“What do you need my blood for again?” Arimir asked, already squeamish before the needle had even touched his skin.

  Staring down the large syringe in Runt’s hands, Arimir, for the first time in his life, felt anything but security while in Aleyda’s shop.

  “Mine isn’t good for much…” Runt answered vaguely.

  Sitting in a chair at the shop’s center, Arimir looked over to where Aleyda worked; her attention was fixed upon a set of books as she shaped her spells into the fragments of shrubbery Runt had collected earlier that day. Arimir’s assumption that the plants were in some way connected to the Sorceress was seemingly correct, but the exact specifics still eluded him. And Runt’s insistence on harvesting blood from Arimir did nothing to answer his questions nor alleviate his worries.

  He knew Aleyda was well-meaning in her application of magick, but anyone who thought spells to be wholly good things were fools. Magick had ripped the world asunder, brought all the old kingdoms low, and brought about an age where men like those bandits could have their way with the scraps of civilization that remained. And blood magick was among the most terrible sorts, rivaled only by necromancy or other devilish ways practiced only by black Sorceresses and Wizards.

  “I don’t want my blood to be used in any rituals…” Arimir protested. “I don’t want that sort of mark upon my soul.”

  “This isn’t for a ritual.” Aleyda spoke without looking away from her books. “In fact, I am barely involved in the matter. The ways of our guest are his alone.”

  With that encouragement, from Aleyda no less, Arimir accepted Runt’s request. The drawing of blood, while painful and certainly distressing, lasted mere seconds. And while he was left lightheaded, the generous amount of vitae taken from his veins left him immediately tired, and perhaps slightly hungry.

  Arimir watched as Runt left him, returning to his worktable within Aleyda’s shop where he’d set up a number of tools and items. A mortar and pedestal were located at the table center, where Runt had grounded the Desert Bloods into a mushy pulp of a dark green color. Beside those were a number of other shrubs, some still whole while others were cut into smaller bits with their bark and inner flesh separated. Aleyda was still in the process of using her magicks upon the shrub pieces, but seemingly enough were done for Runt to continue his work.

  For reasons still beyond Arimir’s understanding, Runt filled one of his glass cups, shaped almost like a decanter, with flower pulp and now Arimir’s blood, whereupon Runt set the foul mixture over a small candle fire. From there, he filled the enchanted bits of brush into his mortar and grounded them alongside the remaining Desert Bloods. Silently, and with a deep concentration, the ever-masked man performed his work with the same dedication as any craftsman, making obvious that there was a purpose to all he did, though, again and still, Arimir had no inkling about what Runt hoped to accomplish.

  Arimir’s attention turned towards Aleyda as she walked to his side. “Do you know what he’s doing?” Arimir asked in a low voice.

  “No. This is no magick, at least none I have ever encountered in all my travels.”

  “But you enchanted his… ingredients?” Arimir decided upon, seeing how Runt boiled the flower and blood mixture, the process resembling cooking if only barely.

  “I only did what he asked. For what purpose, I’ve not a clue. He spoke not a word of his reasoning”

  “Does that not concern you?”

  She shook her head. “Many masters of any craft keep their deepest knowledge hidden. Even I have discovered secrets spoken to nobody.” Aleyda then looked down to Arimir, her smile reassuring and eyes warm. “But this is no dark art. You can rest easy knowing that.”

  Arimir could relax in hearing her reassurance, although the sight of his own blood boiling in a glass vial alongside flower pulp negated most of her efforts.

  “Something worries you, doesn’t it?” Aleyda asked.

  Arimir nodded.

  “Is it…?”

  “Yes.” He answered, knowing whom she asked about. Of everybody in Invilgram, from his old friends to neighbors, only Aleyda knew that Seda was still in town, hiding away in his home; for nobody else could be so sternly trusted as the Sorceress.

  He didn’t need to elaborate on his worries, Aleyda understood immediately, and from behind draped her arms over Arimir in consolation. “Do not fear. I have a feeling these efforts will amount to more than appearances would show.”

  “Just a feeling?”

  “Do we need more to hope?”

  Arimir nodded then stood from his chair. He broke from Aleyda’s contact reluctantly, but he had work to accomplish. Now well past midday, his work in the fields was fast approaching. The livestock Invilgram still had would need herding through the plains in search of feed, and while dangerous in their own right, the plains would be a place of deeper peace so long as Green Woes from the Badlands didn’t appear to threaten him or the other herdsmen.

  “Must you go so soon?” Aleyda asked, the question alone being enough to make Arimir consider staying.

  “No, I have work to do…We’ll still need livestock if we make it through this.”

  Aleyda smiled once again, then with a nod, bid Arimir farewell as he left her house of healing, his final glance being upon Runt who still worked in strange ways.

  —---------

  Arimir returned to Invilgram near dusk. For hours he and several other men had worked to herd their cattle through the plains, taking them many miles from town until the setting sun forced their return. Arimir could feel a cold dread build within his heart whenever he came closer to town, its faint light in the darkening air doing nothing to alleviate his worries. And after returning the herd to its barren pasture, Arimir began the quiet walk home, alone, after splitting ways with the other herdsmen.

  They too were equally afraid of the bandits. Never, not once, in all the days since the bandits took over had they discussed plans to fight back. They would be miles away, in the middle of empty fields, with not even the slightest chance of being overheard, and that obvious topic of conversation would never arise.

  Everyone waited for someone else to broach the topic. Arimir remembered that first herding after the Lawbringer’s death, when he expected someone to speak of rebellion. But instead of resistance, Arimir found only quiet. And the bandits, perhaps expecting passivity from the people of Invilgram, never showed suspicion for the herders; they merely continued to take what they wanted and enjoy the fruits of their conquest without a care in the world.

  Arimir hated it. But he hated how he still refused to act even more.

  And once again he found himself walking past the saloon, his twice daily act of pointless defiance. Its lights were among the few remaining in Invilgram, as most others never dared to attract attention with so much as candlelight in their windows. Arimir averted his gaze away from the saloon, especially from the bandits who lounged on its porch. Among them he could hear the voice of Braga, the way he spoke and laughed louder than his subordinates, insisting on always being larger than those around him. Less heard were the women the bandits made to be their servers, the town girls who’d not been able to flee town or hide away before being found. They, just like Arimir and all the men, had learned to not fight back. And neither they, nor their fathers or brothers, would try to fight for their freedom in fear of retaliation.

  “Hey, you there…”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Arimir was pulled from his dark ruminations by the voice, by Braga, speaking from the saloon’s sickly warm lights out into the dark. Part of Arimir wanted to simply keep walking, pretending to not have heard and hope the bandits dropped the issue. But again all sources of defiance failed him in that moment as he stopped, turned, and looked up towards where Braga sat.

  With a mug of beer in one hand, and the ass of a girl in the other, Braga smiled wickedly towards Arimir with a false friendliness, the pretend joy and warmth only those who knew nothing but sinful living could ever mistake for kindness.

  “Come…” Braga gestured with his beer hand.

  Taking a second to remind himself to breathe, Arimir stepped towards the saloon. He climbed its stairs as slowly as possible, delaying the inevitable but without making it obvious that he was wasting time. On the porch Arimir could look through the open doorway into the saloon where he witnessed the other bandits, beside the three with Braga, as they too indulged themselves in wanton drunkenness, gluttony, and lust. And after turning away from the sight, and hiding his sneer, Arimir came to lock eyes with the one most responsible for all of this.

  For several seconds, neither Braga nor Arimir spoke, until the bandit extended his beer hand. “Want a sip?”

  Arimir weighed his options, considering which action was least likely to anger the titan of a man. For Braga was truly massive, large enough that he would bend down in doorways, with shoulders so broad as to make the width of most corridors a close fit, hands so meaty that he’d have crushed the Lawbringer’s skull with both hands if the dead man hadn’t been wearing his helmet during his doomed battle.

  And with a poorly groomed mustache, alongside stubble that had long been neglected, there was a wicked but clever aspect to the man. His dark eyes revealed more than brutishness, but a cunning that made his innate strength truly something to fear.

  This man did not act without reason. His decision to call Arimir hadn’t been a whim. There was a true danger to this moment.

  Cautiously, Arimir reached for the cup of beer slowly, accepting Braga’s offer while giving the man ample time to rescind. And as expected, when Arimir’s hand nearly grasped the mug, Braga pulled it away.

  “Ah, but you probably aren’t much of a drinker.” Braga stated. “You’re a working man, aren’t ya?”

  “I suppose.” Arimir answered hesitantly.

  “A family man?”

  “No, I’ve no family, not anymore.”

  Braga grunted his acknowledgement and nodded, eyes drifting away from Arimir for a long moment before resettling upon him. “I’ve heard that you had siblings. A brother and sister…”

  “They both left years ago. Not long after my parents passed.”

  “Strange…” Braga mused, his false smile broadening into something more genuine, but no less malicious. “I’e heard different.”

  The implication hung low, obvious. Braga knew something. Perhaps not enough, but someone had spoken of Arimir’s family and given word of things they should have kept quiet about. It took all his strength for Arimir to show confusion instead of fear at Braga’s comment. Anything else would only put Seda into greater danger than she already was.

  And Braga in turn stared deep into Arimir’s eyes, holding contact for many long, agonizing seconds, before finally turning away. “Ah, but what do I know…” He gestured back out into town. “You can go.”

  Arimir nodded, glanced at the girl in Braga’s grasp who he knew to be Galvira the cobbler’s daughter, her expression that of resignation and sorrow, before he stepped down from the saloon porch and back into the streets.

  Arimir only allowed himself to relax once well beyond sight of the bandits. And when his breathing intensified, fear and dread were near overwhelming; he nearly wept from it all. Terror was all he felt. Nothing seemed safe from Braga anymore. Seda was in danger. But still, there was nothing anyone could do but hope that Braga didn’t find her.

  It took many minutes for Arimir to truly calm himself, but once done, he could only return home, ensure Seda was safe, then begin the next day.

  —----------------

  The night following was anything but peaceful. Arimir tossed and turned in bed. He suffered cold sweats, his dread nightmares haunting every moment. Rest eluded him while sleep itself did not. It almost came as relief when Arimir was awoken suddenly in the night, long into the dark hours, but a shrill scream of a man.

  The haunting sound pierced his dreams, forcing Arimir into complete lucidity in time to hear the next scream, another man, with the shrillness of one utterly consumed by fear, as if knowing they would die suffering. Like a banshee cry the sound sent evermore dread into Arimir’s heart, yet a strange curiosity kept him from sinking deeper into his bed in terror.

  Arimir didn’t recognize the screams, not their voices nor the way they displayed fear. He knew his fellow townspeople well. He knew that these two men, who’d certainly just met a terrible fate, were not among those Arimir cared for. And perhaps by some hope of confirming his suspicions, the screams were not enough to keep Arimir from investigating and satiating his curiosity.

  Within seconds he was outside his home, another few and he was rushing in the direction the screaming had come from. And soon enough, quite suddenly in fact, he fell upon the sight of a massacre.

  Two men, bandits as Arimir had suspected and hoped, lay dead in the darkened alleyway between two homes. Having arrived alone, Arimir was now left in the quiet cold as he looked upon the sight. And while it should have been encouraging, perhaps even cause for celebration, to see two bandits dead; Arimir was filled with nothing but dread at the sight. His breath caught, he stepped back nearly staggering, and already the taste of bile had entered his throat: for these bandits had not merely been killed, but utterly eviscerated. They were not corpses, but strings of meat, flayed, bones broken, skulls flattened with brains splattered across the walls of the scene of overwhelming violence.

  Arimir had seen butchered animals his entire life, but even the keen blade of a master butcher was unable to produce such a result. And instantly Arimir was overcome with revulsion.

  He hadn’t planned to linger in the alleyway; he hadn’t planned at all when leaving his home. But Arimir was stunned. And his inability to retreat from the scene gave others ample time to arrive, those men being none other than Braga and his men.

  Looking still half-drunk and partly hungover, disheveled, barely clothed, and carrying their weapons, Braga alongside some of his men arrived from the opposite side of the alleyway to look upon the sight. As with Arimir, the large man was taken aback, eyes widening with absolute surprise as his subordinates displayed their horror plainly on their usually arrogant faces. Murmurs of concern, curses, and prayers all rumbled through the five men beside Braga. And after many seconds of staring down onto the eviscerated corpses, Braga looked upwards, his eyes locking with Arimir’s.

  Many emotions crossed over the bandit leader’s eyes, settling somewhere between surprise, suspicion and keen, dangerous, awareness.

  Only then did Arimir muster the strength to retreat. He turned back from where he came and began his rushed walk home, hoping to slip away before the bandits decided to demand his return.

  But in his retreat, Arimir’s focus was pulled towards another alleyway some distance from the killings, not by a gruesome sight, but instead a now familiar coughing and retching sound. Stopping in his tracks, Arimir turned towards the sight to behold a figure, scrawny, green cloaked, and leaning against a wall as he recovered from whatever ailment now plagued him.

  Arimir approached Runt, coming to his side with mixed concern. “Are you alright?” Arimir asked, his tone low so as to avoid being overheard. They were some distance from the bandits, but he didn’t know if any had taken to pursuing him.

  Through his coughing Runt managed to utter a few words. “I’m fine.”

  Arimir nodded while grabbing hold of Runt’s shoulder to give the man additional support. Steadying Runt, Arimir waited for him to recover until his harsh coughing became a more collected series of throat-clearings. Only then did Runt stand upright from the wall, and only then did Arimir notice the amount of blood that Runt had coughed up onto his hand and forearm. A mixture of pale, yellowish crimson and something more violet and foul, Runt’s vitae was anything but normal. But for the moment Arimir pushed aside his surprise, focusing instead upon the task of keeping Runt safe. Whatever his involvement in tonight’s events, it would best suit them all if Runt went unnoticed by the bandits. The exact cause of his coughing up of blood or the strange color within would wait until later. For now, they both needed sanctuary.

  “Come.” Arimir spoke, still quietly for fear of eavesdropping. “Come to my home. You rest there.”

  Runt nodded but didn’t speak another word. His breathing came harshly, a strain of its own in a moment when an already weak man was brought lower by unknown circumstances.

  Bringing Runt back home, Arimir knocked twice, paused, then three times to signal to Seda who was still doubtlessly awake in the cellar. Then after entering, Arimir guided Runt towards the lone bed. Runt had grown progressively weaker as they walked; at first having the strength to walk alone, by the time they were on Arimir’s doorstep Runt needed to be nearly carried towards the bed. And with some effort, Arimir dropped Runt into the cushions with a grunt of effort.

  Sighing, Arimir watched as Runt fell asleep instantly; his sleep being restless but clearly needed desperately. Then, glancing towards the floorboards, Arimir decided that he would explain things to Seda once Runt left in the morning; but until then, Arimir sat into an old cushioned chair by the fireplace, which he threw several more logs onto before laying back, hoping to find his own reprieve until the morning.

  His last thought was upon the antique weapon on his mantle, a final ponderance about its power. He wondered if the weapon unleashed against the bandits was its equal, or maybe something greater.