Chapter Four

  The Head Hunter

  Primar Minhae traced his steps round the room again and again. Sweat dribbled down his fat nose, and his ears rang with nervousness. He bit at his knuckles and picked at the fine lace around his neck. At last came a knocking at his bedroom door. His servant, a white haired man, once keeper of his father’s keys, stood waiting.

  “Is there a message today?” Minhae jumped.

  “No, sir, there are none,” his servant calmly responded.

  Mihae held his breath, bringing a shaking hand to his temple.

  “Sir, if I may offer some advice,” the butler broached. Minhae knew what he was going to suggest, it was a thought he too had, but did not have the stomach to consider it. “There are other solutions to your problem, those who would jump at the opportunity for such a prize. You may even retrieve your earnings. In the end, such men are not so different from the thugs you hired.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Minhae eventually said in a pale voice. “Draft a message for me, and arrange for one.” His mouth was dry as he said the words.

  Minhae felt his stomach sink, and he grew nauseous at himself. Indeed, these were more than simple murderers. There was a deep wrongness about their craft that even Minhae shied away from. They did their grim work not for pay, but for its own merits and sharpness, discerning neither between young or old, pauper or prince. But what options did he have left? The bandits he had sicced on the girl had replied quickly with bad news, a beast had come from the shadows and stole away the girl. And as he stared into the black pit of uncertainty, Minhae could only assume the worst. Not long after, his servant returned with a letter. Minhae stared at it as if it were a dirty thing. But all that lay between his neck and comfort was his name in black ink. And so he pierced the inkwell with a shining pen and stained his soul.

  Nephis, Moss, and Kugo all stopped to look at the strange man at the end of the bridge. Nephis, caught in the middle, still leaned over to watch the lilies go by. Without warning, he sprinted towards them, unveiling a hatchet from his ragged brown cloak, and for a moment revealed wiry talismans of hair and bone. Nephis eyes grew wide, and she tried to step back, but the man was nearly upon her. Kugo and Moss rushed forward, but they were too far behind her. The hunter swung his axe down at her head. In the last moment, Nephis threw her arm to guard her head; Kugo flinched, sure the girl’s arm would be lopped off and slump to the ground. But it did not. The axe stuck an inch below her elbow, as if jammed in hardwood, even the hunter paused in shock. Yet Nephis did not and inhaled a great breath through gritted teeth. A gout of flame poured from her jaws, as white as steel and as hot as flame could be. Right as it should have consumed him, the hunter jumped away, taking his hatchet with him and fleeing into the mist.

  Nephis collapsed onto the bridge, gripping her arm and struggling to breathe. Kugo rushed over and prepared to treat the wound, for a cut to the bone would leave her dead soon enough. But as he pulled back the robes of her sleeve, he was stopped. Though soaked in blood, the axe had been slowed. Crimson scales as bright as mail covered the back of her arm. They had been crushed and burst through, but they had surely slowed the attack. Frazzled, Kugo began to tear at his shirt, so as to stem the blood. But before he could, Moss rushed over and took her arm in his great hand. Nephis cried out in pain, but soon quieted. Without a word or wasted movement, the golem reached out his hand, and the wound began to heal. Little mushrooms and lichen sprouted from the wound and ate away at the blood and gore, and like threads spinning, her muscles and skin rebinded themselves until there was nothing but a little scar. Kugo stared in amazement at what he had seen. But Nephis stared in horror.

  “W-what?” she gasped, still struggling for breath. She was pale and cold, but even still, she seemed in a worse state than she should have been.

  Without waiting, Kugo scooped up the girl and fled with Moss close behind. In the coming days, many were shocked to find the blood stained bridge, and wondered what wicked thing must have happened. But stranger still than the floor was the ceiling, scorched and warped, great beams of wood coiled and black. It was as if a dragon itself had mangled their bridge.

  Kugo rushed into the city, covering up the girl with his wolf-hide cloak. He chose a place almost at random. A dark inn that no one would suspect, off in a corner where it could not be skulked near easily. As soon as the room was paid for, he jammed the door shut with a chair and shuttered the windows. Rooms such as these were meant for a dozen men, but a handful of coin ensured their secrecy. The room was bare, aside from a large bed and a few lockers at its foot, the air stale, and warmed only by a rush light.

  Nephis sat and looked at her wound, now healed as if it had been many months. She looked at Moss in bewilderment and fright, afraid to ask the question at the front of her mind, “What are you?”

  Kugo at last sat down and removed his mask. He pulled some food from his pack and broke it into small pieces, for the girl was still pale and trembling, seeming ill, but not from blood-loss for she had not lost so much.

  “Are you feeling well?” Moss asked, his cold blue eyes and unmoving face seeming more frightful than ever.

  She flinched. “I will be alright,” Nephis said quietly.

  “Moss,” Kugo said, seeing the girl jolt, “Why don’t you stand by the window?”

  “Alright,” Moss answered and lumbered over to the end of the room, seeming much the same as he always had. Kugo leaned in towards Nephis. “What is the matter?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  She touched her scar. “There is something strange about Moss,” she said, “He shouldn’t be able to do the things he does.”

  That much was obvious to Kugo from the start. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “My wound shouldn’t be healed, not like this,” she clarified. “And stranger still, he did it without saying a word.”

  Kugo was confused. As far as he knew, there were mages who specified in injuries. It was a rare tradition, but one that was common among the nobility. “Are there not physician mages?” he asked, “And were the flames not a spell?”

  Nephis shook her head. “No,” she said, “Not like Moss, at least. Neither spells nor magic can heal a wound. They can suture and stem, but not repair. Even that much is only possible from decades of study and knowledge. It is not something you could rend out of yourself. There are tools, rare unguents, and rods, and long chants to only sew up something small. I couldn’t do it if I tried. And for him to do it silently, and in a moment . . . that is the realm of saints and miracles.”

  She paused, as if trying to throw her mind somewhere else. “A spell cannot be cast without words, at least not how most think of it. I did not cast any spell. I troubled myself. If a spell is akin to the wick on a lamp, I set the barrel of oil on fire.”

  “Are you saying Moss is . . . divine?” Kugo asked skeptically.

  Nephis smiled weakly, “You’re a man of the cloth. Have you ever heard of anything like him?”

  Kugo looked at Moss for a moment, idly taking in the room. “No,” he eventually said. “Are you a heretic?”

  “I’m not,” she said, “I just . . . don’t know what he is.”

  Kugo watched Moss for a while longer, but having no answers to her question, he let it be. “And what of this breath of fire? I still don’t know what you meant by ‘troubling’ yourself.”

  Nephis took a breath. “Magic is life,” she began, “’All things have life within them. From grass to people, we are all blessed by it.’ But some things have more life within them than others. Flowers have very little, and you have a bit more,” she referred to him. “Even bones of dead men still have some lingering spirit within them, though very little, not enough to be worth anything. Even still, if you can call upon even this little bit, you can sing the song of the world’s creation. Now, there are many philosophies in how to do any craft, sprouting from tradition and skill alike. Magecraft is no different. But there are two primary houses, as it were. Wizards are the vulgar house, the lesser, for they are many. The wizard draws his power from without himself. For should a thing be drained of all life, it dies. In the end, for all mages, you get what you give. But there are some with more vigor, more blood, some with greater amounts of life in her breast,” and she referred to herself. “We call these sorcerers, and they are born of great lineages. So great is the blood of a sorcerer, that her bones, and blood, and even hair is infused with life.”

  “So the legends of the royal family being drakeborn are true?” Kugo asked, looking at the gleaming mail. “More than old rumor?”

  Nephis nodded. “My line is truly blessed. Most sorcerers are born without that knowledge, at near random to humble families, often to great disaster. But Gorynych was kind, and so we are graced with a sorcerer at every third, sixth, ninth, and twelfth.”

  Kugo had heard of the great drake Gorynych in legends and tales, and none of them were very favorable to the dragon. He also recalled that she was not the twelfth born, but let both lie for now. “So if you weren’t so small, would you not be more powerful?” he asked, prodding at her.

  Nephis glared at him, for a moment only annoyed and not scared. “I suppose I would be,” she answered.

  “Then why do you cut your hair so short?” he asked. It was not ladylike for a respected woman to have such little hair.

  Nephis paused and toyed with the ends of her locks, smiling sadly. “If anything, my hair is long now. But my father wanted me wed, so he allowed me to grow it a little. Hair is the glory of a woman, after all.” After years of begging to be like her sisters, she had gotten what she asked for. “But it is precisely because it is powerful that I mustn’t let it grow too long. For it might inspire . . . greed in the servants,” her face slackened and grew a little paler. “Did you see beneath that man’s cloak? There are those that kill and dismember sorcerers for their pieces. Not only to die, but to be torn at and rended, not for malice, but for parts.” Nephis looked ill, her face pallid and etched with fear.

  The room fell silent. Every creak and bellow from below caused the pair to twitch. But worse than the noise was the quiet. When the tavern settled down and there was nothing but the ringing in their ears, the ringing where the imagination begins to wander. The assassin was still out there, somewhere, lurking in the crowds and shadows. He was near and far, both at the city gate and just beyond the frail door. They were trapped, stuck between the vicious illusions of the hunter, only one of whom was real.

  The wind pressed through the veins of the city, rattling the windows, shaking the shutters until the bolts nearly came loose. The inn groaned and swayed. Every passing horse clipped the earth so that it seemed pebbles were thrown at the thin glass. And so the hours passed, no one saying a word. They did not even dare to call for food, but only nibbled on dry bread and stale wine. Even in the long dark of the night, they did not dare to sleep, to close their eyes for a moment.

  And then came a knocking.

  Thud, thud, thud. On the door. A simple and dull rhythm. Kugo motioned for Nephis to hide herself behind the bed, and donned his mask. He crept towards the door, a dagger in his hand, and peered through the keyhole, but he saw little more than shadow. And so with slow and quiet caution, he cracked open the door. “What is it?” he asked.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  A dull and squirrel-faced man stood waiting, an employee of the tavern. “There is someone calling for you.”

  Kugo’s mouth was dry. “Send him away,” he said.

  “Very well, sir,” the attendant answered and walked away, his footfalls echoing down the hall and stairs.

  “Gather your things, and quick,” Kugo hissed. Nephis scrambled to gather what little she had while Kugo swung his pack over his shoulder, bow and all, and buckled his swords to his side. Moss neatly placed his hat on his head and prepared to leave. The windows had been barred shut with iron beams, and any attempt to remove them would cause a great deal of noise as they yanked metal from stone. There would be little stealth, so Kugo took to speed instead. They ran as hard as they could. They tumbled down the stairs and pushed themselves through the kitchen with all might to the back alleys. The lady of the house was tossed to the floor and spilled her great pot of boiling stew into the hall. They slammed the tavern door behind them, so they might catch a few seconds' breath in the madness. They burst through the back door into a small, tight alley. But as they ran into the night, the sound of shifting tiles froze them through. Standing like a shade on the roof was the assassin, waiting to ambush them wherever they were. He leapt towards them, ax in hand. Kugo pushed Nephis out of the way, and she stumbled back, nearly falling to the floor.

  The hunter swung his ax like a madman at Kugo, hacking and culling for heart and limb. Kugo ducked and dodged, trying in vain to draw his blade. Then, the murderer swung his blade straight for the monk’s neck. Kugo dodged back and thrust out a kick. The hunter stumbled back, his momentum broken for a minute. Moss stampeded forward to seize the opportunity, throwing great and mighty fists, but the shade dodged them. Even still, Kugo and Moss together gave him little room to attack. Slipping between their blows like water in a clenched fist. Seeing his troubles, Nephis reached out her cold hands, trembling with weakness, and began to chant.

  The chaff is burned, and in the unworthy are separated from the holy, and so men become gold.

  Flames licked the feet of the hunter, spreading wherever he stepped, so that he could not stay in one place without being burned. But Nephis could not move, lest the fire go out. So she continued chanting the spell. Over and over again in panic she said the words, her arms trembling as she desperately held them straight, her ghostly wound aching in pain. The hunter stepped from place to place, hurling himself onto boxes and crates so that he might escape the ring of flames that closed in on him. And the flames spread, lapping up the stone that they were born in, hunting for more. Kugo and Moss hurried back, desperate to catch him and careful not to burn themselves. At last, as the hunter leapt, he was caught by Moss’ blow, it was a light one, but even still it flung him over the flames and into kitchen. Nephis trembled, but Kugo sucked in air, desperately trying to breath through the cloth and mask. They fell away and ran from the alley, for each of them was too weak to fight another moment.

  The streets were barren and dark. The alleys spread like veins to their sides, and the buildings like high walls. Shadow closed in around them, their only guide the faint, shuttered lights bleeding through windows. In the night, people laughed and sobbed, the city alive and unawares. Their hunter surely stalked them slowly, each step regaining his vigor and will. They scrambled like rats trapped in a cage, crawling their way up the main road for nothing. Even still, they dare not step into the shadows of the long buildings, like gallows in the waiting.

  Kugo pressed them forward quite desperately until they had crawled up much of the city, to the footsteps of a great cathedral. He looked around, the streets were once again empty, devoid of anything but stone and mist. They were totally alone. The road branched every which way, any way a possible path, but Kugo could not bring himself to take any of them. And so he turned to the great doors of the church, painted stone blurring in the long night. He paused before the doors, his fingers curling as he tried to approach. He swallowed his worry, and Kugo banged on the heavy doors.

  “Sanctuary!” he pleaded.

  Seeing him, Nephis rushed to his side, slamming her fist on the wooden doors, and with him cried, “Sanctuary!” They cried and cried in the empty dark, until at last the doors creaked open.

  A pale and thin custodian opened the door.

  The three of them spilled into the hall, Kugo and Moss shoving the doors shut behind them.

  “What is the matter?” the custodian asked, “Are you alright?”

  Nephis and Kugo wheezed for air, while Moss stood tall and unbothered. “We are being chased,” Moss answered.

  “Chased?!” the warden exclaimed, “By who?”

  “A hunter,” Moss said, but he did not explain any further.

  Even still, the warden locked the doors from within with a ring of heavy keys.

  “I swear on my oaths to keep you safe,” the warden promised, “There are many nooks and hiding places inside the church. Should the king himself breach these doors, he would not find you.”

  But as he said these words, they all froze. Someone spoke from behind the doors, strange words obscured through the heavy wood. And the great lock of the cathedral clicked, and the doors swung open of their own accord. The hunter stood, his hand outstretched, burning embers falling from his fingers.

  “Get back!” Kugo demanded of the warden as he brandished his blades. Their assailant drew some talisman from beneath his cloak, Kugo barked at Nephis to back away, and she fled into the chapel.

  The chapel was dim, rows of pews and towering marble pillars cast long shadows over the room. The gold upon the altar glimmered faintly, and the passages leading out were engulfed in night. But hanging above her were great wooden balconies, and so she scrambled up the tall stairs, the sound of fighting breaking beneath her. And the saints watched from their painted visages, their faces obscured in the panic and the darkness.

  The talisman the hunter showed was crafted crudely from a small spine, bound in hair and corded with leather. He held it delicately in his hard gloves and began to chant, his voice was harsh and cold.

  Serpent, child of bone and venom. Your number is four hundred. Dust eater, weakest of your brood, bind my enemies.

  Dark ichor, like tar, split from the fetish and grew into a great and black snake, larger than any of them had ever seen. Its skin was like dark water, and its body as strong as many cords of rope. The hunter gestured towards Kugo, and it leapt at him, wrapping around his arms and neck, and it began to squeeze. Kugo scrambled against the serpent, but as he pulled against it, the scales slipped between his fingers like water. The snake expanded forever. Moss rushed the mage, but just as before, he dodged out of the way of Moss’ great arms. The hunter tried in vain to hew through Moss’ joints, hoping to find a weak spot. But when he only chipped the beast, he drew closer and began to cast another spell.

  Kind of kind, kin of self. Strip thy shell, and become one again.

  As he said the final words, he hurled the ax up towards Nephis. Instinctively, Moss threw up his hand to catch the blade, and with a knock, it embedded into him. But as he was stretched far, the hunter palmed Moss in his side. Nephis hid her gaze, and Moss flinched, but when nothing happened, the golem continued his assault. The assassin chanted the same spell, over and over, each time striking a different part of Moss’ body, his chest, his arms, his legs; it seemed he hit wherever he could, but seemingly all for nothing.

  Nephis, too, began to chant a spell. She reached her hand back.

  To home and hearth, does man belong. And of his own, did he often yearn.

  And from her fingers split a bolt of flame, quick and hot it peeled through the chamber like an arrow. It arced toward the hunter and slammed into his cloak, before he could dodge, burning a hole straight to his shoulder. Though his greying skin was now blackened and blistered, he continued his assault with new vigor. Nephis cast her spell over and over, but the hunter had grown wise to her tricks, stepping and dodging out of the way, even turning Moss against her, so that each bolt might glance him instead. Even still, she did not stop.

  The hunter slinked between bolt and beast, and Moss pursued. The hunter led him further and further towards the balcony, where the flaming slings and arrows might not reach him. And then, he fled into the tight pews. Moss bounded after him, at once knocking the pew away. But when his arm meant to topple it, it instead fused with the wooden pew, like cheap metal melded together. And as he struggled and fought, he bumped against pew and piece until it was as if he had been jammed with the benches, pierced by great javelins, and he was unable to move.

  Kugo struggled in vain against the serpent, grasping at its great body, his fingers sliding across its dry scales. His ribs groaned, and his muscles bruised, as the beast threatened to squeeze all life from him. He gasped for air, but could only find small chits. Kugo struggled to stay on his feet as the heavy snake pulled him down. And he watched as the hunter hurried under the balcony and towards the stairs, a wicked blade in his grasp.

  Nephis scrambled back as far as she could from the stairs, her shoulders pressing against the cold stone of the chapel wall. She looked around for any hope, but finding none, she cast her eyes up, praying the saints might notice her. Their faint, still eyes did not watch her, but instead the gaze of the vaulted heroes fell besides her. Nephis reached her hand beside her, and in the base of the balcony, they fell upon something cold and loose, and hid it beneath her sleeve.

  The assassin sprinted towards Nephis, his knife raised high, a wild look in his black eyes. Foot fell after foot, talismans, bones and blood of less fortunate children jangled around him like chains and bells, tolling her name. Kugo wrangled the serpent, his grasp at last finding the neck of the beast. His fingers wrapped around the only solid bit of it he could find, a bone, and pulled it an inch from his throat. Able to move a little bit, he unsheathed his dagger and slew the beast, its black blood turning to wispy shadow as it fell. But he was too late, for the hunter was already upon Nephis.

  Nephis jut out her arms in fright, and the hunter pressed past. Yet right when he would have brought down his blade, he gasped and stumbled back. A long and heavy nail stuck from his belly, spilling blood onto Nephis’ hands. His boiling eyes fell upon the girl, full of fury and hate, he raised his arm again, and then staggered. He stepped back. Kugo stood midst the wreckage on the stone floor, his bow pulled back as he prepared to loose another arrow. The gut snapped, and the arrow fell true, falling deep in the hunter's back, buried between his shoulders. The hunter collapsed, falling onto the railing, so that his feet lifted from the floor, never to step on holy ground again.

  Kugo rushed up the balcony to find Nephis, shaking, staring at the blood on her hands. He walked to her quietly and knelt down to look her in the eyes. She was pale and thin, her tawny eyes still wide in panic. “Are you alright?” he asked in as kind of a voice as he could remember.

  She stopped, as if waking from a dream, “I’m alright,” she stammered. Crimson blood dripped down her fingers.

  Taking his cloak, Kugo wiped the blood from her hands. “This is what it means to survive,” he assured her.

  “No, I- I know,” she answered with a distant voice, “I just thought I was going to die, and be pieced apart like . . .” her voice trailed off as she looked at the fetishes that hung from the dead sorcerer hunter. Dried muscle and carved bone, vials of blood and braids of hair, all stripped clean and tenderly arranged.

  “Come on now,” Kugo helped her to her feet, “Let’s get out of here.”

  As they left, he lifted the hunter’s corpse from the railing and slung it over his shoulder. He was careful not to let it touch the cathedral any longer. Once they made it outside, he dropped the body outside the doors. Then the pair each took to trying to help Moss. “I-I’ll get the bishop!” the warden cried as he fled outside. Moss was truly in a bind, stuck like a lamb on a spit. Kugo tried to pry the pews from him, but they were far too heavy. He thought for a moment to take the hatchet to them, but he could not bring himself to do it. Eventually, they decided to peel Moss’ rough skin from beneath the benches, but found as they began to cut, that the pews slipped from him like ripened berries.

  As the pews clattered around them, like battlements or a mighty nest, the bishop entered through the heavy doors and gave a distressed cry. The cathedral was a mess. The three of them shuffled out of the church as the warden explained to him all that had happened. While they stood in the cold night, Nephis began to carefully pick the talismans from the hunter, holding them close to her chest. Some were great, and many were small and fragile, young things still unaware.

  She removed her crimson robe and bundled them warmly as she went to speak with the bishop. And in a short while, they arranged a brazier before the steps of the cathedral, burning as hot as they could make it. The bishop, still in bed clothes, only possessing his crosier and pendant, gave the remains their final rites, that they might at last rest in peace. Kugo could not bring himself to even look at the bishop, and instead watched Nephis from a while away as she held her robes.

  Nephis tossed the bones and hair, and remains of those long gone into the brazier one at a time, watching as they cracked and burned. Once the bishop left her, Kugo made his way over to Nephis. Her face was somber, but still. He did not say a word. Nephis turned to him.

  “There are wizards who would pay a fortune for even one of these,” she said this as if she were remarking on a dull piece of furniture, and handed him a wand carved from bone. She watched with a quiet and piercing gaze.

  Kugo turned the bone in his fingers, it had been sanded smooth and etched with elegant runes. “Is that right?” he asked. And Kugo tossed the bone into the fire, where it was lost among the charcoal.

  Nephis gave a small, sad smile and returned her gaze to the flames. “This is how a Flores is buried,” she said, “It is proper for us, our mortal bodies turned to ash and our souls allowed to be carried with the smoke to the heavens. You cannot puppet a corpse if it is gone,” she echoed.

  Kugo nodded, and together they watched the bones crackle and snap until they were little more than ash.