Zeven Chapter 4

Zeven



Chapter 4



Simple Brilliance





Zeven drew his blade across the heavy cotton fabric of the trapper’s sleeve, leaving sticky red smears on the otherwise off white shirt. He sheathed the shadowy dagger while taking a moment to study the, now ever still, body at his feet. The trapper’s corpse lay on its belly with arms down at its sides and head turned, facing to the right. Its long brown and tangled hair covered its waning, almost pale, face; save for a wide open eye. Dim and frozen with a look of shock, it peered out from beneath the mess of hair as if to ask, in disbelief. “What the hell just happened?”



          The assassin answered his victim’s look of surprise with his usual tone of indifference. “You’re dead.” He said, continuing to speak in the dry, matter-of-fact manner. “You’re dead because you’re stubborn, which seems to be the downfall of many in this town.” The killer crouched at the body’s side, looking down into the dull, dead stare of the still stupefied eye. “Had you agreed to the new deal Daris set with the Widow Butcher, as the other meat gamers had, you’d still be alive.” He looked down to the trapper’s belt and the many carcasses of small game that were strapped to it. “But alas, pride kills yet again.” Zeven smiled a wicked smile and winked at the bulging glassy eye before rising to walk away from his “game”, leaving him there to be picked at and consumed by the same wild animals the trapper had made a living off of.



          The woods were thick and dark and filled with the sounds of insects buzzing and underbrush rustling as the night vermin scurried about. It was several miles back to the village and almost as many hours before sunrise so Zeven took his time, casually, though silently, making his way down the foothill along the many game trails and rocky creeks that patterned the hillside. Always the professional, his focus stayed on task, but he knew he was alone out here, in the heart of the woods. With the evening’s objective completed, he allowed himself to relax a touch. A touch is all he would ever allow himself, and only at times when the risk was nigh to nil. One quiet step after another he moved along, the minuscule hint of a grin on his face as thoughts of coins of gold crept into the back of his mind.





**********





          “We have less time than usual tonight. He is trusting another to close the shop, he will be home early.” Melina Enderson spoke in a hushed voice while closing the door behind Jaxis as he sauntered in.



          “Then we must not dawdle” The rogue replied with a taunting grin as he stepped up to his nervous mistress, sliding both hands around her waist.



          Melina accepted the embrace and the kiss that followed before suddenly pulling away. “Jaxis I worry. Perhaps we should not do this tonight, he could be home anytime.”



          “Worry not, my minx. I came here from the shop. Your husband will be there for some time yet. You know how he is, trusting yes, but obsessed with getting his counts correct and in proper order.”



          “Yes, but even so, it is too risky and I am not exactly in the mood at the moment.”



          “I understand Minxy my sweet.” Jaxis conceded as he brought one of her hands to his lips, kissing it lightly before backing away a step with a smile.



          Melina regarded him with a curious look. “You never surrender so readily when I am unwilling. And most especially not while boasting a silly grin like that. What are you about?”



          “You may be interested to know that one of the obstacles, which stand in the way of our romantic freedom, might well be remedied this very night.”



          “The assassin?” The merchant wife asked after taking a moment to recall past conversations. The look on her fair face now one of both surprise and concern.



          The rogue nodded. His smile almost beaming with pride.



          “Oh Jaxis, what have you done?”



          “Simple brilliance, my minx.” The bantam thief began pacing about, a wry smile displayed in confidence, as he explained himself. “I went to one of the sell swords with information. The Ghost haunts tonight, deep in the woods north of the village. He will strike early, not long after dusk. His target is known for setting traps this time every eve. Tonight, the Ghost becomes the hunted.”



          Melina stared at her lover, shocked and speechless for a moment. “Jax if anyone finds out … If Daris discovers this; he will have your head.”



          “Calm yourself sweetness. The mercenary I went to is not like to share this. Not with his companions and certainly not with anyone else in town. These men are seasoned killers themselves. They hire out their swords to the highest bidder, regardless of what is asked of them. Which I must admit, makes them perfect for this job. My point being, they are greedy. They may work together out of necessity at times, but when it comes down to it, they are each out for themselves. Tathar, the man I spoke to, made it very clear to me he intends to take full credit for finding and killing the assassin. He will speak to no one if successful, for fear of diminishing the glory of his deed. And if unsuccessful … Well, not to worry, my secret dies with him.”



          The Lady Enderson studied her paramour, impressed in part though still uneasy. “And what of this Tathar? What makes you think he can even find the Ghost, let alone best him? Why choose him specifically?”



          “Ah my doubting belle, have faith. I act on our behalf, and certainly not with the blindness of ignorance.” The rogue moved closer, smiling and taking her hands in his as he continued. “Tathar has a special companion and together they have a skill well suited for hunting the Ghost, most especially in the darkness and terrain of the wooded foothills. The assassin’s target traps in a given area, an area still many miles long and wide. Tathar’s beast has the ability to sniff out the scent of death, the odor of blood. He will discover the trapper’s fallen corpse and from there follow the killer’s tracks until he’s upon him. And the beast’s abilities end not there. From what I gather, he’s as formidable a fighter as Tathar.”



          “Jaxy I admit, I am impressed … and flattered.” The mistress eyed her little scoundrel with a pleased and eager smile.



          “See, your man has it all under control.” The rogue boasted as he pulled his woman in close, wrapping her in his arms.



          “Indeed you do” she replied as she tilted her head back to expose her alluring neck. She whimpered softly as her lover’s lips began to explore the supple curve just under her jaw line. Melina purred as she whispered. “Jaxy, take me upstairs.”





**********





          The night was cool and cloudless with a new moon; the sea of stars glimmering overhead, providing the faintest hint of a glow, outlining the wooded landscape. Tathar bent, grasping and pulling a tuft of grass from the ground. He rose, lifting his hand high above his head and letting go. He watched as the slender blades took flight, gliding westward on the steady gentle breeze that quietly washed over the hillside.



          “We’re in perfect position now buddy boy.” The gruff tracker told his companion while looking out to the east. Quartering this area into the wind is how we’re gunna find that body. He thought to himself as he examined the path he might take to start, both north and south. Settling on north he looked down to his canine friend with a smile on his leathery face. His light brown eyes wide and bright, his dark shaggy hair bouncing about as he raised his right arm; his hand closed into a fist above his head and he began shaking it around as he spoke in a playful, high pitched voice. “You wanna play? Huh? Wanna play buddy boy? Do ya? Wanna play?”



          The sable shepherd danced around in response. Jumping and bouncing back and forth, his tail wagging faster and faster, looking up to his master and his balled up fist with excited, wide and eager eyes.



          “You wanna play don’t ya? Yea, let’s play. Let’s play … Ready?” The tracker’s raised arm shot forward, swinging overhead in a fast throwing motion, his balled up fingers opened, releasing naught but air as he gave the command. “Find it!”



          The riled canine spun and sprinted off to the north, following the direction of his master’s apparent throw. In the darkness and high brush the beast immediately lowered his head, sniffing and snorting, using the tool nature provided to best serve his purpose in finding his favorite toy.



          Tathar followed along several paces behind. After they had traveled some distance the tracker called his dog. “Phanto!” He repeated the commands, but turned to face south, giving another exaggerated, mock throw. “Ready?” … “Find it!”



          The motivated shepherd bounded off to the south, his nose to the ground and occasionally taking a sniff at the air just above the tall grass.



          And so it went for some time. The tracker reissuing the command and the deceptive throw. Each time changing direction from north to south, and vice versa while gradually pushing their way east, into the slow steady breeze. The highly driven and well trained canine never losing focus, knowing he would pick up the odor of his toy at any moment.



          Tathar briskly trotted along behind his dog, watching every step, every motion. His eyes leaving sight of his companion only to peek off to the side, taking note of his surroundings. He watched as Phanto’s head suddenly whipped around to the east and he came to a halt, winding the air just above the brush, Phanto inched his nose out more and more then began to move. This time he moved on his own. This time he moved eastward, casting back and forth. Always moving east, but stepping from left to right. His nose seeming to hit an invisible wall as it darted back and forth, north to south, gradually decreasing as if he was making his way down the path of a cone to its most narrow point. He drove forward with hurried, anxious steps, his nose buried in the underbrush when he finally came to a stop and in a fit of hysteria began clawing and digging. Furiously he scratched in search of his toy, knowing without doubt it was there. Its odor was there, that was unmistakable, so the toy had to be there as well.



          The tracker came upon his companion and looked down at the bloodied corpse as Phanto clawed hard and fast at its back. A proud smile spread across his unshaven face as he positioned himself directly behind his dog before reaching into a pouch and pulling out a dirty rolled up rag, tied at both ends with thin leather strips. He raised the towel over his head as he praised his canine friend, patting him on the sides and telling him what a good boy he is while encouraging him to continue digging. With the flick of his wrist, Tathar flung the rolled up rag over Phanto’s head so that it landed directly in front of, and almost on top of, his nose. The excited shepherd immediately snatched it up, turned and all but leaped at his master, wanting to play. Continuing his praise, the tracker grabbed the ends of the towel as they hung from Phanto’s maw, taking a good hold; he pulled and shook it back and forth, nearly lifting him off his feet as he swung him around before letting go. The victorious canine pranced away in celebration with his newly rediscovered toy as Tathar examined the trapper’s body and the terrain surrounding it. He looked off into the distance as he spoke. “You did well Phanto my friend, but our work has just begun. Now we hunt the Ghost.”





**********



         

          The narrow creek slowly flowed through a bed of varying sized and smoothly rounded rocks. The assassin stepped from stone to stone as the water lazily rolled by beneath him. The lightly padded soles of his soft leather boots touched without a sound. Only the hushed murmur of the brook along with the occasional chirp of a night bird and the other, always present, noises of a nocturnal forest could be heard. Zeven knew this song of the night woods well, so well that any of it hardly registered to him. His keen senses were trained for other noises, out of place noises, inconsistencies in the otherwise constant chorus.



          A disturbance in the silent song alerted the killer as he came to an abrupt halt, comfortably balanced, each foot on a separate small boulder. Crouched and frozen, with head cocked to the side and breath held, he listened. In the distance behind him, uphill and to the north, the disturbance came again in the form of a series of muffled, but heavy, splashes.



          The professional kept his calm as he listened for more, needing to analyze this out of place occurrence before making a decision about what it might be and what he might have to do in response. The splashes came again, same as before but closer. Too heavy to be a deer … Too light for a bear. He thought to himself. A wolf perhaps, but there’s more to it. More than one? …  The pace is swift and steady, even rushed … No, not more than one wolf … Reality struck as he recalled the group of mercenaries who recently moved into town. Not a wolf at all. A dog … A beast. A beast and a sell sword. I’m being followed!



          Zeven broke into motion, staying low and moving swift with catlike balance, grace and silence. Skipping along the creek from rock to rock, he kept the better part of his focus honed to the broken pattern of splashes which seemed to be getting even closer. Damn! He silently berated himself. How can this be? How can I have let this happen? The killer scanned his surroundings as he moved, making note of the terrain, considering his options. There were none, other than to keep moving. The smooth, solid creek boulders provided the best surface for keeping his movement hushed. The heavy blanket of darkness, here in the depths of the forest, made for great cover and Zeven was sure the sell sword was too far back for him to be seen. All he could do was keep a swift pace and stay ahead of his pursuers. He decided his best course of action would be to make it back to the village proper before being discovered.





**********



         

          Phanto’s nose hovered just above the ground as it darted back and forth, inhaling with a snort in short repetitive bursts. He moved along at a brisk pace, lifting his head only on occasion to take a sniff at the air above a somewhat taller boulder or high grass. He made his way, with great interest, down the side of the rocky creek, never stopping, never slowing.



          The tracker had to jog to keep up. He remaining a dozen or so paces behind, giving his dutiful companion room to work. Phanto would take off wide to the left or right and sometimes make long rounding circles before choosing a direction. Tathar knew his dark furred friend was simply following his training. He knew that scent from his quarry would have been spread by the breeze to cling to all and any obstacles in its path. He knew the longer the scent had been at rest, the more widely spread it would be. But most importantly, he knew his faithful canine, with his incredibly acute sense of smell, would find the trail of scent most profound. This would be his quarries actual path.



          Tathar knew they were on the assassin’s path now and had been so for some time. Phanto hadn’t strayed from a fairly straight ahead course in a couple miles, with the larger portion of that leg being right along the edge of the creek. The tracker smiled as he noticed his companion picking up the pace, his nose all but glued to the bed of the brook and its smooth rounded stones. “That a boy Phanto buddy.” He praised in a quiet, easy tone. “We’re getting close.”





**********

     



          He wouldn’t make it to town in time. He knew that now. Were it just the sell sword he could easily slip away. He could disappear in the shadows; the tracker could walk to within inches of him, oblivious of his presence. And even if he were discovered Zeven was sure he could outrun the sell sword. In his entire life he had known only a few who could keep pace with him in a flat out sprint. But the sell sword wasn’t the cause of his plight. He could never hope to outrun the beast. He had seen canines all but keep up with a horse at full gallop. And hiding in shadows would prove just as futile, the beast would sniff him out with hardly an effort. He had come to an impasse. His options, exhausted.



          The splashes were close now. So close. He could hear the beast’s heavy breathing, almost panting. They had been tracking him for many miles. They had to keep a hurried pace to make up ground. Surely the beast grew tired … He queried. Surely.     



          Zeven stopped, drew his dagger as he turned, and charged.





**********





          Phanto whined in excitement as he pressed on, his pace just shy of a trot. The trail was hot with his quarries scent; he knew he would be upon it soon.



          The sound was faint but definite and Phanto’s ears shot up along with his head. He peered into the darkness before him, but it was his ears that told him something was there. It could only be his quarry. His nose had told him he was close, but his nose had done its job and his ears had taken over. It was there, up ahead, in the blackness, he knew it.



          The intimidating shepherd let loose a deep, menacing bark then bolted straight ahead, towards the sound of his prey. Running at full speed he kept his hearing tuned to the soft sounds coming from before him, getting closer and closer.



          A shape began to take form, as if materializing from the blackness itself. The dark figure sprinted right at him, challenging his courage, his will, his loyalty. Phanto did not waver. He knew only one thing, one desire, driven by the force of nature itself to do what a beast must do. Capture its prey.



          Zeven held his dagger high above his head as he ran, blade facing down. With no need for shadows or silence, he yelled at the beast in his most commanding of voices. It was a poor attempt at breaking the animal’s resolve and he was beginning to realize his offensive would have no favorable effect. The beast came on hard and fast, pounding the water and stones beneath him, a look of confidence and determination of his dark face. Committed to the moment, the killer continued his charge.



          The beast leaped into the air, diving headlong at his prey, teeth bared and ready. At the very last moment the assassin made a quickstep to the side, planting his foot. Beast and man came together, crashing into each other with bone jarring force. The assassin’s dagger came down as they hit, but the impact was too much to keep the blade’s path true. The beast’s maw caught the killer’s shoulder as they came together. Stained and razor sharp teeth sank into the light, flexible leather. The beast’s canines bit deep into Zeven’s flesh and latched on, clamping down hard. Momentum made an attempt to carry the Ghost and the beast apart from one another, but was foiled as the beast’s bite held. Their bodies lifted from the ground, feet, legs and tail swinging out wide and spinning around with almost dizzying speed before gravity regained control and brought them back down, with a splash, into the rocky creek.



          Zeven groaned and cursed and struggled to regain balance as his body flailed. He landed hard on his side and immediately felt the pull of the beast as it tugged and shook its head back and forth, never letting loose its grip. Sharp, agonizing pain shot through his shoulder and exploded down his side and he fought hard to remain conscious. Pulling himself to his knees he screamed in agony, in anger, in pure raw aggression. Half surprised that he managed to not drop his blade he thrust it forth, plunging it deep into the beast’s underbelly, giving it a violent twist. Again and again he stabbed, each brutal motion sent a wave of dizzying pain through his body, but his fortitude held as he felt the beast’s strength wane.



          The tracker was upon them, shouting praise and encouragement at his companion which quickly turned to a fit of screaming curses and promises of a slow death at the assassin. Broadsword in hand, Tathar watched as Phanto and the Ghost wrestled in the shallow creek, splashing and kicking up stones. He saw the blood, so much blood. He looked for an opening to make a thrust or a slash without the risk of hitting his canine friend, but the melee was too chaotic. In a deep, resounding voice Tathar commanded his beast to release. “Phanto, OUT!”



          The wounded, though ever disciplined canine responded. Phanto released his bite and backed away, remaining focused on his prey he barked repeatedly, slinging blood and slaver everywhere.



          Satisfied, at the least to have the beast at bay, the assassin took advantage of a rush of newfound energy and rose to his feet. Finding his right arm to be of little use, he took his dagger into his left hand and stood on guard holding it out before him.



          Tathar rushed in with a bloodthirsty cry and sword held high, ready to strike with all his rage.



          With dexterous ease the killer flipped the bloodied dagger in his hand, quick as a snakes strike; he flung it at the outraged sell sword. It flew low and fast, sinking in near to the hilt, just above his groin.



          The tracker took the blade with a flinch and a stumbled step before regaining composure and swinging his heavy, steel sword at the assassin’s head. Impossibly quick for a man so badly wounded, the Ghost seemed to disappear. Ducking under the swing and rolling around Tathar’s side to his back. Zeven shouldered into the mercenary while stepping one leg in front of the tracker’s feet, tripping him to the creek bed. One hand went to his dagger, taking hold he twisted it around and jerked it from side to side with what little strength he had left in the nearly numb arm. His other hand found a fistful of hair, thrusting his opponent’s head down to the creek, forcing his face into the shallow water. He leaned onto the back of the sell sword’s head with all the weight he could spare as the tracker struggled to break free, thrashing, flailing, clawing, trying anything to gain leverage on the assassin. Trying anything to be able to take a breath.



          Leverage was never gained, a breath never taken. The struggling ceased. He lay there on his belly, facedown in the creek with his head tilted somewhat to the right, his arms now at rest, down at his sides. A bulging, terrified eye peeking out from just under the waters surface.



          Zeven stood, weak and woozy, over the sell sword’s corpse looking down at the oddly familiar scene. He couldn’t help but to grin. “You’re dead.” He said in a faint and exhausted voice as his grin was quickly replaced by a wince.



          He looked around, realizing only now that the beast’s menacing bark could not be heard. He saw only a trail of blood, so much blood, which faded away into the night, into the woods away from the creek.



          Bleeding badly and in searing pain, the dizzy, faltering assassin staggered away with yet another fight before him, to make it to safety before giving in to the swirling darkness that threatened to consume him.





**********



             

          Smoke filled the small cabin, rising to the rafters in billowy black clouds. Sounds of wood being slapped against wood and steel ringing off iron mixed with the crackling of fire as the young boy scrambled from his bed. Coughing and wheezing, he dropped to his knees with a hand over his mouth in a futile attempt to keep the thick gray haze from being sucked in with every breath. The boy reached out across the floor, to the other of the two beds, in the cramped little room. “Zarra!” He coughed violently as he called out. “Zarra!” The banging of wood and steel had ceased, but the crackle of flames, which were now visible along the upper part of the walls, grew louder. Heat from the orange and yellow dance of light scorched the ceiling and droplets of sweat sizzled as they rolled down, cutting paths in the blackened grime covering the boys face. “Zarra!” He called again as he reached up, taking a hold of the little girls arm, pulling at her, shaking her, dragging her from the bed to the floor as he continued to call to her. “Zar—“ The boy coughed uncontrollably as he pulled the tiny girl into his lap, slapping her face in an attempt to wake her.



          Crying and coughing and pulling his shirt up to cover his mouth, the boy crawled from the room with girl in tow. He struggled to make progress as he heaved with all of his limited might to pull the little girl along. When he reached back to take a good hold, his shirt slipped from over his mouth and the opportunistic black smog rushed in past his lips to fill his lungs, causing a seemingly endless fit of convulsions. His body wanted to cough, to expel the sticky, dark poison, but with no breath to do so naught but wheezing and gasping came forth.



          In desperation the boy pulled his shirt off, balled it up and held it to his face. Lying as low to the floor as he possibly could he breathed into the fabric of the wadded up shirt. Needing a moment to recover he looked around. At this level the smoke wasn’t quite as thick and he could see to the front door where he noticed something different. Large and angry looking black iron spikes jutted out from the walls as if driven through from the outside. We’ve been boarded in! He cried out in his mind.



          He scrambled immediately, making his way to the middle of the room and the small area rug where they would sit and play at toys every eve after supper. He crawled along head first when a charred, flaming beam crashed down, landing only a few feet before him. Crying out and curling into a ball in response, he lay there sobbing. With a peek back at Zarra, and with the heat and smoke now beyond overwhelming, he gathered himself. Taking hold of the rug’s edge he began to roll it up, flipping as much of it as he could over the burning beam. Falling to lay flat on the floor once more, he searched.



          The boy tugged hard at the handle, but the small trap door wouldn’t budge. The edge of the fallen beam had come to rest across the back half of the door; large, charred and aflame it lay there as if guarding the way out.



          Angry, frightened and unwilling to give in, the boy put his back up against the portion of the beam the rug was covering. The heat was like nothing he’d ever known as it danced around him, singeing every hair on his head. The thick black smoke fought hard to penetrate the wadded shirt covering his mouth and nose. But the boy fought harder. He heaved with all he had in him. Pushing his legs into the floor, extending his body and the blackened beam slowly began to move. Rolling up onto an edge the burning beam teetered as the boy gave one last shove, knocking it over and away from the door in the floor.



          Pulling, coughing, dragging, choking, heaving, crying, the boy towed the little girl through the trap door, out from under the burning cabin and away to a safe distance.



          With blackened face, singed hair, multiple red puffy burns on his bare back and an endless stream of tears he looked down to Zarra and screamed at her. “Zarra!” Shaking her, he called to her again. “Wake up!” He opened her eyes with his fingers. “Please wake up … please!” He slapped her, trying anything to wake her as she lay there, unmoving. “Zarra please! You have to wake up … you have to wake up Zarra, please …” His voice trailed off, lost in sob as his shoulders bounced and sank, his hands covering his face as he wept. Refusing to submit to the emotion he let out one last cry of protest. “ZARRA! …”



          Zeven woke with alarm, sitting up in the bed with a start, drenched in sweat. He was cold, so cold, and dizzy. His head throbbed as he looked around at the unfamiliar room, though his vision was blurred and the details were difficult to make out.



          A dream. He thought to himself, even though it hurt to think. Involuntarily, but thankfully, he collapsed back onto his pillow. His eyes closed and he recalled the nightmare. A dream? Or a memory? Zeven squinted his eyes and slowly shook his head back and forth in an effort to fight the pain, to gain some clarity.



          It came to him. Zarra? … His eyes shot open in sudden realization. Zarra … The next word he spoke aloud. “Sister …”