering behind him.
Another fork. On the path to the left, someone in a gray cloak was staggering and lighting another torch planted in the ground.
Without thinking, he turned right.
The two warriors of the Holy army relentlessly aimed to decapitate Fortune on horses that would effortlessly rip out his stomach. There was nothing left to unfasten, nothing to toss away, only his sword, but it was too little and he might still need it. Alone, he couldn't split himself up, Broom couldn't go any faster.
A thick branch grew over the road at neck height. He tried to keep it hidden from them for as long as possible, ducking just before he would have slammed into it.
He had run out of hope and time. He didn't need to look back to know the result of his last attempt. One horse was nearly biting Broom's rump. Close enough for the warrior to spear Broom to death.
One strike to the snapping horse's head, then swiftly to the rider. The horse fell backward, almost certainly crushing its rider. Broom's tail mace rose proudly into the air.
"You can be useful after all!" Fortune patted Broom's neck, who whinnied in response.
The bowstring creaked as the last rider pulled it back with another arrow. Hush, the first arrow zipped past him. The bowstring creaked again. The trees thinned along the worn path, the moon's silver light burned his back.
He considered letting the rider get closer, even slowing Broom down so the tail could deal with the rider, but then he heard the sound. Hush. Broom threw back his head and neighed at the top of his lungs, tossing Fortune from the saddle as he fell.
The ground hit hard, and the several meters of rolling and tumbling didn't help. He had to cough up swallowed dirt, his head buzzed, and the sound of approaching footsteps was not reassuring.
"The Holy Healer…" the knight began.
Fortune didn't really pay attention.
While he talked, Fortune took a better look at his executioner. He wanted to see who was going to pierce his heart, stomach, lungs, or other vital organs. Unfortunately, the white silk covered almost his entire face. In the moonlight, the figure appeared radiant. Holy. His eyes were pale blue, as much as Fortune could tell in the dim light.
The buzzing from the trees mixed with the rustling of leaves and the knight's foolish speech.
The buzzing grew louder. Fortune looked at the moon over the knight's shoulder.
Then something flew past him.
"Come on, kill me," said Fortune.
The killer mosquito that swooped down from the sky covered the knight's entire face with its wings. Its outstretched, sooty, damaged wings bore the pattern of a skull. The rubbing wings hummed, the knight screamed.
The unfortunate knight tried to tear the attacker from his face, but only managed to tear off the silk. Fortune, meanwhile, picked himself up from the ground.
The warrior tried to pay attention to him as well, but it was impossible. No matter how hard he pulled and tore at the insect, it didn't move. The hooked legs had already latched onto the rider's neck and face. He could only tear it off with his face.
"Well, well..."
Paternal feelings overwhelmed him. He had seen most of them break through the apple's skin. He had seen their first steps on the apple's surface, their first wing flaps, their first stabs. He had watched them feast, dance in the air. They were with him during his hard years. He was there when they finally became free. Fortune remembered the flames and how they flew into the sky.
The mosquito slowly finished off the rider by laying its eggs in his flesh, but he kept fighting. He groped for his fallen lance. That could have ended the insect's life, but Fortune couldn't let his child meet such an ugly end in his presence.
He took a deep breath as he drew his sword. He found a sweet spot on the rider's side, then lunged forward with the blade. It plunged into the flesh, blood dripped onto the ground. He pressed the hilt with his other hand, making the blade slide further. Fortune panted heavily as the knight collapsed. He knelt with him, supporting him under the arm to prevent him from falling forward and hurting the mosquito. He laid him on his back. The knight's hand slowly let go of the lance while the mosquito buzzed before Fortune's eyes. He stepped back, marveling once more at its legs, wing beats, and the stinger buried in the bloody neck.
The mosquito slowly pulled its hooked legs from the man's face, then buzzed away. Fortune watched again as his child flew away.
Broom's stiff body lay on the ground, an arrow protruding from his neck.
"You were a good companion, Broom. I'm sorry you had to die because of me. For a worm."
He closed Broom's eyes and said a prayer for his soul.
Further away, the rider's mount stood. It spread its legs, pawed the ground with its hoof, and snorted. Fortune began to back away, letting the mount guard its master's corpse.
Fortune wondered if the mount would later feast on its master or simply collapse and die, but he had no time to waste. There was still a whole world to consume to the last shred of flesh. And as he glanced one last time at the man lying on the ground, the radiant white silk, the spreading red bloodstains on the fabric, he already knew where to begin.
Every comment adds one year to my lifespan. So go ahead. Help me reach immortality.
twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays.
I hope you’ll continue to enjoy the journey, and I’m really grateful to have you here!
See you in the Darkness.
